Baggage

We've all got some. Mine's checked through to Stockholm

I’m writing this inaugural dispatch from my gate at Pearson Airport, Terminal 3. You must be thinking: but the lines… the lines! Thank you for your concern. I did spend all day refreshing the Pearson wait times website. The lines were very manageable — reminiscent of the lines I remember waiting in before the pandemic.

The longest line I waited in was the check-in/bag drop line. I have been doing so much packing over the last two weeks that, at this point, I have no idea what I even put in my suitcase. On Friday, I was on the road before dawn to go to a friend’s wedding in Connecticut, and last Tuesday, I moved out of my apartment and put most of my things in my mother’s garage.

And so, my ability to judge what’s important to bring and what’s foolish to lug around was not in its finest form. I arrived at the check-in counter, put my bag on the scale, and the attendant immediately laughed at me.

“You’re way over,” she said.

I spent the next 5 minutes frantically shoving as much as I could into my carry-on until my checked luggage was satisfactory. Maybe I didn’t need my business loungewear to remind me of home when I was feeling lonely, but it’s coming with me anyway.

Anyway, the point is: the lines were fine, it’s okay to get to Pearson three hours before your flight, instead of four.

The seeds of this trip were planted in a few different moments in my life. I’ve wanted to try living in a different city more or less since I finished undergrad eight years ago. There was always a reason not to — the biggest was money, but more practically, there was the question of what I would do, and what I was giving up by leaving.

In March of 2017, I was two years into a job in an industry I was excited by (film) but in a job I was not (office production assistant). I was also still sick from mono, which had plagued me since just after New Years. I woke up one morning feeling awful — like my muscles were weighted down with handbags, a thick, heavy fog blanketing my thoughts. I called into work with a migraine and pulled out my Tarot set, asking the cards: should I just quit my job and move to New Zealand for a year?

While I’m not sure which cards I pulled, I remember the reading: that I could go to New Zealand, but this kind of trip would be better to do later. There was more to do at home, first. A week later, I got into to the journalism program at Toronto Metropolitan (FKA Ryerson).

Okay, so that’s what I needed to do — get a Masters’ degree, get some work experience, and surely I could move to a new city with some skills that would help me out.

My plane is boarding, so I’m going to make this quick — fast forward, pandemic, and all of a sudden — all my work is remote! I become a freelancer! And moving somewhere else for a little while doesn’t seem so hard anymore. A year ago, we blew a fuse in my apartment when my roommate and I turned our portable air conditioners on at the same time, and that’s when I started looking at apartment rental prices in other cities. It’s not hard to get a better deal when your base line is Toronto.

Looking back, the real work that I had to do — beyond the practical work of building up my career and saving money — was the work of creating a life I wanted to come back to. If you’re reading this, there’s a very good chance that we are friends or family. I’ve had lots of big goodbye hugs over the past week — and whispers to come home and make sure if you fall in love it’s someone from Toronto or wants to move to Toronto or you have to leave them behind — and so I’m reminded of what we’ve built together over the last five years.

They’re calling my zone to board, and I have more carry-on luggage than I should. First I fly to Frankfurt, and then, Stockholm. I’m sorry I don’t have time to proofread this, or come up with a sign off. That will come in time.

I spent $11 on a fruit cup and yogurt in the airport. The melon tasted fermented. It was money poorly spent.

Yours,

Michal