Vacating

Our farewell sunset

I write this from the airport in Toronto, which is far nicer than any airport I've ever been to (based solely on the lounge, with its uniform tan chairs divided into small cubicles in a meager yet still existent attempt at privacy). For the first time, I actually stepped down off an airplane and onto the tarmac before walking into the building, and it's a bit like I've stepped into a movie. (Except young traveling ladies in Hollywood movies most certainly do not belch like sailors after having ginger ale. They get cute hiccups instead.)

Spousal Unit and I are headed to Quebec City for a delayed honeymoon - after getting married, we visited Door County, but this is the first real vacation we've taken together, and so it is the honeymoon we've been meaning to take. Tonight we'll go to see A Midsummer Night's Dream in French, with a live orchestra, and we'll pay slightly less for tickets by virtue of being young, at least by Canadian standards. I'm okay with that.

There's an old nunnery/hospital turned museum, and a castle, and a waterfall, and two dozen walks to take, and while we want to do all of it, the theatre is the only thing we've distinctly planned for the trip. We will recreate as desired, when desired. After our early-morning flight, I'm excited to take a couple of naps.

I'm eager for the afternoon for multiple reasons, one being that I submitted a story for a writing contest and will learn today whether I've placed. I'm looking forward to (one way or another) no longer being nervous about an empty inbox on top of trying to be too polite. (I've never been to Canada before, and I'd rather overdo it.) Writing helps the nerves.

So far, Canada's pretty adorable. Their airline mascot is a raccoon.

For some reason, raccoons think Ps and Rs are tasty.

They gave me a glass on the plane. Like a real one. Made of glass. And as we were whisked through the customs people continued their conversation as though I was the most innocuous person on the planet. Us Americans are used to being treated like the walking dead at our own airports, eager to nom some brains. I appreciate that despite my country of origin (and the dubious online search history that a writer must live with), we only have to deal with that on one side of the border.

There might be more from me while we're out and about. If not, think of me gaping at buildings older than the Declaration like some culture-shocked tourist. The image probably won't be far from reality.

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