The first few weeks or months after moving somewhere new are usually hard. You don’t know the area, you have no reassuring routine to immerse yourself in and there is an absence of friendly faces. In a new country this lack of comfort can be especially tiring and foreboding, as the culture, language, is all new and therefore has to be thought about. This is one aspect where the ME really does not help, as when you are tired and drained you just want things to be familiar, easy. You want to know where everything is, how it all works.

The backlash of the move caught up with me, and therefore my desire to venture outside of the apartment walls out of my comfort zone was non-existent. Ten days passed where the highlight was a visit to the grocery store to buy bread, or mostly having a short walk in the sunshine and fresh air exploring the neighbourhood and avoiding having to have any interaction with people.

Tuesday morning I woke up and decided I had to pluck up the courage and take the leap into the unknown world around me, as it would only get harder the longer I left it. Today would be the day. I would go and try a dance class at the gym. I quickly got ready before I had the chance to make any excuses to not go.

We were both pretty gutted that we didn’t get the top floor apartment. The one we were in was nice - don’t get me wrong - it just wasn’t our first choice. But that’s the way life goes sometimes; there was nothing we could do.

We had been in the place for three weeks and still nobody had moved in upstairs. There were the occasional visitors - their presence given away by the sound of shoes on the floor above us - as though the agent was showing someone around, but no permanent inhabitants. The level of noise the first time was a shock and the footsteps going up the stairs drowned out the radio playing next to me. I felt like crying; Albie fled to the sofa to hide underneath it but had had a growth spurt seemingly over night and no longer fitted, so got stuck headfirst. His indignant meowing took the edge off the upstairs noise. 

In our apartment that now contained a mattress, two bar stools, two full size chairs, and a kitten, we spent a quieter Sunday before T started work the following day. On Monday morning, no-name and I waved him off, before going back to bed. My intention of getting some more sleep was thwarted by the little fella alternating between meowing down my ear and licking my face. Despite his successful sleep prevention campaign, it was nice to have the little fluff ball to keep me company and stop the apartment from being too quiet and lonely. After the crazily busy past month where there had always been a long list of things to do and think about, I suddenly found myself on that morning with nothing much to do besides twiddling my thumbs. Not only that, but I was in a country where I knew only one person; and he had gone to work. 

We have caught a great number of flights over the years - it comes with the territory of living abroad - and have become a tad lazy when it comes to getting to the airport with the recommended full two hours before the flight departure time. On this occasion however, we were actually at Heathrow a whole two hours and twenty minutes before our flight was due to leave. Well, I say we were at the airport. We were indeed ‘at the airport’, but we were not checking in. Heathrow is a big airport, and the hire car location is situated a heck of a long way from Terminal 5. So, despite T depositing me and our seven bags at T5 arrivals at 16:00; after he had dropped the car off at the rental place, caught the bus back to the terminal, and picked up our two bike bags we had dropped off at the storage facility in arrivals when we landed from Munich the previous night; we didn't check in until 17:00. We weren't worried though, as we were flying Business Class (having a credit card that collects airmiles comes in very handy), and therefore the check-in and security process is a breeze.
Usually.
The woman at the check-in desk hurried us through telling us the queues through security were taking about an hour - even through the prized Fast Track line - but still we didn't worry. We only started to get a little concerned when her departing line was, "Good luck catching your flight!" We had never had that said to us before…

It turned out that Fast Track was in fact no faster than the other queues, or at least that's how it felt at the time. It took us fifty minutes just to reach the x-ray part of security. Eventually, it was our turn: liquids and laptops out of bags, jackets, belts and shoes off, no coins in the pockets…we each went through without setting the x-ray off. T gathered together his belongings, as I was told that my handbag would have to go through another inspection, and was put at the end of a rather long line of other bags to be searched again. With 'gate closes at 18:00' written on our boarding passes, and it now being 17:50, we decided T should go to the gate so he could at least tell them I was on my way. Minutes ticked by, every second that passed by my blood pressure increasing, as was the volume of tears welling up behind my eyes. Two bags to go…and they started searching bags behind mine! I couldn't believe it! At 17:57 I managed to catch the eye of one of the security guys and, trying to keep calm whilst really wanting to shout, scream, curl up into a tiny ball on the floor and throw a massive tantrum, anything but keep calm and reasonable; I explained my flight was due to leave in twenty minutes, and whilst being aware that everyone wanted the whole process to be over, was there any way my bag could be next? After checking with his supervisor, he asked the two guys who owned the bags infront of mine if they minded (thankfully not!), and my bag was searched. Everything was taken out and swabbed at a snails pace (especially when he reached the deep dark depths of my bag and the considerable quantity of crumbs at the bottom of my bag - I was sure I had cleaned it the week before?!)
Eventually, my handbag was back in my hand, and the race to get to the plane was on.
I reached the display board that told me the gate number - one of the B gates - and it also informed me that those gates take fifteen minutes to reach. I looked at my watch: 18:05. That meant I would reach the gate at 18:20, which was the exact time the plane was due to depart...

I ran down the escalator, handbag on my shoulder, coat in one hand and hand baggage case in the other.  I hate going down escalators, and have to have one hand on the rail at all times, and walking down them only happens in an emergency, therefore running down them - and these were looong bad boys – and with both hands full, was an event my nightmares are made of. I made it down in one piece and jumped onto the train, my elbows that had been nicely sharpened whilst living in Munich coming into play. All the while, thoughts were whizzing around my mind: This flight had been the last one with airmiles business tickets available for three weeks, if we flew economy we would have to pay for an extra seven bags. Would we get our money and miles back for this flight?  We had a car and apartment in Montreal already booked - what would we do with them? T was due to start work on the 1st October, and we had given ourselves the week before this date to get over jet-lag and sort ourselves out. Should he go without me? All those flights we had caught over the years, and it had to be this flight! The last time we had problems with flights was around our wedding - why is it only the very important times that the whole flying thing goes to pot?!

The train came to a halt and it was then back on another escalator, but this one was ascending, which meant running on it was much less scary. My chest was pounding and felt as though it was about to explode, and I wanted to be sick. As I reached the top of the escalator T came into view. He walked towards me. My stomach sank. We had missed the plane.
"Hey babe," he said cheerfully, "The plane has been delayed, no rush." I couldn’t believe it – I was convinced it would have gone. I have never been so happy for a plane to be delayed!

Five minutes later, just as my breathing was beginning to get back to normal and I had stopped shaking, boarding began. I sank down into the plane seat. The air steward offered us a glass of champagne as boarding continued. Never been one to say no to champagne, I decided not to start now and, besides, boy did we deserve it! We toasted the start of our Stateside adventure, and then spent the next seven hours trying to watch movies and sleep but being unsuccessful with both, due to the excitement and trepidation of what now seemed very real indeed: we were going to live in Canada!!