It was Friday … about three weeks ago.
Not your typical Friday though — Nostalgia, Milady and I took a trip to the aeroport with Junior to pick up his “Miss.”
Showing up 45minutes before her arrival, we found a parking stall with little problem.
Wandering around inside like a quartet of tourists, we eventually located the terminal arrival screens and argued as to exactly which gate Junior’s “Miss” would be deplaning from.
There are only five gates at the aeroport: A, B, C, D and E, where “E” is reserved for international flights; but there are over 16 carousels.
“She’ll be here around 17.17 at gate B,” I read aloud. “And her bags will ride carousel 16.”
MiLady looked around the lower concourse, her eyes focusing on a gate across the way.
(Is this is where I mention discreetly it was the wrong gate she was staring at 😉
Junior looked out of place in the middle of the large expanse of floor. Carousels to his left and right. Two escalators and a large, wide staircase sat in front of him, while four large terminal screens hovered behind him. Travellers bustled in all directions around him.
It was strange to watch my son through it all. He stood like a Pacific coast totempole in British Columbia, towering over everyone. Impressive and immovable.
Nostalgia was her typical self — chatty … Annoyingly chatty.
“There is nowhere to sit down,” she screeched before pointing back from where we came. “Unless we go waaayyy over there!”
Junior stood silent.
MiLady and I turned and reviewed the screens. We still had a 20minute wait. Flights from the American mid-west and west coast had arrived early, as did a couple flights from the northern quarter of our Wild Rose province.
“One flight has been delayed thirty minutes,” Nostalgia announced.
Junior scrambled and looked at the terminals wide-eyed.
“Not hers, Sweetie,” MiLady said to him calmly. “She’s still on time.”
My son relaxed and in three strides was back to his sentry spot in the middle of the floor.
Three more flights came and went before the clock finally flipped to 17:17
In one flowing move, we all turned towards the staircase and escalators and waited.
Nostalgia was first to break the silence.
“I knew it, I knew it!” she wailed, “She’s not coming!”
“Gia!” I growled under my breath, “Shut up!”
“The poor dear,” she continued, pointing at my oldest son.
I looked at Junior, still standing in place with his arms folded across his chest. Staring down the emptiness.
“I doubt her plane is at the top of the staircase,” MiLady implied, directing her comments to Nostalgia, who slowly got the hint.
“Dear’st,” I then called to my soulmate. “Look!”
As a thick and noisy gaggle of travellers came down to the lower concourse, Junior craned his neck to get a better look up the staircase and escalators, then bolted like a hunter’s dog flushing out a grouse in marsh reeds.
“Where did he go?” MiLady asked, too short to see over the exodus of travellers.
“Over there!” I pointed off to the left.
After a tender moment, Junior came back proudly with his shy girl in tow.
“Oh,” Gia commented quietly behind us. “She’s tall too.”
After introductions, it was evident: Junior’s “Miss” was terrified!
I leaned in and apologized to the poor girl telling her not to worry. Nostalgia normally has this effect on people.