I opened the door and stood on the balcony for a few minutes, checking the weather and keeping an eye out for the first tramway of the day, even a not-in-service one—I just needed proof the city was somewhat awake, and I wouldn’t be alone outside, crossing the city at 4:45 a.m.

I finally heard the familiar low rumble and squeal noise.

I sighed.

Time to go.

It never gets any easier but I’ve been leaving people and places for so long now that I can pull it off without major drama. It also helped that I was half asleep and focused on making it to the train station on time and alive. The city is anything but friendly in the wee small hours. The plan was to walk as fast as possible and in the middle of the streets.

I grabbed my backpack and for the first time in ages, I wore it over a winter coat. More padding, I supposed.

I opened the door and my mum’s cat followed me out.

“Émile, go back!”

I have a bad influence on people and animals. Fearful Émile is starting to show a concerning interest in travelling—he naps into my backpack, jumps on my clothes when I pack and now, he is apparently ready for an adventure.

“You would hate Canada,” I exclaimed. “It’s colder than France!”

My mum caught the cat and brought him back inside.

I wish I could have done the same, venture out and just decide to stay home.

Instead, I rushed down the stairs, not looking forward to the 25-minute walk to the train station—cold weather, heavy backpack, and empty streets.

Five in the morning is a creepy hour in Nantes. Very drunk partygoers are finally being kicked out of private clubs—they can’t find the way home and it’s too early for tramways, so they just stagger around like zombies. People who sleep in the streets are no longer sleeping because it’s too cold, and they are understandably not too happy about life. Add a handful of drug dealers and rats digging through trash in very dark streets, and you will easily understand why I was walking faster than usual.

“Hey, you! Where are you going?”

“Home,” I shouted.

“Can I come with you?”

“Fuck off!”

One of the guys shrugged—clearly, this wasn’t the first rejection of the night.

I made it to the train station in exactly 20 minutes. Not bad.

Once on the train, I set up my alarm for 8:50 a.m. before closing my eyes. CDG TGV is a short six-minute stop on the way to Brussels and waking up in Belgium was not part of the plan.

Charles de Gaulle Airport. I dropped off my checked backpack and went through passport control almost right away. I like hanging out at Terminal 2E. It’s huge, I don’t feel trapped like in many airports where there’s nowhere to go once at the boarding gate.

I tried on perfume, grabbed a coffee, walked around and took pictures. It kept me entertained until we started boarding around noon.

Bad news, the plane was full. At this time of the year, it’s mostly older (Canadian) couples going home after exploring European cities or taking a Mediterranean cruise. Sure, summer flights with plenty of kids can be noisy but adults take room, a lot of room, especially when each of them has a bulky carry-on.

I ended up with the window seat, next to a very big guy and an old Italian guy, both the kind who sit with their legs wide open and told me I had to pay them a small fee if I needed to get up, ah ah. Then they promptly started to drink all the Air France booze they could get their hands on and become best friends.

I tried to sleep but it was not a comfortable and relaxing seven-hour flight. I take kids over drunk adults anytime—at least, kids watch movies quietly.

And here I am, in Ottawa again. The sunset is an hour earlier than in France and it’s colder. I was expecting it, it’s November, after all.

Time to get productive—indoors.