Dave's travel woes can't always be blamed on the airline.
Last November, Dave was scheduled to go on an engineering training course in Winnipeg. The title of the course was something like "How to design buildings so they don't fall down." One of our close friends was living in Winnipeg at the time, and I owed her a visit, so I scheduled my quick trip so that our time in the city would overlap.
I flew West Jet for the first time, and arrived in Winnipeg a few minutes ahead of schedule. Thanks to the time change, and a very early departure, I was at my friend's apartment by late morning on Saturday.
Dave's journey was more complicated. There are no flights out of the mine site on the weekend. So even though he wasn't due to arrive in Winnipeg until Sunday afternoon, he had to leave site on Friday and spend the weekend in Yellowknife.
Before we go any further, I should fill you in on what Yellowknife means to the guys who work at the mine. The mine is a dry camp-- no alcohol-- which is probably a good thing when you have 800 workers (mostly men) confined to a camp in the frozen arctic for 14 days at a time. What this means though, is that anytime they fly to company headquarters in Yellowknife, they tend to let loose. It doesn't help that one of Dave's old college buddies lives in the city.
On Friday night, Dave checked into his hotel, dropped off his bags, ran to the nearest bar, and stayed there well into the wee hours of Saturday morning. On Saturday night, he called from his Yellowknife hotel room. He was once again heading out to the clubs.
"DON'T overdo it," I warned. "If you miss your flight tomorrow, I'll be very, very angry." Dave reassured me that he'd had his fun, and planned to be snoozing away in his hotel room even before Cinderella rushed home from the ball. To be honest, I wasn't particularly worried. Dave had been commuting 8,000 kilometres a month, for a year and a half (including several trips to Yellowknife), and had yet to miss a flight.
I should have known his unblemished track record couldn't last.
Sometime Sunday morning, my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, looked at the clock, and knew this couldn't be a good thing. Dave was supposed to be 30 thousand feet above the ground. Cell phones aren't allowed to be used during a flight. Yet, it was his cell number that was flashing across the screen on my phone. I took a deep breath and answered:
"Hi"
"Hi, I have good news and I have bad news, which do you want first?"
"What did you do?"
"Which do you want?"
"Why aren't you on an airplane?"
"Ok, we'll start with the good. I was able to rebook, and should make my connection to Winnipeg."
"Why did you need to rebook?"
He told the rest of the story: "I woke up this morning feeling refreshed and well rested. Then, I started wondering why I felt that way, since I got back to the hotel very late and shouldn't be feeling rested at all. I looked at the clock and it said 8:00 am."
Dave's flight to Winnipeg was scheduled to leave at 7:15 am.
As he said, he was able to rebook, and he did arrive in Winnipeg in time to meet us for supper at a Sushi house. But Air Canada doesn't rebook flights for free. Dave's night on the town in Yellowknife cost him six hundred dollars for a new plane ticket.
He asked me if I thought he would be allowed to charge the ticket to the company-- since they were the ones who had booked him on such an early flight. Partyway through my tirade, he admitted that would be rather unfair.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
When Snowbirds' wings are clipped
Dave's not the only one who's experienced grounded flights this year.
Mom and Dad went to Florida to visit family in February. As is often the case, they drove from Fredericton to Bangor (a three to four hour trip), then caught a flight from there. The journey South was pretty routine. The vacation itself was filled with laughter and leisure. The trip home, well, that's a different story.
They were due to arrive back in Bangor at 3:30pm on February 18th. If the weather co-operated, they would load their luggage into the car and head directly for home. Not a chance.
They left the lovely abode of dad's cousin Bob at ten to six in the morning. They had an easy, smooth, on-time, and roomy flight to Boston (with seats in the emergency rows).
After a four-hour layover, they boarded the 50 passenger plane for the quick jaunt to Bangor. They were happily squeezed into their seats when the flight attendant's voice cracked through the speaker system with an announcement. The plane was overloaded. They needed nine people to get off.
Minutes later, an airline official walked the isles canvassing for volunteers. Anyone willing to bail would be bussed to Bangor, and would receive 400 dollars worth of credit to be used on future flights.
Unfortunately, mom and dad were at the back of the plane, and the nine volunteers were found before the "official" made it anywhere near their row. They got to take the bus anyway.
The flight took off 30 minutes later than it was supposed to. It was in the air for 20 minutes when another announcement was made. This time, it was the captain's voice that squawked through the overhead speakers. There was heavy rain in Bangor. The visibility was only 600 feet, and they needed 1,200 feet to land. Not to worry though, they had eight hours of fuel, so they'd head to Bangor and circle the airport in hopes that the weather would clear.
Mom, dad and the rest of the passengers were spared that dizzying experience, as within 5 minutes, the captain's voice loomed large once again. The storm had knocked out the landing lights in Bangor, so they were turning around and heading back to Boston.
Predictably, passengers soon began asking for information about what would happen next. The flight attendant asked them not to be hostile as it wasn't the airline's fault that the weather was bad. Just before landing, they were told they would all be bussed to the Bangor airport (unfortunately, there was no offer of a 400 dollar credit this time).
The bus ride wasn't particularly pleasant either. Rain pounded the windshield and pooled on the ashphalt for nearly the entire 400 kilometre trip. The driver stopped for a coffee at MacDonald's, but didn't offer his passengers the chance to grab Mc-anything.
Thankfully, at 10:00pm (16 hours after they left Bob's), they arrived safely in Bangor. Mom and dad were able to grab a cheap room at the motel 8, and enough food-like items at a nearby Irving to quiet the rumbling in their bellies.
The drive back to Fredericton the next day was pleasantly uneventful.
Mom and Dad went to Florida to visit family in February. As is often the case, they drove from Fredericton to Bangor (a three to four hour trip), then caught a flight from there. The journey South was pretty routine. The vacation itself was filled with laughter and leisure. The trip home, well, that's a different story.
They were due to arrive back in Bangor at 3:30pm on February 18th. If the weather co-operated, they would load their luggage into the car and head directly for home. Not a chance.
They left the lovely abode of dad's cousin Bob at ten to six in the morning. They had an easy, smooth, on-time, and roomy flight to Boston (with seats in the emergency rows).
After a four-hour layover, they boarded the 50 passenger plane for the quick jaunt to Bangor. They were happily squeezed into their seats when the flight attendant's voice cracked through the speaker system with an announcement. The plane was overloaded. They needed nine people to get off.
Minutes later, an airline official walked the isles canvassing for volunteers. Anyone willing to bail would be bussed to Bangor, and would receive 400 dollars worth of credit to be used on future flights.
Unfortunately, mom and dad were at the back of the plane, and the nine volunteers were found before the "official" made it anywhere near their row. They got to take the bus anyway.
The flight took off 30 minutes later than it was supposed to. It was in the air for 20 minutes when another announcement was made. This time, it was the captain's voice that squawked through the overhead speakers. There was heavy rain in Bangor. The visibility was only 600 feet, and they needed 1,200 feet to land. Not to worry though, they had eight hours of fuel, so they'd head to Bangor and circle the airport in hopes that the weather would clear.
Mom, dad and the rest of the passengers were spared that dizzying experience, as within 5 minutes, the captain's voice loomed large once again. The storm had knocked out the landing lights in Bangor, so they were turning around and heading back to Boston.
Predictably, passengers soon began asking for information about what would happen next. The flight attendant asked them not to be hostile as it wasn't the airline's fault that the weather was bad. Just before landing, they were told they would all be bussed to the Bangor airport (unfortunately, there was no offer of a 400 dollar credit this time).
The bus ride wasn't particularly pleasant either. Rain pounded the windshield and pooled on the ashphalt for nearly the entire 400 kilometre trip. The driver stopped for a coffee at MacDonald's, but didn't offer his passengers the chance to grab Mc-anything.
Thankfully, at 10:00pm (16 hours after they left Bob's), they arrived safely in Bangor. Mom and dad were able to grab a cheap room at the motel 8, and enough food-like items at a nearby Irving to quiet the rumbling in their bellies.
The drive back to Fredericton the next day was pleasantly uneventful.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Are you sure you're not from Montreal?
Dave doesn't always have the greatest luck when it comes to crossing the border.
Once, a couple of years ago, we were on our way home from a trip to Florida. We had already boarded the plane, the carry-on luggage was stowed, and we were about to pull away from the gate. Suddenly, a flight attendant rushed down the isle looking for a Mr. Parsons. Dave admitted to being just the man she was searching for. She asked to see his passport. He obliged, and she walked away with it, really walked away, as in left the plane.
A few minutes passed. There was no sign of the flight attendant, or Dave's passport. The plane remained grounded, passengers started fidgeting, and I started weighing my options. "If Dave's arrested, should I stay and try to bail him out? Or should I go home and try through official channels?" Thankfully, it never came to that.
The passport snatcher eventually reappeared. She handed the all-important document back to Dave and turned to walk away. "Um, what was that all about?" Dave asked. "It's nothing," she said as she continued down the isle to prepare her "fasten your seatbelts" demonstration.
Another time we flew to Vegas. As we crossed through airport customs, a border agent glanced at Dave's passport, then at Dave, then at his passport again.
The ensuing conversation went something like this: "You are from Montreal?" "No, I'm from Bathurst, New Brunswick" (this was during his pre-Moncton years). "So, are you from Montreal?" "No, I'm from Bathurst, New Brunswick". "You're looking for work in the United States?" No, I'm an engineer, I'm going to Vegas for my girlfriend's family reunion." "Come with me please. You too miss."
We were ushered through various metal detectors to a back room guarded by men wearing starched shirts, and carrying various walkie-talkies. Another customs agent looked at Dave, ran his passport through the system and asked, "so, are you from Montreal?" Dave calmly repeated his earlier statement-- that didn't seem to cut it.
The agent opened our carry-on bags, took everything out, passed a wand over each item, and, as we re-packed, he opened our suitcases and repeated the experiment.
He didn't seem to find anything incriminating, because, once we re-packed, he let us go.
We rushed to our gate, only to find our plane was delayed-- for three hours.
Since then, Dave has made repeated, uneventful entrances into the United States on business. So, as he flew to Peoria, IL for a conference this past February, bored customs officials merely gave his soon-to-expire passport a cursory glance. This time, it was the weather which conspired against him.
He was supposed to fly to Detroit on Sunday, overnight there, and fly to Peoria in time to catch the Monday afternoon portion of his conference. He did make it to Detroit, he overnighted, he got to the airport early Monday morning, all without incident. However, this was February, and a blizzard was raging-- or so claimed the airlines.
After Dave checked his luggage and proceeded to the gate to prepare for the short flight to Peoria, he was told the flight was cancelled. Not just delayed, but cancelled. Airline officials told him they would put him on a bus to Peoria late that afternoon. Of course, that would mean he'd miss the first day of the conference.
So, Dave, and a collegue also headed to the conference, decided to rent a car and find their way there on their own. This might sound like a bad idea-- especially given the weather, and especially if you're familiar with Dave's um, imperfect (non-existant) sense of direction. Thankfully, the rental company had vehicles equipped with GPS devices. And thankfully, the "storm" was nothing compared to a good Atlantic nor'easter.
But there was still one problem. Luggage.
Dave had already checked his bags. The airline refused to un-check it. It was to be sent on the bus with the rest of the passengers later that day. It would be dropped off at the Peoria Airport, and no, they would not deliver it to his hotel.
He called United Airlines' customer service hotline for help. They told him to call the "airline of origin"-- Air Canada. He told them that was BS....eventually, he convinced United to send the bags to his hotel. They did, for a fee of 15 dollars.
And you thought Air Canada was bad.
Once, a couple of years ago, we were on our way home from a trip to Florida. We had already boarded the plane, the carry-on luggage was stowed, and we were about to pull away from the gate. Suddenly, a flight attendant rushed down the isle looking for a Mr. Parsons. Dave admitted to being just the man she was searching for. She asked to see his passport. He obliged, and she walked away with it, really walked away, as in left the plane.
A few minutes passed. There was no sign of the flight attendant, or Dave's passport. The plane remained grounded, passengers started fidgeting, and I started weighing my options. "If Dave's arrested, should I stay and try to bail him out? Or should I go home and try through official channels?" Thankfully, it never came to that.
The passport snatcher eventually reappeared. She handed the all-important document back to Dave and turned to walk away. "Um, what was that all about?" Dave asked. "It's nothing," she said as she continued down the isle to prepare her "fasten your seatbelts" demonstration.
Another time we flew to Vegas. As we crossed through airport customs, a border agent glanced at Dave's passport, then at Dave, then at his passport again.
The ensuing conversation went something like this: "You are from Montreal?" "No, I'm from Bathurst, New Brunswick" (this was during his pre-Moncton years). "So, are you from Montreal?" "No, I'm from Bathurst, New Brunswick". "You're looking for work in the United States?" No, I'm an engineer, I'm going to Vegas for my girlfriend's family reunion." "Come with me please. You too miss."
We were ushered through various metal detectors to a back room guarded by men wearing starched shirts, and carrying various walkie-talkies. Another customs agent looked at Dave, ran his passport through the system and asked, "so, are you from Montreal?" Dave calmly repeated his earlier statement-- that didn't seem to cut it.
The agent opened our carry-on bags, took everything out, passed a wand over each item, and, as we re-packed, he opened our suitcases and repeated the experiment.
He didn't seem to find anything incriminating, because, once we re-packed, he let us go.
We rushed to our gate, only to find our plane was delayed-- for three hours.
Since then, Dave has made repeated, uneventful entrances into the United States on business. So, as he flew to Peoria, IL for a conference this past February, bored customs officials merely gave his soon-to-expire passport a cursory glance. This time, it was the weather which conspired against him.
He was supposed to fly to Detroit on Sunday, overnight there, and fly to Peoria in time to catch the Monday afternoon portion of his conference. He did make it to Detroit, he overnighted, he got to the airport early Monday morning, all without incident. However, this was February, and a blizzard was raging-- or so claimed the airlines.
After Dave checked his luggage and proceeded to the gate to prepare for the short flight to Peoria, he was told the flight was cancelled. Not just delayed, but cancelled. Airline officials told him they would put him on a bus to Peoria late that afternoon. Of course, that would mean he'd miss the first day of the conference.
So, Dave, and a collegue also headed to the conference, decided to rent a car and find their way there on their own. This might sound like a bad idea-- especially given the weather, and especially if you're familiar with Dave's um, imperfect (non-existant) sense of direction. Thankfully, the rental company had vehicles equipped with GPS devices. And thankfully, the "storm" was nothing compared to a good Atlantic nor'easter.
But there was still one problem. Luggage.
Dave had already checked his bags. The airline refused to un-check it. It was to be sent on the bus with the rest of the passengers later that day. It would be dropped off at the Peoria Airport, and no, they would not deliver it to his hotel.
He called United Airlines' customer service hotline for help. They told him to call the "airline of origin"-- Air Canada. He told them that was BS....eventually, he convinced United to send the bags to his hotel. They did, for a fee of 15 dollars.
And you thought Air Canada was bad.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough go Nowhere
Dave's normal travel time from the mine site to Moncton is about 20 hours.
But his trip time more than doubled a recent return-- and he didn't actually make it "home" for another eight days on top of that.
It was February. Dave was due to arrive home on the 13th. He'd have one night in his own bed, and then, on the afternoon of the 14th, we were heading to the city of our University days, Halifax (I had work related meetings). On the 16th, we were flying from Halifax to Newfoundland to visit his family. The timing seemed so perfect.
Alas, there is no such thing as perfection.
Dave's red-eye flight from Edmonton was delayed. He made it into Toronto just in time to wave goodbye to the flight he should have been taking to Moncton. No big deal really, there are several flights between Toronto and Moncton each day....well, most days.
It just so happened that on this day, the next flight between the two cities had already been cancelled. So, they booked Dave on a later flight. This one would get him in around supper time. At least I'd be off work and able to pick him up at the airport.
There was just one problem. An ice storm hit around mid-afternoon. Dave's flight was delayed by an hour....in hopes the weather would pass (who were they kidding?).
They did eventually take off though, and they did fly to Moncton. Unfortunately, they didn't land. They did a couple of laps above the icy runway, Dave waved at what he figured was our house, and then they flew back to Toronto?....wrong...Quebec city. Yes, Quebec city. The passengers were perplexed as well.
While in Quebec, the passengers were given the opportunity to continue sitting in their cramped seats, with no food, for an hour or so as the plane sat motionless on the tarmac. As Dave describes it, a flight attendant kindly told everyone on board that they would soon be heading to Ottawa, where they would then be put on flights to Moncton?....wrong again...Toronto. And that those flights would leave the next day. I gather a somewhat puzzled passenger did bring up the fact that the people on the plane really didn't want to go to Toronto, they actually wanted to go to Moncton. I'm told the reply of the always pleasant flight attendant went something like "I'm sorry you're having difficulties understanding what I'm saying."
Eventually the crew seemed to tire of the Quebec city tarmac, and they did fly the plane to Ottawa. By the time they arrived, late Wednesday evening, the passengers had been on the plane for seven hours. Dave figures that has to be the longest flight from Toronto to Ottawa ever.
In Ottawa, the news wasn't great. Dave was told the earliest they could get him to Moncton was early evening on Thursday-- at which time I would already be in Halifax-- with our car. Hmmm.....
I will give Air Canada credit here. They did agree to re-book Dave on a flight to Halifax instead of Moncton. And they did pay for a night in an Ottawa hotel for all the passengers on that plane.
So, as it was, Dave arrived in Halifax at about noon on Thursday...44 hours after leaving work.
He got there long before me, so he had time to bond with his buddy Pete before taking me to the Hamachi house for a Valentine's dinner of sushi and wine.
We left for Newfoundland as planned on Saturday, and returned to Moncton on Friday the 22nd.
Dave got to spend two nights in his own bed before flying to Peoria, Illinois for business on Sunday. Maybe I'll tackle his U.S. travel woes in the next post.
But his trip time more than doubled a recent return-- and he didn't actually make it "home" for another eight days on top of that.
It was February. Dave was due to arrive home on the 13th. He'd have one night in his own bed, and then, on the afternoon of the 14th, we were heading to the city of our University days, Halifax (I had work related meetings). On the 16th, we were flying from Halifax to Newfoundland to visit his family. The timing seemed so perfect.
Alas, there is no such thing as perfection.
Dave's red-eye flight from Edmonton was delayed. He made it into Toronto just in time to wave goodbye to the flight he should have been taking to Moncton. No big deal really, there are several flights between Toronto and Moncton each day....well, most days.
It just so happened that on this day, the next flight between the two cities had already been cancelled. So, they booked Dave on a later flight. This one would get him in around supper time. At least I'd be off work and able to pick him up at the airport.
There was just one problem. An ice storm hit around mid-afternoon. Dave's flight was delayed by an hour....in hopes the weather would pass (who were they kidding?).
They did eventually take off though, and they did fly to Moncton. Unfortunately, they didn't land. They did a couple of laps above the icy runway, Dave waved at what he figured was our house, and then they flew back to Toronto?....wrong...Quebec city. Yes, Quebec city. The passengers were perplexed as well.
While in Quebec, the passengers were given the opportunity to continue sitting in their cramped seats, with no food, for an hour or so as the plane sat motionless on the tarmac. As Dave describes it, a flight attendant kindly told everyone on board that they would soon be heading to Ottawa, where they would then be put on flights to Moncton?....wrong again...Toronto. And that those flights would leave the next day. I gather a somewhat puzzled passenger did bring up the fact that the people on the plane really didn't want to go to Toronto, they actually wanted to go to Moncton. I'm told the reply of the always pleasant flight attendant went something like "I'm sorry you're having difficulties understanding what I'm saying."
Eventually the crew seemed to tire of the Quebec city tarmac, and they did fly the plane to Ottawa. By the time they arrived, late Wednesday evening, the passengers had been on the plane for seven hours. Dave figures that has to be the longest flight from Toronto to Ottawa ever.
In Ottawa, the news wasn't great. Dave was told the earliest they could get him to Moncton was early evening on Thursday-- at which time I would already be in Halifax-- with our car. Hmmm.....
I will give Air Canada credit here. They did agree to re-book Dave on a flight to Halifax instead of Moncton. And they did pay for a night in an Ottawa hotel for all the passengers on that plane.
So, as it was, Dave arrived in Halifax at about noon on Thursday...44 hours after leaving work.
He got there long before me, so he had time to bond with his buddy Pete before taking me to the Hamachi house for a Valentine's dinner of sushi and wine.
We left for Newfoundland as planned on Saturday, and returned to Moncton on Friday the 22nd.
Dave got to spend two nights in his own bed before flying to Peoria, Illinois for business on Sunday. Maybe I'll tackle his U.S. travel woes in the next post.
From Here to There
Getting from Moncton, to a lake in the Northwest Territories that's inhabited solely by the odd wolverine, a few grizzlies, and about 800 miners is no simple feat. There aren't exactly any direct flights. So here's a typical voyage to work for Dave:
Monday
4:30 pm-- head to airport to catch 5:30 pm flight to Toronto.
7:00 pm (8:00 Atlantic)-- arrive in Toronto, scarf down soup and a beer at the Maple Leaf lounge, call Melissa.
8:00 pm (9:00 Atlantic)-- hop on another plane, watch in-flight movie and pretend to work on laptop.
11:10 pm (2:10 am Atlantic) -- arrive in Edmonton, pick up luggage (on a good day), take shuttle to a cheap hotel and get some sleep.
Tuesday
8:00 am (11:00am Atlantic)-- catch shuttle to airport.
10:00am (1:00 pm Atlantic)-- board company charter flight direct to Diavik mine-- yes the mine, built on a lake, has its own airport. They fly workers out on a Boeing 737, and I'm told they provide decent food.
1:00pm (4:00pm Atlantic)--after 24 hours of travelling, Dave's ready to begin 14 days of 12 hour shifts.
Fourteen Days Later-- It's no easier to Get Home:
Tuesday
1:00pm (4:00)-- is searched to make sure he's not smuggling any diamonds, and boards the company plane headed to Edmonton.
4:00pm (7:00pm Atlantic)-- arrives in Edmonton, grabs a bite and a few drinks with pals from work, takes a shuttle to the world's biggest mall, puts a few cards on the table at the casino, goes shopping with his winnings? then heads back to the airport.
Wednesday
12:00am (3:00am Atlantic)-- staggers onto Air Canada flight. Listens to I-Pod. Falls asleep.
6:00am (7:00am Atlantic)-- wipes drool off cheek, arrives in Toronto, sleepily wanders into Maple Leaf lounge for a bagel, and sometimes a shower.
9:00am (10:00am Atlantic)-- straps himself into a seat for the last leg of his journey.
11:50am-- plane touches down in Moncton.
12:00pm-- checks to see if luggage made it, calls Melissa to come pick him up at the airport. Melissa's too busy at work, so Dave takes a cab. After 15 days away, and 20 hours of travelling, he's finally home, where he's attacked by the cat, welcomed by the dog, and comforted by an empty bed.
Of course, this is his schedule when all goes well. But when it comes to flying, especially Air Canada, especially in the winter, things can go very wrong. Stay tuned to future blogs.
Monday
4:30 pm-- head to airport to catch 5:30 pm flight to Toronto.
7:00 pm (8:00 Atlantic)-- arrive in Toronto, scarf down soup and a beer at the Maple Leaf lounge, call Melissa.
8:00 pm (9:00 Atlantic)-- hop on another plane, watch in-flight movie and pretend to work on laptop.
11:10 pm (2:10 am Atlantic) -- arrive in Edmonton, pick up luggage (on a good day), take shuttle to a cheap hotel and get some sleep.
Tuesday
8:00 am (11:00am Atlantic)-- catch shuttle to airport.
10:00am (1:00 pm Atlantic)-- board company charter flight direct to Diavik mine-- yes the mine, built on a lake, has its own airport. They fly workers out on a Boeing 737, and I'm told they provide decent food.
1:00pm (4:00pm Atlantic)--after 24 hours of travelling, Dave's ready to begin 14 days of 12 hour shifts.
Fourteen Days Later-- It's no easier to Get Home:
Tuesday
1:00pm (4:00)-- is searched to make sure he's not smuggling any diamonds, and boards the company plane headed to Edmonton.
4:00pm (7:00pm Atlantic)-- arrives in Edmonton, grabs a bite and a few drinks with pals from work, takes a shuttle to the world's biggest mall, puts a few cards on the table at the casino, goes shopping with his winnings? then heads back to the airport.
Wednesday
12:00am (3:00am Atlantic)-- staggers onto Air Canada flight. Listens to I-Pod. Falls asleep.
6:00am (7:00am Atlantic)-- wipes drool off cheek, arrives in Toronto, sleepily wanders into Maple Leaf lounge for a bagel, and sometimes a shower.
9:00am (10:00am Atlantic)-- straps himself into a seat for the last leg of his journey.
11:50am-- plane touches down in Moncton.
12:00pm-- checks to see if luggage made it, calls Melissa to come pick him up at the airport. Melissa's too busy at work, so Dave takes a cab. After 15 days away, and 20 hours of travelling, he's finally home, where he's attacked by the cat, welcomed by the dog, and comforted by an empty bed.
Of course, this is his schedule when all goes well. But when it comes to flying, especially Air Canada, especially in the winter, things can go very wrong. Stay tuned to future blogs.
Dave the Dwarf?
My husband has a slightly longer than average commute to work: 3,875 km to be precise.
Dave is originally from Grand Falls-Windsor, Newfoundland.
But he and I call Moncton, New Brunswick home now.
It's not that unusual for someone from Newfoundland-- or anywhere in Atlantic Canada to head out across this vast country in search of work.
But Dave hasn't joined the ranks of the machinists and labourers in Fort McMurray.
Instead, he opted for something a little more exotic-- and complicated.
He works in Lac De Gras, North West Territories. A few hundred more kilometres north, and he could have joined the elves in Santa's workshop.
But instead, he followed the footsteps of Snow White's dwarfs right down the shaft of a diamond mine: http://www.diavik.ca/ . Yes, diamonds, and no, he doesn't get to bring home free samples *sigh*.
In this blog, I'll share Dave's travel adventures, my adventures while he's away, and anything else that happens to be on my mind.
Oh, and I might even let Dave write his own post from time to time.
Comments are always welcome.
Dave is originally from Grand Falls-Windsor, Newfoundland.
But he and I call Moncton, New Brunswick home now.
It's not that unusual for someone from Newfoundland-- or anywhere in Atlantic Canada to head out across this vast country in search of work.
But Dave hasn't joined the ranks of the machinists and labourers in Fort McMurray.
Instead, he opted for something a little more exotic-- and complicated.
He works in Lac De Gras, North West Territories. A few hundred more kilometres north, and he could have joined the elves in Santa's workshop.
But instead, he followed the footsteps of Snow White's dwarfs right down the shaft of a diamond mine: http://www.diavik.ca/ . Yes, diamonds, and no, he doesn't get to bring home free samples *sigh*.
In this blog, I'll share Dave's travel adventures, my adventures while he's away, and anything else that happens to be on my mind.
Oh, and I might even let Dave write his own post from time to time.
Comments are always welcome.
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