Made it Out, Eh?

The flight to Vancouver was only 50 minutes. I listened to music for most of the way, until we began our descent into Canada. Looking out my window, the biggest thing I noticed was how crystal clear and blue the water was in Seattle. As we started to land in Vancouver, I couldn’t help but notice the water was murky and brown.

I also noticed that the skyline of Vancouver was dotted with construction cranes. In Switzerland, Mary taught me that the number of cranes is a good indicator of how healthy the economy is. Vancouver must be doing okay.

When we landed, I was the last person off the plane. I got my backpack back from the planeside check cart and followed the crowd through a long hallway. We were led by signs that read “All Passengers” and had arrows pointing forward. The signs were all in English and French, which made me feel very international already.

I couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was. I know that America is known for being loud, but the silence was shocking. The only audible noise was the sound of carpet crunching under shoes and rolling suitcases.

We finally came to a fork in the hallway where “Arriving Passengers” were directed one way and “International Connections” were directed another. I noticed the kid in the green shirt who had been dropped off my his mother in-line back in Seattle was standing looking at the signs and at his boarding pass.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, in a voice that felt like a whisper.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he said. “I think I go this way?” he pointed in the direction of international connections.

“What’s your final destination?” I asked.

“Japan,” he said.

“Very cool!” I said. “Definitely this way then.”

We got on the escalator and road up.

“Is this your first time out of the country?” I asked.

“It is,” he said. “I’m really nervous.”

“I understand that,” I said. “I went to Europe for the first time last year and I was terrified.”

“Where are you going this time?” he asked.

“China,” I said.

“That’s cool,” he said. “For how long?”

“Ten weeks,” I said. “How about you?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he said, “but I’ll pretty much be there all summer.”

“What for?” I asked.

“An internship,” he said.

“That’s what I’m doing too,” I said.

“Oh cool!”

We found a line for customs that wrapped around the corner. I only had 30 minutes until my flight boarded.

“What time is your flight?” I asked.

“Like 11:45,” he said. He checked his boarding pass. That was when I noticed he only had one hand. “We board at 11:45. My flight is at 12:15.”

“I board in 30 minutes,” I said. “This could be a little close.”

“Oh yikes,” he said.

“Do you fly through Narita?” I asked.

“I do!” he said. “Have you been there?”

“No,” I said. “I just like to look at travel stuff.”

We talked a little more about school and majors and plans while abroad. As the clock ticked and the line seemed to stand still, I got more and more anxious.

An older man with a voice that sounded like John Goodman came through several times to hand out customs forms. On his third time through a young Asian girl asked him in a very soft voice, “I have 11:15 flight to Shanghai.”

“Oh geez,” he said. “You’re never going to make it.”

“Is that your flight?” the green shirted kid asked.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

The old man started to lead the young girl away.

“Excuse me,” I said, following him a little. “I’m on the same flight.”

“The 11:15 to Shanghai?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, showing him my boarding pass.

“Come with me,” he said.

I turned around. “Good luck!” I said to the kid back in line.

“You too!” he said. “I hope you make it.

The guy led me and the young girl past the entire line to where it apparently ended in another room. It however did not end, but instead began to snake several times through the room. He led us to the front of the line. The girl approached the customs agent first but she did not have a customs form. He gave her one to fill out and asked her to step aside.

I approached his counter next. He looked at my form, my passport, and at me. Stamping my form and handing my passport back to me, he said, “Have a nice day.”

As I walked past the check point, I heard the man in the green jacket corralling other passengers out of line who were on my flight as well.

I turned the corner and walked down a wooden staircase. At the bottom, I felt total déjà vu. It was as if I had walked into the food court of a mall. Large, duty free shops were all around a main sitting area. Tourists could by everything form maple syrup cookies, to Dior perfume, or full size Toblerone chocolate bars.

The tangible silence still surprised me. People were sitting in a central waiting area around departure boards, but their conversations were hushed and private. I walked to the departure board and looked for my gate. This time, I was out of D65. I saw a sign that read D63-D66.

Before I went down that hallway, I went over to the currency exchange.

“Excuse me,” I said, in my soft I-don’t-know-if-you-speak-English-or-not voice. The woman clearly assumed I didn’t speak English either because she assumed the same tone.

“Yes?” she asked.

I pulled out the Chinese currency I’d gotten from my bank. “Can I exchange this for change?”

“You want Canadian dollars?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “just smaller bills.”

She smiled. I think at this point she realized I spoke English because her accent disappeared. “We do not make change here, but the denominations you have are actually the most popular.”

“Oh thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Have fun in China!”

I briefly perused one of the duty free shops but I didn’t see anything I really wanted or needed. Walking back into the central area, I headed down the hall towards the sign. As I walked, there were more shops. Some sold jerseys for the world cup, others Canadian souvenirs.

As I passed one shop, a blonde woman with an Eastern European accent called out to me. “Welcome to Canada,” she said. “Care for a sample of Maple Syrup Whiskey?”

I shrugged. This whole alcohol thing never worked for me in Europe, but I was a little savvier now. And never been one to turn down maple flavored anything. “Sure!”

“And you are eighteen and legal to drink in Canada?” she asked.

“I am,” I said.

She handed me a tiny plastic cup with about a tablespoon of blonde liquid in it. As soon as it touched my lips, it burned. It burned my tongue, my throat, and even my sinuses. But it did taste kind of good.

“It has nice maple syrup finish,” she said.

“It is good,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy your time in Canada,” she said. All 45 minutes of it, I thought.

I found my gate and nearly started laughing. Nearly everyone sitting at the gate had two or three orange gift shop bags, stuffed with duty free purchases. I took a seat to reorient my things and confirm that I still had my wallet, cell phone, and passport. When I confirmed I did, I walked across the gate to one of the duty free shops.

After a few seconds of looking around, I found what I wanted: a Canada key chain. On a lot of the back packer’s blogs that I read, a tip for traveling abroad is to put a Canadian key chain on your back pack. Canadians do not have the same stereotypes of being loud, rich, and stupid that Americans do, so the theory is that I would be less of a target for pickpocketing or surveillance (even if it’s just urban legend, I now feel like part of the real backpackers club.)

I took the key chain to the counter to check out. The lady rung it up and gave me the price. It was then that I realized I didn’t have any Canadian money. Instead, I went to take out my debit card. Looking at my wallet, my heart stopped.

My debit card was gone.

So many four letter words raced through my head. I had no idea where I could have put it. Trying to stay calm, I pulled out my emergency credit card. The lady made a joke about something and I laughed politely, while in fact, my panicked brain did not comprehend a word she said.

As she ran the card and hit the buttons, I thumbed through the compartments of my wallet. I found my drivers license, my student ID, my international ID, all of my insurance cards…and there in the back was my debit card…”mis-filed” in the wrong section.

“Thank you,” the lady said as she handed back my card and receipt.

I smiled a beaming smile of relief. “Have a great day!” I said.

“You too,” she said.

I went to the gate and attached my new token to my back pack. Within a few minutes they started calling boarding zones. After all the first class passengers boarded, I was in the next group to board. I gathered my things, pulled out my visa, and went to get in line.