It always starts with some serious Tetris packing skills, weird random questions about my other life thousands of kilometres away (“Did I wash my bedsheets before leaving in December?”), a last Skype call (literally this time, since Microsoft is shutting down Skype), a mini existential crisis, a very short night, and a 5 a.m. walk across Nantes to the train station.

The castle looks very, very creepy at night. The only bright lights come from the dungeon.

I made it to the train station in 25 minutes, which is pretty fast considering my 21.5-kilo backpack, an 8-kilo daypack, and a two-hour night’s sleep. It took me several attempts to pack properly this time because I had to fit my South American gear plus a mix of essentials bought in France. I closed the last strap on my bag hoping border services wouldn’t select me for a random inspection—it can be complicated to explain my lifestyle, travel choices, let alone why a pink latex Carnival skirt is padding coffee and Easter chocolate.

I sat on the train and set up my alarm for 8:54 a.m. The 5:59 a.m. train goes all the way to Brussels. No plain Belgium fries for me, I had a plane ticket for the land of poutine, so I had to get off quickly at Charles de Gaulle TGV.

I slept for most of the ride and arrived absolutely not refreshed in Paris’ busiest airport. At least I know my way around by now—Terminal 2E, luggage drop off, immigration, security, and one of the lovely bright halls. This time, I waited in hall L, wandering around between giant stuffed Ratatouille toys and fancy haute couture stores.

Every ten minutes or so, a calm, soothing voice was announcing the current terrorism threat level was high and that everyone should be careful. The “Urgence attentat” message was in French only. Apparently, we can’t count on foreigners to help out when an act of terrorism is highly likely. Mind you, I wouldn’t bet on French reactiveness either—nobody seemed to be paying attention to the recording, probably because the government has been maintaining a 3-level public alert system for years.

Waiting for a flight is very, very boring. There was brief excitement when the Air France flight to Ottawa, scheduled at gate L49, was switched to gate L53, which was originally the gate for the Dubai flight. Ensued a mildly amusing hour-long scene of “I’m not flying to Dubai, what’s going on?” and “I’m not flying to Ottawa, where do I go?”

The flight was more or less on time—I told you, it was a very boring day, travel-wise. The passengers were half-retired Ottawa public servants who had just taken a week off in Europe and Canadians with roots somewhere else visiting family.

My row was the latter. The woman beside me, who hailed from Germany, was on the brink of tears. “I’ve been living in Ottawa for three years… I don’t like it, but what can I do?

I could have suggested that she move elsewhere, but I’m sure she thought of that. Life is rarely this simple and there’s always a story behind why we live where we live.

I mean, who was I to give advice? I was on the verge of tears myself. I just nodded when she described Ottawa—”There are streets but nobody around!”

“It’s… quite boring these days,” Feng had told me just a couple of days earlier. “And it’s cold. Like, it feels like March. But at least, prices didn’t go up too much… yet.”

“You’re really selling me the dream!”

“Bring the weather with you. And maybe some chocolate,” he added as an afterthought. “It got really expensive here.”

I hesitated between giving in to tears or watching stupid movies—I went with the latter, my German friend was crying enough for both of us.

Seven hours later, the landscape was a reminder that Canada wasn’t in spring mode yet. It was green in France but brown above Ottawa—no leaves yet in the trees.

However, the “bring the weather” trick worked briefly. Feng and Mark were waiting for me in shorts because it was 20°C, the hottest day so far this year.

“Are you voting?”

Right. The elections.

I booked my ticket to Canada when I was in Ilhéus. We knew Canada was heading to the polls but there was no election date yet. I picked the cheapest travel date and, accidentally, it turned out to be election day.

“What time does voting end?”

“Don’t worry; there’s still lots of time.”

Usually, my first priority upon returning home is going grocery shopping. This time, however, Feng and I decided to vote first and we agreed on picking the least terrible one on the way to the polling station.

He won, by the way.

And now it’s cold again, -3°C tonight.

Is it too late to cry?