It never gets easier to leave, even when you’re used to leaving and even when you really want to leave.

It’s a process, a long process. It’s nothing like in a Hollywood movie. We don’t show up at the airport to buy tickets for the next flight across the world; I don’t just dump a few things in a backpack, and we just don’t “figure it out” after landing, holding our freshly stamped passports and laughing.

Okay, we often do “figure things out” on the road. But the rest is meticulously planned because it takes gear, skills, info, and more to fully enjoy spending months living out of a backpack in countries where you only kind of speak the language.

A vivid nightmare haunted me for years. My in-laws would show up to drive us to the airport, but it was the wrong day or way too early, and I only had minutes to pack everything I needed with both of them breathing down my neck, shouting in Chinese. “Quick, quick, we’re leaving now!” sounds even more pressing in Mandarin. And here I was, minutes later, in the back seat, Feng next to me and looking just as stunned, both of us convinced we had forgotten to pack a million essentials.

This is pretty much what happened yesterday, except it wasn’t my in-laws’ fault.

Blame Air Canada.

On Monday night, we had everything under control. Everything was pretty much packed, the fridge was almost empty, the house was relatively organized. I finished packing my small bag, quizzing Mark about Louis Riel, the Indian Act, and the Gold Rush, both of us sitting on my bedroom floor, next to the portable heater.

Feng and I were focused on the upcoming trip, while Mark was worried about his history test—he would go to school as usual on Tuesday because our flight to Toronto was at 7:25 p.m., plenty of time to connect in Toronto and take the 11:30 p.m. flight to Santiago, Chile.

Yes, Chile. Brazil is coming after some adventures in Spanish this year.

The plan was to pick up Mark at school at 2 p.m. and take a taxi to the airport around 4:30 p.m.—my in-laws had called apologetically; they didn’t feel like driving us because they are old, because it’s winter, and because it’s rush hour.

I sighed with relief.

And so, while Mark was hopefully acing his test on Tuesday, Feng and I worked on our final packing.

Early afternoon, my phone beeped.

“Feng! Our flight is delayed! It’s at 7:55 p.m. now!”

“Okay… no big deal.”

An hour later, my phone beeped again.

“Feng! Just got an email, ‘Your flight is delayed further.’”

“Fuck. What’s the new time?”

“Let’s see…. 8:50 p.m.”

“What time do we land in Toronto?”

“10:11 p.m.”

“We’re gonna miss our flight to Santiago. There’s no way we can make it.”

“Let’s call Air Canada.”

“Let me think about it for five minutes. Okay, never mind, let’s go to the airport and try for an earlier flight.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I’m calling the taxi.”

“I’m not ready!”

“Me neither. Never mind. Let’s go.”

The taxi showed up right away—just our luck. Feng and I scrambled around the house for five minutes and decided we were ready enough.

“I really hope I didn’t forget anything…”

At the airport, the Air Canada employee was more than happy to rebook us on the 6:35 p.m. flight to Toronto. “Don’t worry, guys, we have seats left!”

Perfect, crisis averted.

Except that, of course, the flight was delayed, and delayed, and delayed again.

We ended up taking off close to 8 p.m.

Meanwhile, Air Canada was spamming me with motivational messages:

“You’ve been rebooked!”

“Your seats have changed!”

But hey, “Your baggage will be available for pickup in Santiago (SCL)”!

“I fucking hope so,” I muttered.

It was okay because, believe it or not, the 11:30 p.m. Air Canada flight to Santiago boarded on time… but we were stuck on the tarmac for an hour.

An inedible meal, a breakfast I didn’t even want to touch, and 11 hours later, we landed in hot and sunny Santiago. The last Air Canada scare of the day happened around the luggage carousel—my backpack was the last one to show up, almost an hour after everybody else.

Fucking Air Canada.

But hey, I’m not cold anymore.

We spent the afternoon finding our way around again—my last stay in Santiago was in March 2020—, withdrawing cash, buying two SIM cards, and getting food.

And now, I’m going to eat what I cooked in yet another foreign kitchen in yet another foreign country.

Maybe I should sleep too.