I don't remember what September in Winnipeg is like. I know the mosquitoes and black flies are gone. Are the leaves turning yet? I almost called my parents to ask if I should bring shorts and sandals, before I realised that was a silly question. Have the leaves turned? Should I bring a hat? I almost forgot to pack a jacket.
Although at the tender age of nineteen we lived for months on end out of my backpack on various trains zipping through Eastern and Western Europe, I am nevertheless a neurotic traveller. I regularly check to make sure my airplane ticket still exists and hasn't been sucked into another plane of existence by some transdimensional being who really really wants to go to Winnipeg. I had a bit of a scare when it turned out that The Safe Place I'd put it – the coffee table – turned out to be too safe and the papers on my desk suffered as a result before the ticket was located, lounging indolently in front of the television, just where I'd left it.
This is only my second post-9/11 airplane ride and I must say I'm a little nervous.
I have already jinxed myself from all Hollywood-type stories by imagining that the person next to me in my airborne sarcophagus will be a top publisher/literary agent, or really hot, sweet, perfect, kind, generous, edgy, funny, brilliant, humble (but not too humble), perfect, Jewish guy who lives in Toronto and will fall instantly as in love with me as I with him. Now that it's been imagined, it ain't gonna happen.
I will blog while there, although not as much. My parents still hunt the woolly mammoth and are connected to the Internet by dial-up.
As you are all so sad I'm leaving, here is a little picture that is easy on the eyes while you dry your tears: