Tales of a Mordenite (sort of?) in Poland (sort of?)

Can I be considered an honorary Mordenite? If so, this all makes sense.

Photo Credit: Wix

When we got word that my mother-in-law was planning to visit Canada—and this time bring my partner's 17-year-old cat with her—there was no way around it. We decided that someone would have to help her through this epic trek, and that that someone would be me.

So, after months of vaccinations, documentation, quarantine, a rabies antibody test, and Everything Else, Sonia (the cat) was ready to cross the border from Ukraine to Poland (and yes, the rest of the trip required so much less paperwork—but I'll get into that later).

We book the flights many months in advance. We make sure the cat is attached to every ticket. We even book the connections separately to make sure nothing goes wrong.

And then ... Air Canada goes on strike ...

[panic]

... and is forced back to work.

[panic averted]

Thank the travel gods.

Fast forward to ...

Friday 

Photo Credit: Wix

After a week of sleeplessness, early mornings, and the general chaos of trying to see both friends and family in a short amount of time, I find myself at Pearson yet again. But this time, I'm not flying to Morden. And, I'm at an odd, new, tiny, off-site Terminal, which I arrived at much too early, was told it's too early, and then re-arrived at a bit less early, but still with plenty of time, because I'm the kind of traveller who doesn't believe that their gate exists unless they physically see it with their eyes.

So that's that. I'm at the gate with a large number of morose Polish passengers—ok, some of whom are more good-natured than others, some of whom are Ukrainian, and some of whom are Israeli. Due to the large but inexhaustive smattering of languages at my disposal, I find myself helping translate for both Ukrainians and Israelis because some people need to sit down and can't find a spot together, and also there has been no announcement about zones, and no one knows what to do. All very amusing.

Fast forward to boarding ...

Uh oh, I can't lift my carry-on over my head. This is an international flight, and the compartments are so much higher than what I'm used to. I mean, I've lifted it, but it has accepted the fact of its gravitational pull, so it is now nearly on my head. I manage to pull it down unscathed and look around desperately for help. No one. Nothing. Ignorance is bliss for the many passengers around me. I look even more desperately at the lady in front of me (of the same tiny size), who (thankfully) offers help. She lifts the suitcase with such ease, that I wonder what I'm eating. Or what she's eating. Or whatever. Why do I have zero upper-body strength?

Anyway, I'm finally seated. Fast forward to the meal.

Oh boy. I should explain that, even under the best circumstances, I get acid reflux when eating at high altitudes. But under circumstances such as extremely spicy, not-Polish-at-all food, well ... I was dying. Correction: my medication didn't help, and I very nearly died of pain and discomfort.

Fast forward to sleep time. 

Well, there wasn't any (at least for me) because I'm incapable of sleeping on airplanes. So I spend the whole "night" tossing and turning upright in my seat, trying to calm a raging internal fire.

In the "morning," I chat with the Russian- and Ukrainian- speaking ladies next to me about their options for drinks and meals. And then about where in Canada their children live. And then about where in Ukraine they're from. And then about the fact that one of their grandchildren will surely be bilingual, even if sent to a daycare before they know their own native language, please do not worry.

Saturday

Photo Credit: Wix (what the hotel felt like)

 I'm exhausted when we land and also very hot because Warsaw is burning, humid insanity.

When I leave the airport, I see the hotel in front of me—the hotel where I'm supposed to have a few hours' rest while I wait for my mother-in-law, who is inevitably delayed at the Polish border.

So I see the hotel in front of me, and I desperately want to ... get to it. But I can't. I circle the building. Parking lot. I walk a bit further on. Parking lot. I take many steps back to try to spot the entrance from a distance. Parking lot. I don't understand. The hotel stands in front of me like some sort of impenetrable fortress, which is also surrounded by some invisible moat. No signs of direction, instruction, no arrows anywhere. I'm so exhausted, I'm near tears.

I approach a young airport attendee in a construction uniform. He's leaning against the building, smoking, gazing into the abyss. Out of the abyss comes a short, frustrated, red-faced little girl: "Excuse me, do you know where the entrance to that hotel is?" [points yonder].

He looks at me blankly, and, for a moment, I wonder whether he speaks English. He does, because after I repeat "that hotel?" and point yonder again, he tells me, casually, in totally normal English, "just go upstairs."

Huh?? I look around. 

"You mean, those stairs?" [to my left, which look like they're going back into the, umm, airport].

"Yes, go upstairs, and cross the street."

The fellow doesn't tell me to go inside and use the escalator for the same purpose, given that I have a carry-on, but that's ok, I'll forgive it. I interrupted his ... abyss.

So finally I'm checked in, showered, and resting.

In about 5 hours, I run over to the bus terminal (also at the airport) and sit down to wait.

A few people who hear me ask someone a question in English—not locals—ask if I'm local and know anything about the buses. I do not, but I find the language reversal amusing. I also have a little chat in Persian with an Iranian who has a Ukrainian wife and recently bought an apartment in Kyiv. He suggests an awful, lonely childhood in Europe after the Revolution of 1979, but he has made a good life for himself. He's smiling and in good spirits, as is his wife.

Finally, my mother-in-law arrives. She and the cat have been travelling for over 30 hours.

Sunday

We rested—or tried to rest—overnight. "Tried" because Sonia, the cat, is agitated from the journey and is constantly demanding of food and/or attention. Again, I barely slept, but, thankfully, my mother-in-law did.

We left Sunday afternoon. An 8.5-hour flight later, during which Sonia peed in her carrier (through the pee pads) and was shuttled back and forth between our two seats, we arrive in Toronto. 

Our first step is the Baggage Carousel. Next is Declarations, where I expect some questions from the officer about my mother-in-law's Canadian work permit, or visa, or anything at all. All the paperwork is in order. But what he asks about is my absence from Canada—why, and for how long. I explain.

Then he asks if we have any firearms with us. I laugh because the concept is so absurd (there is a senior next to me, and I myself have never even seen a gun in real life). Uh oh, did that arouse suspicion? Maybe I shouldn't have laughed? Maybe I should explain why I laughed? No, just say no. 

"No."

"Ok, do you have any animals with you?"

"Yes, a cat." I'm too tired to raise my arm and show him the carrier containing said cat.

Our next step is Customs, where the line is not too long, but the agents are painfully slow. I wonder if this is done on purpose to make people lose their nerve because I, the most patient person on earth, nearly do. There is a dog barking in a kennel in front of us, and I worry about Sonia, but she seems to be in better shape than we are, honestly.

At last, two more agents are added (because the number of people behind us has doubled), and we find ourselves suddenly approached by a screener at the front of the line. I prepare all the documentation, but all he needs to see is the rabies vaccination. That's it, we're free to go. We don't even speak to one of the four officers.

I nearly weep with relief.

We run to the Check-In desk, give them our luggage, go through Security (for the second time in less than 24 hours), find our Gate, and SIT.

And then I encountered the absolute worst moment of the entire trip, which wasn't my acid reflux, wasn't finding Sonia's poopies under the side table in the hotel (the portable litter box was useless), wasn't the Warsaw heat, wasn't the constant worry about my poor mother-in-law travelling alone by bus with an equally poor animal.

The worst moment was knowing that, after all that, we have to get on one more flight.

Arrivals

In the end, everything went smoothly, and my worst fears of encountering the dreaded "this cat is not attached to your ticket" situation were unfounded (maybe because we prepared for it so, so carefully, after reading thousands of Ukrainian horror stories).

The drive home was peaceful. Sonia demanded to be let out of the carrier, but fell asleep in my arms.

The challenging days of the cats getting used to each other are sort of behind us, since the hissing is now down to a minimum.

Although, judging by Oreo's face ... his new housemate still gets a bit too close to his belongings.