Being partner to a pilot who frequently flies to Newark as part of her job means I get to tag along on the odd layover, taking advantage of a cheap flight, free hotel and a chance to discover a few more corners of this famous city as I add another 5-6 hours to my New York tourism experience. While I must confess that so far I’ve been more disappointed than impressed (just seems overly loud, busy and materialistic to me personally), I do see the value of familiarizing myself with such an iconic place.

This was my third visit to the Big Apple. It was a warm spring weekend in April; this time we brought one of the kids along for the adventures.

Each brief sojourn has provided another piece of the puzzle for this somewhat reluctant traveler. This time, we got to visit the site of the former twin towers of the World Trade Center.

I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened (a Grade 1/2/3 Spec Ed classroom, as it were), and the complexity of emotions that plagued me both on that day and in the weeks that followed.

Having attended Come From Away (the musical), and read about both the Canadian side of the events (i.e. in places like Gander, NL, that rallied to support so many unexpected and emotionally overwhelmed short term visitors) as well as a book written by a journalist who covered some of the Afghan history and general world political and historical context as well as sharing minutes details of the terrorists’ organization and preparation to intentionally end their lives and so many others, I was eager (if such a word is appropriate here) to visit an American site and see some of the artifacts from this horrific day.

As I had been warned, it was a tremendously emotional experience, even for someone who did not have any personal connection. (I know no one who worked or lived there, and truth be told, I’m generally not a fan of the type of work that such a place represents.) The Americans have done an excellent job of finding a way to impress upon visitors the magnitude, while respectfully honoring the victims and survivors, of 9/11.

It did not feel right somehow to take photos on site, and it is difficult to really capture the whole experience with words, other than to say that it was quite visceral for me.

Surprised by my tears, my partner noted that under any other circumstances, I would not be likely to have a lot of time, emotionally or otherwise, for the sorts of people who typically would have worked at the WTC. (Other than maybe the cleaners.) True as that might be, I could still appreciate that everyone who worked and died there that day would have been someone’s parent, child, aunt or sibling, someone’s friend or neighbour. This context allows me to feel an incredibly strong human connection with them and with those who would have been looking for them, waiting anxiously and increasingly hopelessly as the horrible hours turned into endless days and eventually — for too many — dark weeks and months. And then there is the thought of all those who lived or worked or happened to be walking their dogs in the surrounding area on that fateful morning when one of the most incredible achievements of humanity - a flying machine - was used as a most deadly weapon.

From the accounts of first hand witnesses, the physical/geographical/climactic effects of two massive planes barreling into two giant towers lasted for weeks. The psychological and other impacts would of course have lasted much longer, and the way the site is set up now is a tribute to both that and to the desire for recovery, collective strength and determined progress.

Instead of photos at ground zero, I snapped a few pictures later, at Battery Park and out towards the Statue of Liberty.

Can Americans remember what that iconic symbol once stood for? And can we Canadians find ways to be good neighbors, encouraging and supporting our partners to the south to find new hope, and let this hope and vulnerability— rather than fear and hatred—drive their vision for a more humble and collaborative future?

As we near the end of the second decade after the horrific events of September 11, 2001, and pause to consider the ways in which travel to America (and indeed across the world) has changed since then, one can only hope so.

With all the commentary on toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment in the media these days, I thought I’d weigh in it with my own perspective on the topic, from an aviation standpoint.

I recently read a comment on an Instagram photo posted by a male pilot, which applauded his misogynistic stance, and ridiculed the hashtag “girlpilots” that women in aviation sometimes use when posting aviation related photos to Instagram or other social media. What surprised me about the support of comment was that it had been written by another female pilot!

It reminded me of a story I heard not too long ago, from the leader of a women’s support group at a regional airline, about how some female pilots were quite resistant to joining said support group. It seemed as though they didn’t want to be treated any differently from their male peers, she noted, and they resented the spotlight being shone on them as women in a non-traditional Aviation role. They had fought so hard to get where they had gotten, they were afraid, almost, to discuss this reality with their female peers, and just wanted to be seen as “one of the boys”.

But we #GirlPilots are NOT like the boys we often have to fly with!

It’s not uncommon, even in 2018, for female pilots to be harassed either directly (think derogatory comments or inappropriate touching by male captains to female first officers) and indirectly (where “the boys“ make sexually inappropriate, jocular comments about the women they share the cockpit with, not knowing that those comments may be overheard by their female colleagues or males not comfortable with this sort of toxic masculinity.)

As I heard first-hand at a dinner celebrating the accomplishments of women in aviation the other night, this sort of nonsense still happens frequently. But rarely if ever the other way around. (Seriously, aviation friends, when was the last time you heard a female captain discussing with her peers the size of her first officer’s cock, and how that must’ve played a role in his getting hired?! Actually, let’s just leave it at the first part, when was the last time you heard a female captain? Case in point!)

The aviation and aerospace industry is still stacked strongly against women. 50% of the human population is represented in only 6% of most airline cockpits, and this imbalanced percentage is often reflected in other non-traditional aviation roles as well: aviation engineers, mechanics, flight instructors, rampies, etc.... Not surprisingly, it’s even lower for women of colour or other intersecting identities.

Having being a student pilot in a flight school overrun by disrespectful ground school peers and male instructors who were clueless at best and in some cases downright misogynistic, I know I’m not the only one who chose not to plow through that minefield and continue on to a career in the field of aviation once I finally earned my coveted PPL. There are only so many sexist “jokes” and comments you can take with a smile and and apparently nonchalant come back before wanting to poke your eyeballs out with hot skewers rather than go back voluntarily for more, just so that you can fly an airplane!

No, I stuck with my nice, safe, gender-appropriate profession (I’m a public educator with more than 20 years of teaching experience, surrounded largely by women)!

I can’t believe that all men are naturally misogynistic pigs, though. In fact, among the many examples of jerks I had to put up with while earning my PPL, were some shining examples of decent human beings. Young men who were doing their best to just teach flying and earn some hours so that they could go fly bigger planes. And I’ve seen enough very young boys to know that – – no matter how early the dangerous socialization begins – – humanity grows up with the potential to be nurturing, caring, fair and equitable, regardless of their sex.

Gender socialization, and the promotion of “strong men“/boys who don’t cry, and who discard femininity as worthless, is taught. It’s taught by the adults – – men and women – – that surround a young child. And its effects are so powerful, that many women themselves believe, albeit sometime subconsciously, that they are the inferior sex.

Personally, when I post an aviation related photo of myself, I often use #GirlPilot, not to show off, but rather to find my sisterhood. As a student pilot, I endured plenty of horse shit from the boys I had to deal with along the way, and although I did not make flying a career, I can imagine that with the industry average standing at just 6%, most fellow #GirlPilots who also happen to be #CommercialPilots are not likely to find that sisterhood among their immediate collegial circle!! So when I click the hashtag after I post, I’m immediately virtually surrounded by other girls who – – like me – – swam through the sea of toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment, and earned their stripes!

It’s exciting and encouraging.

I saw another post on Instagram recently, too. It was a photograph of a young boy holding a sign. The second “boys“ in “boys will be boys“ had been crossed out and replaced with “good humans”.

Imagine a world where the approximately 50% of the population that identifies as male is not feared, despised and/or disrespected by the other 50%, but rather revered and respected, because they are decent humans who in turn revere and respect as valuable and necessary their female fellow humans, rather than seeing the as worthless pawns provided by some great deity for their personal sexual enjoyment, whether in aviation, or in any field. Imagine if a man‘s power came from his choice to be decent, kind and respectful, rather than to oppress.

In such a world, perhaps some of us would no longer feel the need to hashtag our aviation posts with #GirlPilot because we could just be #Pilots.

If you’ve ever wondered about how lesbians do things, you’re in for a real treat: Today's post is about the lesbian lifestyle.

I've written about "the gay lifestyle" in the past, but this particular post is about a very specific aspect of lesbianism, namely, the struggles that two more masculine women face when managing stereotypically "female" situations.

In the past, when I reveal that my spouse is also a woman, I have more than once been asked "who's the man?"

I kid you not, this is not a one time question, and as I do not always know the questioners well enough to presume an "intimate" nature to their line of questioning, I can only assume they are asking more superficially, i.e. who takes on the classically "male" chores around the house.

When faced with important domestic tasks, it seems the answer is, "we're BOTH the man"!

This was clearly illustrated to me this past weekend, when I had to help my partner with an emergency hemming situation.

Now before you ask what could possibly constitute such an emergency, allow me to explain.

You see, my partner recently got hired as a first officer with a regional airline. As such, she was issued a standard uniform, and given a budget to customize said uniform to specs.

For example, pant leg length.

This next part is not so much about the lesbian lifestyle, but it is germane to the story, so bear with me while I set the context.

On Thursday, my partner took all three issued pairs of pants to be altered last week. On account of the long weekend, they were to be ready for pick up on Tuesday. Not a problem, since she was still awaiting her actual flight schedule, and assumed she was not working for the foreseeable future.

But on Friday, my partner got word that she was to report for duty first thing Monday morning for a two-day pairing with an overnight in Windsor! In other words, she needed an actual pair of uniform pants, with legs hemmed, before Tuesday.

And thus ensueth the "emergency hemming situation" referenced above.

My partner dashed over to the dry cleaner and demanded one pair of pants back immediately. ESL barriers (both hers and theirs) not withstanding, she soon returned with one slightly crumpled and of course still unhemmed pair of pants.

Now if we were in a nice, traditional (read "straight") relationship, the woman could simply hem the pants, and the man -- who does not know how to hem pants, but can fly airplanes -- could wear them to his pilot job, and all would be well with the world.

Alas, because we are lesbians, neither of us knows how to hem pants. So we would have been really screwed (and not in a good way), except that as everyone knows, all lesbians are good problem solvers and very creative.

My partner, determined not to report for her first official day of work in pinned up pants, began to google.

She soon came across that magical tool called "hem tape". Hem tape is a lovely little iron-on solution for those (like men and lesbians) who don't know how to sew. You simply cut the tape to the length you need, fold up the material you want to hem, and iron that sucker on high to bond the two parts together. Bingo, you got yourself a sweet little hem!

As soon as she mentioned it to me, I remembered I had used the stuff years ago (when I was married to a man but still did not know how to sew, because I was not a real woman even then, I was a lesbian, I just didn't know it yet) to "hem" a curtain.

Off we went to Walmart of all places (never again!!) and picked up a roll of the glorious substance.

And then it was off to "hem" the girl's pants.

Since the job still required the use of an iron (a borderline "female" task), it was going to be a two-lesbian job for sure.

And what a job it was! In my eagerness to help, I had forgotten the little detail about how a pants leg is actually a round loop, and a hell of a lot more complicated to hem (even with tape) than a straight edge curtain. Despite measuring with a ruler and trying our best not to iron out the pre-existing crease in the pants, we botched the job pretty good, and had to start over a few times.

Also we did it naked, but not because we are lesbians, but because it was super hot this weekend, and we don't have air conditioning in our apartment.

Despite a two-hour struggle to hem (with tape) one pair of pants, we managed to get the job done, and you can only tell if you look really close that one leg is slightly longer than the other.  Overall, though, she still looks pretty kick ass in her uniform, and went off to do two full days of flying and didn't crash the plane.

Despite being a lesbian!

I had rather a surreal experience last night.

I've been working on my night rating, you see, and between kids and work schedules and official nightfall (Note to self: Night rating in summer?  Bad idea!!), I've got to fly whenever I can. This weekend, I had two child-free evenings in a row when my partner -- who also happens to be my flight instructor -- was available, too, and so I jumped on them. 

​Coincidentally, it's also Canada Day weekend, which means that as soon as the sun goes down, the fireworks start!

Nevertheless, I am determined to get this darned night rating done.  More specifically, I have to build some solo time, and -- as the winds were calm and pretty much right down the runway -- off we went to the airport, so that Tats could send me solo ("and do more than two circuits this time!", she scolded).

Lucky for me, the ATC in the tower at CYTZ on Sunday night was an experienced controller; I recognized his voice, and wisely indicated that I was going up for solo circuits when I radioed to request taxi clearance to the active.

It's an odd relationship, the one between pilot and controller.  Other than a call sign (my aircraft's and his "ground" or "tower"), we don't know one another's names.

And yet, he is my everything!

As a student pilot especially, one often thinks the controller is God-like, omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent when flying in controlled airspace.  (Being in the unique position of having a partner who spent a few years with Nav Canada, I have seen behind the proverbial curtain, so I know that's not entirely so in real life.  Nevertheless, it felt comforting to hear a confident, familiar voice in my headphones as I prepared to do my first full solo night flight without a dual beforehand.)

The nameless controller took good care of me last night.  Although I was primarily alone in the circuit, there was lots of traffic in the zone, as everyone within a 50 mile radius and access to an aircraft seemed to want to come to Toronto for a "city tour" and to watch the fireworks at precisely 9:45 - 10:30, which was when I was flying circuits!

While I struggled to achieve and maintain appropriate altitude and heading for different legs of the circuit without being distracted by fireworks to the east and west of the field (and at one point in the centre of the field, when fireworks apparently formed part of "Electric Island", currently  underway at Hanlan's point!!), the controller managed the surrounding traffic with a remarkably calm grace.  As much as possible, he exuded an air of accommodating professionalism when able, and was firm but kind when the sky over the city became saturated with as many small aircraft as could be safely accommodated, and he had to turn other hopefuls away.  And on top of it all, he cleared me to touch and go before I called him on base for almost every circuit I flew!

As someone keenly interested in the human/social science part of aviation, I struggled to focus on the practicalities of my circuits while my mind wandered to marveling at this guy's ability to juggle it all, and my eyes wandered towards at the fireworks on either side of me.

I also tried to surreptitiously snap a photo of the beautiful light show using my iphone, which is actually a huge no-no when you are flying solo.  I didn't really focus on the photography, and so the few pics I got ended up just looking like a colourful blobby mess of lights!

After the usual overshoot on the first circuit (I always come in too high initially when flying a 172 solo; it does not drop out of the sky as easily as a 152!!), I managed to pull off a few "elegant" and some "safe but average" landings before I got tired and lazy and the plane began to increasingly veer off the centre line on the roll. 

After a particularly bumpy landing and some tongue-tied radio work, I decided to call it a night, and requested a full stop.

It wasn't a perfect flight from a piloting perspective, but thanks largely to the calm, confident voice on the other end of the radio, it was a reasonably good one, and it certainly built my confidence to fly alone amidst the chaos and beauty of all those lights!

One challenge for me has always been scheduling: When my kids are with us, I like to be a full-time mom, and we spend a lot of time doing family stuff, which does not include flying at night (which, at this time of year, would keep us all out well past bedtime). And when my kids are not with us, my partner is either working late, or I am, or the weather is poor for flying, or there is invariably some other conflict.

So, when we found ourselves with a childless, work-free two days of clear skies last weekend, we thought we’d hit the jackpot! (Flying not being a hobby for paupers, as it turned out, it was the flight school owner, from whom we rented a 172 several times over the weekend, who had hit the jackpot in this particular situation, ha!)

As a refresher, we went up on Saturday morning, and flew a few circuits on runway 26 at CYTZ. Then, after succumbing to a short nap and running a few errands for the rest of the day, we returned to the airport at dusk for some twilight circuits that turned into night flying.

Flying the same plane twice in one day approved a good strategy. My use of right rudder improved, as did my ability to set up for approach. My landings became reasonably smooth, (a skill supported largely by relatively calm winds pretty much right down the runway!!)

My girlfriend/instructor and decided we should fly again on Sunday evening, and if I was still demonstrating these reasonably smooth and independent circuits, she would send me solo. I felt marginally less anxious now about this idea than I had before the two-flights-in-one-day adventure, which I took to be a good sign.

So, the next day, after spending a beautiful sunny day on the island that we had overflown less than 24 hours before, we had a quick supper at home and drove back downtown for yet another evening flight.

Those of you who follow my blog know that in addition to being a certified teacher and mother of monozygotic twins, I am also a licensed pilot.

I’ve always said that I “just” have a PPL (private license, as opposed to a CPL, or commercial license, the latter being the first step towards career flying), and that while I do love it, it’s just a hobby for me, that my first love is teaching.

But after volunteering at the “Girls Can Fly” event in Waterloo this weekend, it got me thinking about how girls especially choose career paths, or perhaps more accurately, how they are steered down particular paths and away from others.

The event, like an increasing number of similarly targeted events held at various airports across the country in recent years, is designed to expose girls aged 8-18 to aviation-related careers, especially piloting.  Female and female-friendly volunteers from various airlines and other aviation organizations staff booths with information targeted at engaging girls in flying as a career.

For those lucky enough to register in advance for a limited number of free flights, 20 minutes behind the yoke of a Cessna or at the controls of a helicopter is also part of the day.

To those in the industry, it’s no secret that women form roughly 6% of the commercial airline pilot population; Porter airlines sits at a relatively impressive 12% currently, still abysmal, but twice the industry average, thanks to Bob Deluce’s vision of gender parity (and increasingly, systemic approaches to making it happen!)

With a massive shortage of pilots predicted for years already, engaging girls and young women is seen by many airlines as a critical opportunity to increase the pool and avoid a looming crisis.  If more girls choose flying as a career path, they feel, perhaps it may provide an eventual solution to an already-underway pilot shortage.

I will say that even as a grown woman, there is something tremendously exciting about watching a Dash8 land, the door open, and a large group of female pilots in full uniform alight.  Even as they hovered around their booth later on in the hangar, chatting with the various girls and families that visited the Porter booth, I felt positively giddy!

I reflected on my own fascination with the cockpit, which started as far back as I can remember, when the pilots on pre-9-11 flights would invite all the children up for a visit to the cockpit if they wanted to see… and, lucky me, on my way to Florida as a toddler and Europe later on with my mom or Omi, I got to go and visit the flight deck many times.  I was mesmerized!

But despite being raised by a strong and independent mother, I was still victim to the many subtle yet clear messages from the society in which I grew up.  Flying was for men: When boys visited the cockpit, they were often asked if they wanted to be a pilot one day, whereas my interest in aviation was never encouraged.  No, for me, a girl, it was clearly just a fun visit to the flight deck to alleviate the boredom of a transatlantic flight.  Furthermore, all the pilots I ever saw on those flights were tall, white and male -- and as a 10-year-old girl, I only fit one of those privileged categories.

Besides, teaching was my first love… or was it?

I had always wanted to be a teacher (and I think I was a mighty fine one for the many years I spent in the field before moving to the Ministry of Education to become a paper pusher).  But in retrospect, I can’t help but wonder how things might have played out if I had seen fewer female teachers in my 15 years of schooling and more female pilots. Would flying have stood more of a chance as a contender?

As with so many other things, the people around me just made the decisions about what -- as a girl -- I “should” like and be good at, and when I didn’t always fit the stereotype (I choose skateboarding over roller skating and drums over flute or clarinet), it was me that was the problem, not their gendered expectations.  

Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

From my spot behind the CAP booth, I watched as girls confidently engaged with the young women who were working in the field that they themselves dreamed of.  Excitedly, they chattered with “real pilots” who looked and sounded just like them.  The expressions on their faces said it all!

I love teaching, and I have no regrets about becoming a teacher.  But I love flying airplanes, too. And watching these girls just a generation and half younger than me, my mind pondered the possibilities: Had I had the chance to fly in a Cessna with a female pilot when I was 8, and had I been able to talk to a hangar-full of smiling, confident women pilots when I was 10, would my current “hobby” have started far sooner than age 40?  And maybe, just maybe, might it even have become my profession?

It’s at turns a troubling and a deliciously exciting mental exercise to imagine myself having chosen a different career path: Afterall, as it turns out, girls CAN fly!

In my beloved partner, a highly articulate intellectual with a flair for putting things off in the most creative manner, I am able to observe and reflect on the nature of procrastination.

Recently hired as a First Officer by a local airline, my darling has been thrown into an intense period of necessary mental and logistical preparations. In the forefront is the need to review and familiarize herself with hundreds of pages of Standard Operation Procedures (or "SOPs", as these necessary but somewhat dry bits of information are referred to by people in the industry).

I knew we were in trouble when, ten days prior to the start of ground school, I observed my beloved voraciously reading not the SOPs, but rather, various online bulletin boards dealing with which airline is best to work for, how to study said SOPs and what supplementary resources on Amazon are helpful when starting a new ground school class. 

Tats is very effective, you see, at convincing herself and those around her that in order to study well, she must first take the time necessary to prepare for the preparation of preparing her notes for review. I was almost convinced myself the first few times I saw her engage in this sort of behaviour. 

Seven years of co-habitation with this creature has taught me to be a better bullshit detector.

Things culminated in a new level of crazy this weekend when -- in an attempt to escape her thick cloud of impending new job anxiety -- I retreated under a blanket on the couch, noise-canceling headphones applied to my head, and Mozart's clarinet concerto flowing melodiously into my ears.  Halfway through the first movement, I heard a sort of crunching sound emanating from somewhere outside the concerto.

So much for noise canceling!

I attempted to ignore the distraction and focus on the clarinet... alas, by the time we were a short way into the Adagio, I tore off my not-so-noise-canceling headphones to see what the infernal racket was coming from my beloved's desk nearby.

The answer unveiled a new stage of procrastination: Tats had printed out all three million pages of her new airline's SOPs on our ancient and slowly dying printer, supplementing the barely-legible pale ink with quite possibly the tiniest font size she could find ("cute, little SOPS are comforting", she explained when I raised my eyebrows quizzically), and was rhythmically cutting the pages into quarters to make little booklets to study in chunks.

Apparently unperturbed that -- a week before ground school -- she was still physically manipulating the SOPs rather than committing them to memory, her greatest concern at this point was how she could effectively and attractively bind her mini SOP booklet.

​I decided to make some tea.  It seemed the only possible way forward.

Several hours later, those of you who fly commercially will be relieved to know that this airline's newest pilot is now an eighth of the way through her cute little SOP booklet, and is taking only periodic breaks to consult aviation forums regarding working conditions for the competitor, and is even looking up some actual aviation terms and definitions.

Blue skies ahead!

One of the "perks" of my current job is that I get to travel, occasionally.  Nothing exotic, all provincial, but nevertheless, it's fun to interact with people in different contexts, and I also find that when spending time with my colleagues outside the office (e.g. at dinner near the hotel, etc.), I gain a better understanding of different pieces of the collective work we do. 

Plus, it's always great to be in the milieu of the various airports across the province, and see big planes up close!! 

That being said, there are times when the novelty wears off...

Work-Life Balance

A challenge when booking flights at the end of a day in the field is finding the balance of early enough to still get home to tuck the kids in (many of our locations are less than two hours away by plane) and late enough to allow for a sense of availability to the people we serve in the regions (i.e. not appearing to be desperately rushing to the airport to get out of there!)

On a recent trip to Sudbury, my colleagues and I took different approaches to this game:  Our "day" ended at 3:15, and the airport was a good half hour drive from the venue.  Nevertheless, some folks booked themselves onto the 4:05 p.m. Porter, thinking they would just compress lunch and leave the site early to get to the airport on time.

Others booked a 5:30 p.m. Air Canada, knowing that if they left the venue promptly at the end of our session, they would still make it to the airport in time to clear security before boarding started.  Still others booked the more conservative 6:40 p.m. Westjet, wanting to take into account possible driving delays due to the weather north of Toronto.

​What ensued felt a little like the amazing race, to see who could get home first... or at all, as it turned out!

Flexibility

As the day unfolded, we began to recognize the need to end a bit early, in order to accommodate participants who had driven in from North of Sudbury.  As flurries began falling outside, news of icy roads and accidents on the highways began to make people nervous.

In collaboration with our participants, we modified our lunch and break plans,  and ended the day in time to allow people who were driving to get a healthy head start.

Hitching a ride with some colleagues who were booked on the 4:05 p.m. Porter flight, I, too, fled to the airport. I was hoping to get into an earlier flight if possible, but failing that, I was prepared to do some work in the waiting area, as I had brought my laptop with me.

But as we stepped out of my colleague's rental car at the terminal, we suspected our journey home would not be as quick as we were hoping for: It was super icy and slippery, and also extremely windy!

Weather, Weather, Weather

As a private pilot, I know how significant a role weather can play on whether and when an aircraft can land or depart.

Sure enough, not long after checking in, the delays began to be announced.  First it was my Westjet, delayed from 6:40 to 7:20 p.m.  Frustrating, but understandable.  Next, the people I had been having an early supper with at the airport restaurant noted that their Air Canada flight, too, had been delayed, though not as much as the 4-o-clock Porter, which had not even landed yet (it was 4:45 at this point).

When we went downstairs so that my 5:30 friends could deal themselves into the security line game, we found out that both the Porter and the Air Canada had been circling overhead, waiting for the winds to calm down and for the runway to be cleared and sanded, so that they could land safely.

As my colleagues worked their way through security, I wandered over to the window to watch the proceedings.  The Air Canada landed, passengers disembarked, and the aircraft was fueled up and prepared for a quick turnaround.  A few grateful colleagues and other passengers scrambled aboard, and the plane soon departed. 

The 4-o-clock Porter, meanwhile, had turned back to Toronto! (We knew before the announcement was made, as another colleague was set to arrive on that flight, as she had some business in Sudbury the next day.) Apparently the winds had been too high to land safely, and the aircraft was returning to CYTZ for a crew change; they'd try Sudbury again later that night, around 9 p.m.  (It was now just after 6!)

Winning the Lottery

As my Porter colleagues came streaming out of the post-security waiting room to get dinner and settle in for a long evening, I reflected on how lucky I had been to be booked on the Westjet.  No sooner had that thought crossed my mind, however, when a  voice over the airport loudspeaker announced that the Westjet flight had been canceled.

Canceled!  Not further delayed, but completely C-A-N-C-E-L-E-D!!!

I wanted to cry!

Wandering over to the ticket counter, I ran into some other colleagues who had also been booked into that flight; they were just arriving at the airport, and thought I was joking when I greeted them with the news that their trip here had been in vain.

Another Night in Sudbury

The group of us got into the ticket counter line; a Westjet agent printed boarding passes for the 6 a.m. flight the next morning, and sent us on our way.

Back into a cab we climbed (this new group of colleagues were gracious enough to add me to their number), and back towards the hotel we had so recently left.

Happily, the hotel was able to accommodate us, and by a little after 8 p.m., we were tucked into our rooms for another night away from home.  I was pretty tired, so after logging into my work email to rearrange some morning meetings I'd no longer be able to attend in person, I crawled into bed, hoping for an early night (the alarm was set for 3:30 a.m., to make the 4 a.m. taxi back to the airport, and I wanted every second of sleep I could get!)

Alas, it seemed there was to be no rest for me: My room backed onto a church of some sort, and several large, deep bells rang loudly and distinctly every hour on the hour. 

When the church bells finally stopped at 10 p.m. (I guess the parish had determined that even the most devout ought to be granted a few hours of uninterrupted silence each night to sleep), I gratefully set out to get every minute of the approximately five hours that stood between me and the 3:30 a.m. wake-up call. 

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

As luck would have it, I appeared to be in a room next door to a particularly amorous couple, who were eagerly vocalizing their late night enjoyment of one another in the adjoining room.  Reticent to bang on the door and interrupt their Sudbury hotel tryst, I stuffed some earplugs into my ears, and attempted to block out the strange sounds next door.  They were VERY loud, though, even with earplugs in, and I was enormously grateful when the more noisy one of the two seemed to have been depleted somewhere around midnight, and I could finally sleep...

... for an hour and a half!!!

Shortly after 2 a.m., my insatiable roommates started up again!

This time I did bang on the door between the rooms, and they seemed to have gotten the hint, because after some giggling, things quieted down, and I was able to squeeze in another 45 minutes or so of sleep.

The Light in the Darkness

Too early the next morning, I joined my colleagues in the lobby -- it appeared they had all had far less eventful nights, having found their rooms to be in a quieter part of the hotel -- and we eagerly piled into yet another taxi for yet another drive to the airport!

It was pitch black out, even by the time we arrive at the terminal.  But out of the darkness there arose a bright light, and that light was our aircraft, prepared for departure.

Our fatigue not withstanding, we took comfort in the knowledge that we would soon be on our way home.

The Grass is Always Greener

After forcing myself to stay awake for a morning of meetings which I attended virtually when I arrived home, I cashed in some lieu time in the afternoon, and slept.  Without church bells or noisy "personal" sounds to interrupt me, I felt the luxury of a good chunk of sleep.

The following week, I shared my tale of woe with anyone who would listen and feel sorry for me; after all, even the delayed folks had gotten to go home the same night, albeit much later than anticipated.  And the others who had stayed had not been auditorily traumatized as had I!

But I soon met my match: A gal who had come off the twice delayed Porter aircraft that same night for an even the next day had ended up in the same hotel where I had stayed -- but she'd been assigned the wrong room by the not-so -helpful reception staff, and when she opened the door to her room upon arrival late that night, someone was already sleeping in the bed!!!

                                                             *          *          *
In the not-so-amazing race, it's not only time that counts, but also quality of delay.  Many points can be awarded for a wide variety of unique and exiting circumstances, keeping the work-travel game interesting and full of adventure, no matter when you may land or how mundane your travel destination may originally appear.

Lucky me!

Not only did I get to learn how to fly airplanes, but I got to learn at one of the most amazing airports in the world, City Centre.

As its name suggests, City Centre or CYTZ, is pretty much in the centre of the city of Toronto. Actually, more accurately, it's right in the centre of the city's waterfront.

That means, whether landing or departing, you always have the CN Tower, SkyDome, and other well known bits of the Toronto skyline in sight.

It also means getting to fly circuits along the edges of the Toronto Islands, one of my favourite places to be on the ground in this lakefront city that I call home.

I've romped around the beaches and paths of these islands since I was a toddler. But flying overhead gives one a new perspective, and every time I'm on downwind looking out the window when I should be doing my downwind checks, I fall in love with this richly historied urban treasure all over again, and I'm never quite sure whether I love it more from the ground or from the sky above!

Soon enough, though, I'm turning on base, and depending on whether it's runway 08 or 26, I've got a new set of landmarks to focus on: Ontario Place and the new Trillium Park on the one hand, and the ferry docks and Toronto harbour on the other, take centre stage as I reduce power, put down my flaps, and get ready to turn final.

It's kind of amazing, actually, that these old tin cans from the 60s and 70s even fly at all (I remember early on in my flight training, noticing a piece of what looked to be duct tape holding a bit of the empennage together; I was assured by my flight instructor that this was completely safe) -- indeed, the inner panel of these old 150s and 172's look more like something from an antique roadshow than modern machinery that can effectively defy gravity!

But somehow they do fly (even when imperfectly piloted). And soon I'm on short final, fiddling with attitude and airspeed to get just the right profile for the round out, flare and touchdown.

I know there are many amazing places to fly in the world, and the life of a pilot is the life of someone who constantly sees new landscapes. Nevertheless, for flying circuits, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a cooler spot to fly than city centre airport in Toronto, Ontario!

Flying commercially has presented a special thrill for as long as I can remember.

Everything from the view while boarding the aircraft, to the take off roll, to the spectacular cloud porn out the window at altitude gives me a feeling of excitement.