Carefree Travels : Part I

Today is one of those days that I will remind myself of ever time I’m complaining about another boring lazy day at home with the kid.

Today we set out on an adventure; my mother and I decided to take the 2 year old and my 82-year-old father to Florida for a week. By ourselves.

Toby has never been on a plane before. My dad has but probably can’t remember. They both need a nap right around the time the flight was due to take off and travel with more carry on and checked luggage than is currently acceptable with the new security measures. Yet still we remained optimistic. We allotted 3 hours lieu time and ended our strategic conversations optimistically discussing what duty free items we would reward ourselves with at the end of the day.

As it turns out, three hours was pushing our luck. It took us an hour in itself to get the two “chair” dependents and their gear to customs. And another half hour to get them over to AGRICULTURAL customs. Never been there before? Neither had I. Until my mother decided to pack a SINGLE tangerine as a special treat for Toby. I have to say—that wasn’t her downfall. What was her fault was TELLING the cranky customs agent about it.

Agricultural customs is an interesting place. There are a lot of sketchy looking people there. We would know- - we stood in line with them. Seriously -- what harm could a big tattooed leather jacket-wearing individual do with AGRICULTURE? If they were being biased why didn’t they send the guy to “guns and rock and roll customs” instead of AGRIGULCUTRAL customs. We kept our mouths shut and our eyes to the floor as we humbly approached the head honcho in our conga line of wheelchairs-strollers-oversized-luggage-and-bags and declared our measly little tangerine.

You would think the “wizard of agriculture” would LAUGH at our paltry piece of fruit, or even scold his humble disciples for delivering him such feeble offerings. Oh, no. He took our tangerine VERY seriously. My mother had to keep a straight face while elaborating on WHY she had brought this tangerine with her and WHRE she had gotten it and when PRECISELY she had planned to consume it. Even Toby’s wailing, “GO!!! TOBY WANT TO GO!!!” Didn’t deter him from his intense citrus questioning. This man may have been arrogant. He may have been a complete prick. But he had found his calling and was doing the job he was MEANT to do. And he did it with finesse.

We were then borderline behind schedule. If you can quantify yourself as “behind schedule” when still 1.5 hours before departure.

Next step : security. My mother chose that moment to comment on the stupid agriculture guru. Our porter even cringed-- had she not READ the news headlines about NOT making JOKES in the airport? Even TOBY cringed. Or maybe it was stroller cramps setting in. Either way, we didn’t get any royal treatment at security. We found ourselves helping the cripples out of their vehicles, taking their shoes off and then crossing our fingers that hey wouldn’t fall or temper-tantrum through the security body check device without their devoted women by their sides.

We took a brief repose to allow Toby to throw yoghurt all over us and him, and my mother and I to take a nauseating bite of some overpriced stale sandwich, and then headed through the next security “total body search” line. At least these guys were SOMEWHAT more understanding. As Toby launched himself into a full on limb flailing temper tantrum on top of the strip search table they shrewdly ASKED if I could call my mother over to help out so I could be “patted down”. No one likes to be “patted down” (especially, as it turns out, Toby) but it was kind of them to ask my mother to help. It made the whole thing seem somewhat more humane. Sort of.

Another half hour later we arrived at our gate. I was drenched in sweat and the tears, snot and yoghurt of my (still wailing) kid, while my mother was drenched in similar fluids while sporting a few new wheelchair pushing blisters and bruises she acquired from holding down her limb flailing grandson.

It was then that I was informed that our flight was delayed.

I dropped the 4 bags and 1 child that I was holding and fell to the ground. I’m not sure if it was relief, frustration or anxiety, but the feeling was soon interrupted by my father’s innocent questioning from his wheelchair, “What COUNTRY are we in?”

It felt like we were a million miles from it, but, as it turned out, dad- - we were still at home.