The trails of an intrepid vagabond are sometimes rocky. I once took a tedious three-week business trip that spilled across Central Europe with a terminus in London. I’d concluded my exhaustive meetings one day sooner than expected and was anxious to return to Montreal and be with Lynn; it was my birthday. So I booked the first available flight. We were barely ten thousand feet in the sky when things unravelled with a frightening clatter.
Our plane had hit a swarm of locusts, or was it volcanic ash? That pilot wasn’t sure. Iceland was where we rerouted and waited ten hours for our new jet. There’s not much to do in Keflavik when you’re stuck in that terminal.
I found an eclectic coffee and gift shop which displayed an extensive collection of lopapeysur (woollen sweaters) and a repertoire of Steven King novels. And they served the national dish – Hákarl – a fermented shark. Did you know they dry it for five months? It has a very potent ammonia-rich smell; it’s an acquired taste. In ten hours, I fell short of that acquisition.
It was three in the morning by the time we crossed the Atlantic, and I’d cleared customs; a fierce tailwind had clipped an hour and a half off our flight. I hadn’t called Lynn to say I’d landed, hoping to surprise her, so she wasn’t there to greet me. Thankfully — or unfortunately — I had no cumbersome luggage to drag around; the airline had lost it. The cab ride home was quick. I opened the door to my home, quietly stepped in, and was startled to find what I saw.
My living room was festooned with a mass of balloons in all shapes and colours, and a banner hung on my ceiling — ‘Happy Birthday.’ My loving Lynn had planned a surprise party. I had to admit, I was surprised.
As I crept in, I clumsily brushed the table and knocked a clump of magazines from their perch. Seconds later, I heard a male voice call.
“Lynn, is that you?”
A half-naked man approached me from the shadows of my hallway. My heart stopped as a chill ran through my soul. The worst possible thoughts flooded my head; I couldn’t believe what was happening. I visualized my relationship with Lynn — completely oxidized. Then, he spoke again.
“Lynn…? Whadja forget?”
I still couldn’t see the man’s face, but I recognized his voice. It was Lynn’s brother — for f##k’s sake — he lived in Toronto.
“Hey, Robert. What are YOU doing here? Where’s Lynn?”
“Hey, Paul. What are YOU doing here? Your flight’s supposed to land at five. The airline called; they found your bags. Lynn just left for the airport to surprise you. I’m sleeping over — she invited me to your party.”
We both started to laugh. Me, from relief and at the irony of the situation. Robert, because… I have no clue why he laughed; he was easily amused. And that’s how things went that early morning. Poor Lynn had made all these plans, and I had messed them up.
But we blasted that party as originally scheduled. Lynn suggested, and I agreed, that I would leave the house, then walk through the front door — as I was supposed to. For authenticity, I dragged my luggage and carried a lopapeysur under my arm and was completely surprised when everyone shouted. I entertained my friends with tales of Westminster Abbey, locusts, and fermented sharks, and everyone partied till the wee hours.
Later on, as we were cleaning up, Lynn put her arms around me and gave me another birthday kiss then whispered a question in my ear.
“Did you really think I’d cheat…”
I looked lovingly into her eyes and smiled; Lynn completed her sentence.
” … on your birthday?”
What type of nightmares and horror stories have you experienced while travelling?