Mother Nature sure didn’t disappoint.  

Went to bed last night and the city was bare; woke up earlier than usual to find everything covered in a fluffy, pristine, thick layer of snow.  There is honestly something magical when this happens, especially when it’s relatively new for your Pacific Northwest winter experiences.  I suppose this is going to be what Vancouver deals with every year from now on, and I suppose we’re still going to be a nationwide laughingstock every single time it happens.  

Whatever, man.  It’s not like we have the infrastructure to deal with sub-zero snowstorms or blazing heat.  We’ll have to make do for now.  And by “make do,” I mean that the bike paths were cleared this morning, and the actual roads were not–a remnant of our peculiar, Clark Kent-esque former mayor Gregor Robertson.  

I made it into work because, honestly, what am I going to do?  Sit around my apartment?  Besides, I can walk to my job.  There’s no excuse for gorging myself silly on wine gums and watching obese, psychotic people debase themselves for YouTube shekels; I do enough of that as it is.  The walk here was serene, tranquil, beautiful, and among the most peaceful I’ve had in a very long time.  I was on snowman watch (only three by my count), and the dogs–of which there are hundreds in the West End–could not have had a more thrilling adventure in this early-morning, undisturbed landscape.  One giant Labradoodle lost his entire mind and did a flawless Usain Bolt down the pathway, not knowing how to deal with such intense sensory input.  He appeared to be racing towards me, but instead, screeched to a very minor halt at my feet and then simply kept sprinting for the supernova, for eternity.

“JAAAAAAAAACK!” screamed his owner.  It was the sort of bloodcurdling noise you’d hear if the dog had been hit by a car, and it was, quite frankly, hilarious.  “JACK!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING JACK YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT JACK!  JACK!  JACK COME BACK HERE OH MY GOD JACK!”  Jack could not have given any less of a damn.  Jack was skidding and gamboling and dashing and panting and ready to conquer the event horizon, running clean past everyone and everything and heading for what must surely be canine glory.  

I mean, a leash would have prevented this pooch from a full gallop, wouldn’t it?  But Jack was tasting true liberty as though it were a fleshy bone, and he wasn’t about to let go of his moment.  Watching this whole scenario unfold–with the wailing owner and the freedom-bound pooch–I understood the dog entirely, and I don’t particularly understand dogs.

* * * * *

I was thinking about the writing I’d like to post on here, and how essential it is to get back to the headspace I occupied when I was much younger and had at least two blogs going at the same time: I didn’t dwell on it too much, I just did it.  As I continue to outline and blueprint my book–this is going to be a huge undertaking, but it will be a labour of love and a lifelong goal finally realized–I need to also be sure that my voice and content are properly fleshed out.  I was going back through some of my older pieces, things that I still have saved, and came across a very long one that was written for my ex immediately after I’d visited him abroad for the first time (we were still only pals at that point) and COVID was wrapping up.  

However, it wasn’t wrapping up nearly as tidily as it could have.  But then again, what possible chance was there of that ever happening?  2020 – 2022 was the most disorganized, disturbing, dysfunctional, and disinformation-peddling epoch in recent memory, and abruptly bringing it to a halt after pumping a nonstop diet of fear and paranoia into the public wasn’t going to be a simple task.  It was difficult during that time to locate people you could communicate openly and honestly with about your feelings; it was like some pandemic McCarthyism at play, where anyone who questioned the global narrative–didn’t have to dissent or disagree, just applied critical thought–was considered a menace and danger to society, richly deserving of pariah status at best, death from their own ignorance at worst.  I was once called a cunt at the supermarket by a short, rude, squat fellow wearing what appeared to be a WW2 gas mask, all because I wasn’t wearing a face covering myself (this was even before they were strictly mandatory).  

So when I was flying back from the UK during spring of 2022, masks by that point were no longer required (at my place of work, anyway) as of March 11, two years to the very day that COVID was announced to be a pandemic by the WHO. Not a day more, not a day less.  We still had to wear them on the planes and at the airport, because…because we just did, for some reason.  No problem, Justin.  I knew with total confidence and calm that wearing a disposable Chinese paper mask would absolutely shield me from any health atrocities as I sat half an inch from a complete stranger in an air-pressurized metal tube seven miles above the planet.   

I also knew that Pearson Airport in Toronto wasn’t the most organized of hubs, but I had absolutely no idea just how very bad it was going to be on my way back to Vancouver.  After my experience, I furiously looked up other people’s online reports of their own adventures in nonsensical purgatory at Pearson–there were several bewildered accounts that surpassed my own in terms of ridiculousness–and then clacked out the following to my ex, which I’m still not sure he ever read beyond mere skimming: 

[I’ll probably post this in two separate entries, as it is quite long, but it’s a great snapshot of where the country was in 2022.  Feels like a blink ago, but at the same time, like an entirely different world altogether…]

THE PEARSON AIRPORT SOUL ANNIHILATION DISASTER STREAM: PART ONE

April 2022

…so let’s finally get to that crucible, shall we?  It was an ordeal I wasn’t expecting and which nearly sent me to one of the airport bars.  Well, maybe not, but by the time I was sprinting to my gate (despite having a two-hour layover…one that was crammed full of indignities and empty, performative rituals, which I’m getting to, I promise) I glanced over at some establishment and thought how my nerves could really be calmed down with just a shot or two of something.  Anything. Even a wine cooler. And my mind really doesn’t go in that direction anymore.  One drink–even just one drop of ethanol in my bloodstream–immediately turns the spigot of obsession on, full-blast, and in short order I’d be in the hole again, worse than ever.  I can never, ever have even a single drink again.  

Bit of context for my outrage: 

When I was flying out of Vancouver and had to do the retarded security scan bit–shoes off, stepping into a machine, carry-on and electronics in a plastic tub, etc.–I told the employees in charge of this nonsense that my connection in Toronto was a mere 45 minutes after I landed, and I was concerned enough about running out of time to make my second plane to London; would I seriously have to go through this security / screening bit again?!

“No, no,” they said.  “First of all, that should be enough time to make your connection.  The airlines are good about that.  Second, so long as you don’t leave the airport or anything, or go outside for any reason, you won’t have to do this again.  Stay in the airport, go straight to your gate, make your domestic transfer, and you’re fine.  Don’t worry about it,” I was assured.  

And that’s exactly what happened on my way to England.  There were quite a few of us on the Vancouver to Toronto flight who needed to transfer to the same plane to Gatwick, so they announced before landing in TO that anyone who needed to make that London flight had de-boarding priority (or whatever the verb is).  About a dozen of us got off the plane first, walked to the nearby gate, and joined the crowd there to get onto the flight to Gatwick.  It was seamless, it was easy, there were minutes to spare, and there was zero hassle.  

So given this fairly stress-free experience at Pearson going to Gatwick, I expected the same process heading back, except not quite as squeezed for time.  I noted that I had about two hours to make my connection, so I didn’t break a sweat at all.  The only thing vaguely on my mind, really, was whether the baggage handlers would get my suitcases onto the right plane to YVR; the one I bought in Darlington had no name tag on it, so if it went to the wrong place, it would be quite a challenge to track down.  Apart from that, I relaxed in spite of my oncoming cold, thinking I could wander Pearson Airport, grab a coffee or two, maybe find a salad from somewhere, chill out at the gate, write in my journal, flip through my vintage Penthouse mag, and that would be that.

THAT WAS NOT THAT.

The moment I got off the plane at Pearson and started following the signs saying ‘CONNECTIONS / BAGGAGE CLAIM,’ something felt very off.  I wasn’t just walking to my gate; in fact, there were no giant digital screens displaying any flights at all.  It was just silently, obediently following the leader, the guy in the sports-team ball cap and the Arc’Teryx jacket who was the first one off the plane. 

Some kind of ancient, self-preservation instinct kicked in and I had this feeling that I wasn’t simply walking to my gate.  I had this feeling that the next couple of hours were going to be fraught with some kind of “Blade Runner”-esque obstacle course.  And I was absolutely, completely correct.

We all turned a corner, and there it was: A giant, pulsating, horrifying room full of machines and people and queues and noise, and a woman barking the words “FIND A MACHINE THAT HAS A GREEN LIGHT, PLEASE.  TRY TO FIND ONE ON THIS SIDE [gesturing with both arms to my left] PLEASE.  GREEN LIGHT.  HAVE PASSPORT AND BOARDING PASS.”  

I noticed people at these machines–my God, there must have been like two or three hundred of them–finishing up whatever it was we all had to do there, pushing buttons and solemnly posing for pictures at the built-in cameras in these stations, and yet still joining a long, snaking queue off to the side that led to I Don’t Even Know Where.

What…on earth…was all this?

…so there we were.  All of us herded into a giant room full of bizarre machines in multiple rows, all of them side-by-side and back-to-back, people rushing towards whichever ones were free (indicated by the green light that the yelping woman kept mentioning), posed before them with determined faces as they worked their way through whichever tasks were being asked of them, like this was some kind of slot-machine wonderland of the damned.  I heaved one of many gigantic sighs–if emphatically sighing were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist many times over–and found a green-lit station off to the side where she kept telling people to go.  

There had to be hundreds of people in this room using these machines.  Hundreds.

I found a free one, and predictably, it asked me to scan my passport.  FINE.  Then I confirmed my flight info and some to-and-fro details.  SURE.  Then the instructions to “Look directly at the camera.”

Camera?  

Photo?

I didn’t sign up for this.  Not only that, I hadn’t heard of anything regarding what I was experiencing.  What was this?  No, seriously.  What in the name of christendom was this procedure we were having to endure?  And more importantly, why was this?  

And was this some kind of standard op procedure at all airports now?  

Was it only for arrivals?  

All arrivals, or just international?  

Were there any departing passengers here?  

If I was just making a connection, why was I going through this?  

What if I had only had forty-five minutes, like my flight going into England?  

And why, in all of my exasperating research about what to expect with international travel to date, had I never encountered a single piece of information about whatever these machines were, and what their purpose was?

There was a lens directly above me.  I stared into it.  Nothing.  I kept staring.  Still nothing.  I rolled my eyes to the heavens.  Again, nothing.  I glared into it as menacingly as possible.  It didn’t take the bait.  Finally, I deliberately made a contorted face like a taunted, ticked-off bull–arched eyebrows, flared nostrils, curled upper lip–and wouldn’t you know it?  It took my picture.  

‘TAKE YOUR RECEIPT,” it said on the screen as a large piece of paper was spat out.  I don’t know what it said, but I can tell you that my hideous picture was right at the top of it. Faint, poor in quality, and lightly printed in black-and-white ink, but most definitely a gargoyle version of the otherwise adorable Nadz Vera.  I was somewhat pleased, thinking that if this mysterious machine was going to use any photo of me as some kind of permanent international visual record of my appearance, it would be this unrecognizably awful snap of my visage.  

Then I had to walk back around clusters of these machines to join the back of an endless, unbelievably long snaking queue that moved forward at a steady clip.  There was still no signage indicating where we were or what we were doing or why.  We just had to follow the instructions of the few employees stationed around, guiding people either to a machine or to the lineup.  

Someone with a thick French accent said to their partner, ‘Wait, we…still ‘ave to stand ‘ere?  Even after doing all zat wiss our passport and picture?”  They were saying what everyone else was thinking, and which the Canadians were accepting with silence and well-trained obeisance.  We shuffled forward, forward, curving around and around, and I took advantage of being in Canada to use my phone plan without extra charges and open YouTube so I coukd catch up on the very disturbing Foodie Beauty and her adventures in cheese fries. 

I eventually got to a point where I could see where we were all headed, which appeared to be several booths with people (border guards?  Clerks?) sitting in them, uttering just a few words to each person and then waving them through.

After something like fifteen minutes of this lineup, I was motioned ahead to a young man who asked to see my passport and receipt.  I presented him with both and joked, “Hot pic, isn’t it?”

He glanced at it and I managed to get a half-smile out of him.

Then I said, “Look, I…I have no idea what all of this is, but I really need to make my connection back to Vancouver.  Where do I go?”

He looked at me sheepishly and said, “Well, you’ve…uh, you’ve been randomly selected to do a COVID test.”  He pasted some hot-pink sticker onto the back of my passport that had some numbers and letters on it and gave it back to me.  

“What?  A COVID test?!”

“Yep.”  

“But I have to make my connection!”

“Just go behind me and follow the signs and they’ll probably scoot you in before other people if you have to catch another flight.”

“I don’t believe this!”  I exclaimed.  “Maybe it’s because I made that face at the camera.  Maybe this is some kind of retribution by the machine.”

He smiled.  “Naw.  In fact, something like forty percent of all passengers are getting randomly picked to do this right now.”

“Forty percent!”

“Yep.”

I stared at the ceiling. “I am so over this shit I am so over this shit I am so OVER THIS SHIT.”

He nodded and said, entirely earnestly, “I know.  So am I, believe me.  So am I.”  For about five seconds, we understood each other and what a nightmare we were all forced to live in.  

Heaving another Michael Phelps-worthy sigh, I sailed past him and followed the arrows that said “CONNECTIONS.”  There was fuck-all for signage indicating where these dadblasted COVID tests were taking place (you reckon there would be arrows, diagrams, floor plans, and flashing lights telling you all of this) so I kept stopping and asking anyone who looked like an airport employee where, exactly, the hell I was supposed to be going.  

“Keep going and then take a right past the brown sign,” was the clearest instruction I received.  It was an area with roped-off entrances and exits telling of nothing, and the “brown sign” was the particle-board backside of a standalone flimsy tan-coloured thing.  I ducked past it, looked to my right, saw nothing about COVID tests, and said out loud to nobody in particular, “WHAT???”

Someone heard me hollering in extreme irritation and came up to my side.  I told them I was being forced to do a COVID test and had no idea where, really, I was supposed to be going, and that if this was mandatory for so many thousands of passengers every single day, they might want to think about things like signage, pathways, and visual guides.  

I can’t really explain or describe to you how unclear, unprofessional, fly-by-night, and amateurish this entire rigamarole was, and I don’t really want to, so hopefully I’m getting it across.

“Just go over there, go over there to stall number one,” this person said.  I saw a few claptrap tables several feet ahead of me that weren’t even correctly marked with numbers; I was apparently standing behind stall number two for an entire minute–even though it had a number one on it–before this same person approached me and said, “You’re waiting for stall number two.  Number one is right here,” and pointed next to it.  I did not see a number one anywhere.

Trying very, very, very hard to maintain politeness with the young woman at this stall (I knew none of this was her choice), I said, “Hi.  I was apparently selected to do a random COVID test.  I need to catch my connection to Vancouver really soon.”

She said, “Oh, okay.  Do you have your Switch Health account?”

“…my what?”

“The Switch Health app.  To do this test.”

Nadz, you’re a tough broad.  You can keep your cool.  You must keep your cool.  You will not snap, cuss, lose it, or cry.   I said evenly, “I was selected randomly just now.  I have no idea what that is.  Why would I have an app to–“

“That’s okay, that’s okay.  I can set it up for you.”

I was steadily approaching the threshold where the absolutely unbelievable becomes credulous; normal, in fact.  After all that was done, and I got a confirmation email saying my account was set up, my passport was once again consulted, some info was entered into somewhere, she asked which country I was coming from, and as she put my COVID testing kit together, a girl standing beside me going through the same thing looked at me and said, “Did you just come from London?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.  Every time I come from there I have to go through something like this.  Every time.”  Her eyes were haunted.  Both of us exchanged a psychic thought that maybe this was intentionally targeting people who were coming from the UK, for reasons I’m not politically-oriented enough to understand just yet.  

Finally, I was given a small baggie with a plastic tube and swab and told to go to yet another area with multiple tables–a nurse’s station–and go to table #3.  This time, the numerical signage was clear.  The nurse administering my COVID test was so young and enthusiastic, I felt awful, and really put a lid on the simmering fury that was in my head and heart by this point.

“Is this the shitty test, with the swab going right up into my brain?”  I asked, worried.  I’ve had to do that one before.  There’s no preparing for it or getting used to it; it’s the most unpleasant thing I’ve probably ever endured, and I once had to deal with [I deleted this info because nobody in my family needs to read it]

“Nope, just the regular nasal swab.  And you’ll get your results emailed to you within three to five days,so you don’t have to wait around for results,” she chirped back.  

Whoa.  Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Now, THIS was needle-scratching-across-the-record shit.  What?  

So I had to do this COVID test, but I was still allowed to get on the plane, possibly bursting at the seams with COVID, stuck on a plane with other passengers, infecting the heck out of everyone in the process, go back to my home country as carefree as you please, move along with my life, and wait for the results?  

To be continued…

(Reach me at nadya@nadzvera.com)