Air Canada

Old phone box with kids, Birling Gap, E. Sussex

I indulged in a madcap, last-minute, too-brief visit to England last week, timed to attend a bat mitzvah. Apologies and regrets to all the friends I did not see; I spent my few days catching people I'd missed on last summer's trip, in between attending the festivities that formed the reason for my trip. Every minute was packed, either with plans for myself or those for daughter, who accompanied me. Only after she and I had passed through the (bizarrely) rapid check-in and security at Heathrow, ready for our flight back to Toronto, did I sit back and breathe slowly. I watched my child zigzag across the shopping mall known as Terminal 3 in a determined quest for PokemonGo quarry. As ever, in that liminal zone, I contemplated my imminent departure, and wondered whether I was leaving home or heading toward it. 

Normally I'm no fan of flying-- every turbulent bump sends my heart racing-- but as we boarded our Air Canada flight from Heathrow for Toronto, and settled into our upholstered capsules, I welcomed the opportunity to sit still, read, watch a film (*Sicario*. Good. Brutal), dole out 'lift-off' sweets to daughter, play games, and think about where I felt least foreign: Canada or the UK. Maybe travelling between the two was my true home. I tightened my seatbelt, accepted a chewy Haribo in preparation for take-off. But wait. Before we could complete a game of Hangman on the seatback screen, of course, we had to watch the safety video. And right there, right then, on the tarmac at Heathrow, I knew I was already back in Canada. 

The small glass square showed a smiling pair of men, their romantic connection signified by the fact that they have a row of three seats to themselves yet choose to sit next to each other. The one in the middle wears a cardigan, another clue to his sexuality. They demonstrate how to buckle seat belts. Next up, a South Asian woman wearing a sari and with a bindi on her forehead smiles broadly as she puts on a canary-yellow oxygen mask and then applies one to the pony-tailed smiling little girl sitting next to her. A besuited white business man frowns as he stows his screen in his wide business class seat (the kind that slip into the arm-rest: way posh). A slim, chic east Asian woman in a pencil skirt and buttoned white blouse carefully studies the laminated floor-plan of the plane, memorizing the location of the overwing doors. A stylish blonde woman in the emergency exit row nods in agreement as a disembodied hand points out the opening mechanism, and not to be outdone, a very handsome, vaguely dark-skinned man of unidentifiable ethnic background(s) and dashing five o'clock shadow smiles delightedly before adopting the 'brace' position.  

Yes, it's Canada. Diverse, tolerant, inclusive. Toto, we're not in England anymore, certainly not with its Brexit-endorsed outbreak of xenophobia and isolationism. Nor are we in the USA, Trumpeting its disdain for Hispanics and Muslims. We are going home, and, right now, it's a home I feel proud to claim.

Being a true curdmudgeon, however, I do have a few objections to the airlines' portrayal of Canada and Canadians. They are as follows: 1) I adore my husband but if given the option to have an extra seat space between us on a flight, I would so take advantage; 2) it's bloody uncomfortable to have your hair in a pony-tail on an airplane because you can't lean back, poor child; 3) except for these few shiny and cheerful good Samaritans, the flight is empty and spacious (on second thought, this may in fact reflect Canada quite well-- just not Toronto); and, finally, finally 4) no one, not even a Canadian with plenty of legroom, would be calm and smiling in a situation requiring an oxygen mask.

Unless social justice, inclusion, and diversity are antidotes to gravity, as well as to misery? 

In any case, it was a serene flight, not an eddy or a bounce, until we landed in Toronto. And if anyone is interested, daughter is currently at Level 7 of Pokemon Go. I'm so proud.

Commencement

My son has become something he never would have managed to be had we stayed in England: a high-school graduate. Like his mother.

In England there is no such status; exams are passed, or not, and kids celebrate, or sulk. In Canada, as in the US, high-school graduation-- also called, oddly, commencement-- is a near-universal rite of passage, accompanied by much pomp and circumstance. I remember my own graduation ceremony, held outdoors on the school's shadeless football field at summer solstice, in Southern California. We wore tank tops and shorts beneath our polyester gowns and sat, sweating and thirsty, while 1095 (why do I remember that number?) students took turns marching to the stage. El Camino Real High School, where I attended grades 10 through 12, had  3500 kids. No one thought this either unusually large or in any way undesirable. My sons' high school, Ursula Franklin Academy, grades 9 to 12 has about 500 kids. It's the largest institution our kids have ever attended.

UFA's ceremony took place in a large, nicely temperate auditorium, with plenty of room for families and friends of the 125 graduating students. The girls wore summery dresses under their gowns, and the boys, for the most part, shirts and ties (and trousers). I admit to shedding the odd tear, but truly husband and I enjoyed the whole thing tremendously: the playing of Pomp and Circumstance (of course), the flock of black robes and sea of mortarboards, the good-hearted speeches (Dr. Ursula Franklin sent a personal message), the suspense of the awards (there were many; son received enough to make us beam, in particular 'The Socratic Thinker Award', which I have renamed his 'License to Argue' medal). We were treated to an excellent musical interlude on the cello by son's super-talented friend, and then a magic show by another boy in which the trick worked (almost) perfectly. There was the time-honored Tassel Ceremony, in which the tassels on the mortarboards are flicked in unison from the left side to the right, signifying the graduates' new status. There was posing for photos with endless configurations of friends and relatives and strangers (again, ma'am, very sorry, I deleted it, honest).

Afterward we went to Fran's Diner, our family's first-ever restaurant in Toronto, situated next to the hotel where we stayed seven years ago. The university had flown us from Brighton to visit this flat and landlocked city in the northern country that might become our home. Lucky for them, the gamble paid off, and a year later we made the move. There were of course other factors influencing our decision, but Fran's played its part. In addition to its great burgers, it stays open 24 hours-- unlike anywhere in Brighton. And even with only 125 kids, graduation lasted well late. Dining out at midnight in Hove? I think not.

So, the boy's school days are done, and the next stage begins. Our young man has decided to head west, to the University of British Columbia, where he will be one of forty-two thousand other students. A big pond. A few years from now, that is a graduation that may take some time. I wonder if there's a Fran's in Vancouver.