Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

My father gave me my passion for travel and nothing pleases him more than to share it with me. My first time in a plane, I was all of three months old.

He took us kids everywhere and then usually popped a fishing rod into our hands. In Plattsburgh, New York we dug up our own worms for bait, we stayed in remote lodges four hours into the woods and across a desolate lake as the crow flies from Chibougamou to catch walleye, he took us cod jigging in Caraquet, New Brunswick and after we landed huge salmon in Alaska, he paid their airfare back to Montreal to get them smoked into bagel topping!

We've made memories at sea from Juneau to Miami catching little tiny sunfish and a 6 ft 4" Golden Hammerhead shark that's still stuffed and mounted proudly in his office.

I have only my dad to thank for my love of travel and of aquatic life.

I also have a mother. My mom has had knee and back problems for as long as I can remember and now at age 72, can only walk for short distances using a cane and is mostly confined to a wheelchair.
My dad's ankle was shattered many years ago and it still gives him trouble when he overexerts himself so now he breaks all the tortoise land-speed records with ease but man, I need to go into cryostasis to keep to his man-of-leisure pace.

Knowing all of this will help you get into the mind-frame of me wanting to get to the departure level before them to help with the luggage and mother-shuttling. I opted to take our handy 747 public transit airport bus.

My home city, Montreal is a chaotic hellscape in any summer. Any and all construction must necessarily be done during the months when there is no snow. Additionally, the massive overhaul of our Expo-67 era Turcot Interchange has reduced our highway system to looking like the set of a post apocalyptic film. Inside joke for the locals: Mad Max Beyond Thunder Vendôme!

Half-demolished high rise overpasses tower over the piles of rubble below. Their twisted re-bar reaches out like rusty claws almost scraping the commuters inching along the temporarily narrowed for construction lanes. The normally 45 minute trip took an hour and a half! Luckily, the diesel fumes and pollution numbed my perception of the horrible scenery.

I finally made it in time to greet my folks and their suitcases and their wheelchair and their CPAP machines and their extra hand luggage for all the disabled-people necessaries like pills and pee-pads and god knows what else. Oh and did I mention that my mom has mobility issues? WITH HER MOUTH? She cannot easily make her mouth stop talking. Like ever.

I suddenly remembered why I usually travel solo with my little systems, my ability to change plans without consulting anyone, my finicky preferences never an inconvenience. Alas, it was too late to back out now! We rolled the bags, we rolled the mom in one chair and got one for the dad to roll in too! The British Airways staff were superlatively happy to help. They laughed at me rolling my eyes at my rolling mom with her chatty banter. My dad was as patient as a saint and just calmly let it all happen because he was in his zone. That peaceful place of travel. He could have just as well been in the middle of Lac Lacroix at dusk when the wind picks up and the walleye all suddenly start to bite.

Fish on! Let's roll!