Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Military time vs. Real time: Lessons in love and patience

DAY ONE: Tuesday, June 8, 2010

We would have been in Paris two days ago except for some uncertain turns of events. I insisted that 20:35 hours is 10:35 p.m., Eastern time. It was also the time when my husband Joe decided he would not argue with me unnecessarily. He had told me that from his calculation of military time, 20:35 hours was 8:35 p.m., Eastern time.

But I had stuck with my flawed sense of time and insisted that I was correct, and Joe for once (even with his doubts) agreed with me, and so we decided we should leave for Pearson International Airport at 7 p.m. and be there three (3) hours ahead of our scheduled departure. We said our goodbyes to our youngest daughter Rani, who’s recuperating from an injury, and her friend Polina, who was visiting last Sunday, and my daughter’s dog, Onegin.

Onegin, my daughter's Golden Retriever.

We were all set. Joe had cooked a dozen dinners for our daughter. We had stocked our fridge with enough food to last for a month, as well as lined our larder with tins of corned beef and tuna to make sure that our youngest would be well fed while we were away.

For a week.

The third of our four daughters, Isobel, was the reason we were going to Paris. She will be graduating from her MBA class at HEC Paris School of Management in Jouy-en-Josas on Friday, June 11. We had failed to attend her graduation from McGill University some years ago; we could not again disappoint her by not sharing another important milestone in her life.

By 7:30 p.m, we were lining up for the check-in counter at Pearson Airport. The friendly Air Canada agent who tried to help told us that we were an hour late. And no, there were no 10:35 p.m. flights. The plane was leaving at 8:30 p.m. We had to change our flights, and the only available flight would be two days later, or Tuesday, June 8.

We had to bite the bullet. Joe, who’s the king of impatience, took it in stride. We had taken a taxi ride to the airport. The next prudent thing to do, he advised, was to take The Rocket or the TTC subway (and save money) to get back home. He did not mind carrying our one huge piece of luggage to the bus stop, and down the subway elevator at Kipling Station. From Pape Station, we took a taxi for the short trip home. Joe joked that he would hide inside the house the next day to keep himself from being seen by our neighbours while I kept ruing my huge mistake, trying to put back the blame on Joe, gently chiding him for not arguing back with me. All these years we had debated to the littlest detail. And now when he decides to give up arguing, I am the one begging him to give me back the old Joe. You (meaning him) can't win, he gripes.

We were back from Paris/Pearson in a jiffy, and to the reassuring words of our daughter not to worry, that everything would be fine, we would be in Paris on Tuesday.

At 3 p.m. today, Tuesday, June 8, we will take a taxi to Greenwood Station and then take the subway to the airport.

Destination: Paris, France.