The airlines recommended arriving at least two hours before our flight to Canada. Thanks to our poor planning and our ride share driver’s snail’s pace, my wife, Susan, our Boston terrier, Lilly, and I hit the check-in line at t-minus one-hour and forty minutes to liftoff.
Our non-stop flight was cancelled. Now we have a layover. No advance boarding passes since our second leg was international. Gotta deal with a live agent. Upon spying the growing queues rivaling Queen Elizabeth II’s tribute, Susan and I wait in separate lines. Divide and conquer. Maybe.
A voice nudges me forward from a standing slumber. T-minus one hour and ten minutes. Not to worry. We did our contact tracing. We were packing passports and proof of vaccination. Lilly’s travel docs nestle safely in the sleeve of my travel lanyard. No baggage to check.
Lilly sits patiently at my feet. A caramel-colored golden, leashed to his human, rushes past us. Lilly’s eyes swivel up to meet mine. I dip into a silicone pouch clipped to my belt, extract a chunk o’ chicken and toss it in her mouth. Good girl.
Next! T-minus 55 minutes. Boarding in 25. We got this! Passports please. DOT verification for Lilly. Your six-digit, ArriveCAN QR code.
My what?! The QR code, the required health check verification to enter Canada.
The blood drains from our faces. Thrust into that nightmare where we have one more final exam to take, but have no idea what or where it is, we stammer: We weren’t notified. You have to download the app and do it on your own.
Susan and I fumble on our phones. App won’t download for her. Does for me, but I can’t set a password. Cue the eye rolls in customer service. A schnauzer scurries at right angles past Lilly. Today, it’s a walk down the jetway for our seasoned sidekick. Chicken, please! Perhaps Lilly should do the downloading.
Weary from the wild gesticulations of these naive passengers, the agent consults a supervisor. We may proceed, so long as we can present proof of vaccination at every juncture and understand that, without the coveted QR code, we might be blocked at the border.
T-minus 23 minutes. The plane is boarding. Half a mile of terminal separates us from the jetway. Next stop: an ornery-looking TSA agent. Lilly’s Cheshire grin uncurls the agent’s lip. Dash to gate. Lilly trots, nay a pant. Susan and I gasp as we heave bags in the overhead bin with eight minutes to spare. First cycle of the wash n’ wear travelers complete. The load is far from done.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat the QR code cycle at the gate in Seattle, then at border kiosk in Vancouver airport. Susan and I take turns losing it while the other braces us through the storm. Holding us both together with her I’m-okay-so-long-as-we’re-all-together expression is the even-tempered Lilly.
Seven attempts; I can’t set a password. Miraculously, Susan threads the ether’s needle. We’re in! At the hotel in Vancouver, we three collapse in a heap. It takes a half-hour of mutual massaging to smooth the furrows in our brows. That entire time, Lilly lays on her back, forepaws dangling limply over her chest: the ultimate surrender pose. I imitate her. My temples stop throbbing.
For the remainder of our holiday, we roll seamlessly through wrinkled plans: closed venues; cancelled shows; skies rusted by wildfires near and far. We’d never smiled so much at doing so little.
And why not.
We have everything we need: analgesic, sedative and stimulant wrapped up in one furry sherpa.