Nothing looks particularly exotic to me in Ottawa anymore but a series of tiny details make me pause for a split second, especially when I haven’t slept in a bed in 24 hours. My brain doesn’t even register them, but my body does—the water pressure is stronger, door handles are lower, and toilet seats are really low. Why are toilet seats so low in North America? Or why are they so high in Europe, you may ask? Sorry, here am I, fascinated by toilets again…

Hello from my other life, the Canadian one. We came back last Saturday but the past four days have been a blur. I traded my French life—you know, the life I traded for a few weeks of Chinese life—for my Canadian life, once again.

I’m a bit lost, maybe. I’m tired, definitely.

What were we doing last Thursday, already?

Oh yeah.

Packing in Nantes.

“Where do I put my dragon?”

“Your dragon? In the Ziploc bag, with your other souvenirs from China. Where are your clothes?”

“Over there.”

“Why aren’t they on the bed? I told you to put EVERYTHING we need to pack on the bed! The dragon isn’t a priority! I don’t want to find mysterious miscellanea in your backpack when we get through security! What… what is that?”

“Eye drops.”

“Expired in 2022.”

“Oh yeah, Daddy said something about that…”

“GARBAGE! Mark, help me pack!”

“Can I take your Lord of the Rings book?”

“It’s a doorstopper! Oh, wait. Yes, sure. I’m gonna put it here, between the jars of jam and the soap…”

Packing is always a chore. Packing Mark is a bigger chore, and trying to fit stuff brought back from China and essentials from France into two carry-ons, a small suitcase and a backpack is a giant chore.

We didn’t sleep much because there’s no way to get a good night’s sleep when the alarm rings at 4:50 a.m. to catch the 5:59 a.m. train to CDG Airport. It was still pitch dark outside. I grabbed our sandwiches, the luggage and rushed out—it’s like taking off a bandage, it hurt less when you yank it off.

Nantes is creepy at 5 a.m. The streets are empty except for a few party animals stumbling along the pavement or staggering out of nightclubs, plus a few dealers around the tramway stops—none of them look particularly menacing but Mark and I still walked faster than usual.

Not that the train station feels safer at this time of the morning, mind you.

We boarded the train pretty fast and I set my alarm for 8:50 a.m. The train was going all the way to Brussels, I wasn’t sure I had the energy to start yet another life in Belgium…

Mark fell asleep right away and he was laughing in his dreams (I asked later, apparently he was dreaming about football, his new passion). It took me a bit longer because loud conversations in Flemish aren’t exactly lullabies and we were surrounded by very awake travellers from Belgium.

Paris, Charles de Gaulle airport. We were on time, we had three hours to kill. Mark had his last French sandwich, I had a Coke Zero, we dropped off the luggage and went through security.

Terminal 2E is really nice and it comes with free PlayStation consoles, so I abandoned Mark (“Please, I’m begging you!”) and wandered around.

Duty-free shops are funny places. Europeans stock up on cigarettes, North Americans stock up on booze, posh travellers from India or the Middle East shop at Prada or Dior, and the rest of the passengers just shrug because cigarettes, alcohol and fake brands are much cheaper at home.

At one point, a firetruck showed up because a plane was catching on fire.

I sighed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t ours.

We even boarded on time.

I spent the 7.5-hour flight dozing on and off but since I don’t remember a thing, I guess I did sleep after all.

We landed.

I didn’t clap.

“How do you guys know each other?” the CBSA agent asked when I handed out our two Canadian passports.

“He’s my son!”

Mark couldn’t stop laughing afterwards. “I’m your son? YOU NEVER TOLD ME!”

We waited for the bags forever since a dog had to sniff every piece of luggage. I don’t know who would be stupid enough to bring drugs to a country where cannabis is legal, where you can buy mushrooms in dispensaries and anything else can be found very easily.

And then finally, we were free to go.

I’d better wear Mark’s red “CANADA” hoodie for a few more days just to remember which life I’m living, already.