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Nothing in Ottawa seems particularly exotic to me anymore, but a collection of small details makes me pause for a moment—especially when I’ve gone 24 hours without sleeping in a bed. My mind may not fully register them, but my body does: the water pressure is stronger, door handles sit lower, and toilet seats are incredibly low. Why are toilet seats so low in North America? Or conversely, why are they so high in Europe? You might wonder. Ah yes, here I am, captivated by toilets once again…
Greetings from my Canadian life! We returned last Saturday, but the last four days have been a blur. I swapped my French lifestyle—temporarily left behind for a few weeks in China—back for my Canadian routine.
I feel a bit disoriented, perhaps. Definitely tired.
What were we doing last Thursday, again?
Oh right.
Packing in Nantes.
“Where should I put my dragon?”
“Your dragon? It goes in the Ziploc bag, alongside your other souvenirs from China. Where are your clothes?”
“Over there.”
“Why aren’t they on the bed? I told you to place EVERYTHING we need to pack on the bed! The dragon isn’t a priority! I don’t want to discover random items in your backpack when we go through security! What… what is that?”
“Eye drops.”
“They expired in 2022.”
“Oh right, Daddy mentioned that…”
“THROW IT AWAY! Mark, help me pack!”
“Can I take your Lord of the Rings book?”
“It’s a doorstopper! Oh, wait. Yes, go ahead. I’ll put it here between the jars of jam and the soap…”
Packing is always a hassle. Packing Mark adds an extra layer of difficulty, especially when trying to fit items brought back from China alongside essentials from France into two carry-ons, a small suitcase, and a backpack.
We didn’t sleep much since there’s no chance of a good night’s rest with an alarm ringing at 4:50 a.m. for a 5:59 a.m. train to Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was still pitch dark outside. I grabbed our sandwiches and luggage and hurried out—it felt like yanking off a bandage; it hurt less when done quickly.
Nantes is eerie at 5 a.m. The streets are deserted except for a few party-goers stumbling along the pavements or tottering out of nightclubs, plus a few dealers hanging around tram stops—none of them appear particularly threatening, yet Mark and I walked faster than usual.
Not that the train station felt any safer at that hour, though.
We boarded the train quickly, and I set my alarm for 8:50 a.m. The train would take us all the way to Brussels, but I wasn’t sure I had the energy to start another chapter of life in Belgium…
Mark fell asleep immediately, laughing in his dreams (I later learned he was dreaming about football, his latest passion). It took me a little longer to fall asleep, as loud conversations in Flemish are not the most soothing background noise, especially with very alert travelers around us.
Arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, we were on time and had three hours to wait. Mark enjoyed his last French sandwich while I indulged in a Coke Zero. After checking our luggage, we went through security.
Terminal 2E is quite nice and even has free PlayStation consoles, so I left Mark (“Please, I’m begging you!”) behind and strolled around.
Duty-free shops are amusing in their own right. Europeans stock up on cigarettes, North Americans on alcohol, and fancy travelers from India or the Middle East raid Prada or Dior, while the other passengers simply shrug, knowing that cigarettes, liquor, and fake designer goods are often cheaper back home.
At one point, a firetruck rushed in because a plane had caught fire.
I sighed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t our flight.
We managed to board on time.
I spent the 7.5-hour flight drifting in and out of sleep, but since I can’t recall much, I suppose I did manage to rest after all.
We finally landed.
I didn’t clap.
“How do you know each other?” the CBSA agent asked as I handed over our two Canadian passports.
“He’s my son!”
Mark burst into laughter afterward. “I’m your son? YOU NEVER TOLD ME!”
We waited ages for our bags because a dog needed to sniff every piece of luggage. I can’t fathom who would try to smuggle drugs into a country where cannabis is legal, where you can buy mushrooms in specialized stores, and where everything else is readily available.
Finally, we were free to go.
I’d better wear Mark’s red “CANADA” hoodie for a few more days to remind myself which life I’m currently living.
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