“As the cab works its way” by Julia on the 2

Monday January 28, 2019
5 minutes
Hello, Goodbye
Brady Emerson’s

Cab driver is talking my ear off on the way to the airport. It’s 3am, he must be lonely. I am leaving this city and I’m not going to look back. Do I tell him that? Do I say, listen, I tried my best, I worked hard, I made out with a stranger on my softball team? I don’t know what else I could have done. Maybe committed to the white walls in my apartment, hung a plant or two on the balcony. I never did end up going to the Indian place I said I wanted to try. Do I say, listen, some cities don’t fit the way you think the way expensive shirts get donated to Goodwill when they don’t slim your shoulders as promised. Do I say, I am too tired and angry and mad at myself to talk to you right now?

“wedding bells at the airport” by Sasha at the Diamond Centre

Wednesday, February 28, 2018
5 minutes
jessie read

Dev asked me to marry him in the bathroom at the airport. We were in one of those family bathrooms, where you’re only supposed to go if you have a baby or something. We don’t have one of those yet, but we needed to change into warmer clothes as we were still in our shorts and t-shirts. He said we didn’t have much time, that our connecting flight was leaving in under an hour and he wanted to eat something before getting back in the sky. He’s a man of few words, my Dev, so you should know that before I keep going. We were both in that bathroom, and all of a sudden he’s down on his knees and he’s crying. I’m like, “Dev, what the heck is wrong with you?” And, “Get up right now, this place is nasty!”

And then he looks up at me with those brown eyes all filled with tears and he says, “Gillian Larissa Warrington, will you marry me?”

I don’t know why he had to do it there, I never asked him and I never will because I don’t want him to think I thought it any less special. Who needs a fancy restaurant!

“You’ll do pants today.” by Julia in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Sunday January 21, 2018
5 minutes
Summer, Winter, War
Melinda Moustakis

As we got off the plane all I could think about was my jean shorts. How long it’s been since I’ve gotten to wear them and how I will wear them as soon as we get our entrance visas stamped. Entrance visas take a long time to get stamped, it turns out. We can feel the thick weighing down the airport from inside of it. I want my legs to see the sun. I want my jeans to return to my backpack and shut up about not being chosen. Hours and hours go by because the lineups are all over the place. The taxi driver takes us the long way, round and round, before dropping us off at our hotel. The hotel staff needs to get through their spiel. Today I’m doing pants and shorts. And gratitude. And abundance.

“cake and frozen yogurt” by Sasha on her porch

Sunday, June 7, 2015
5 minutes
From a sign on Queen’s Quay

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.
“I’m sorry for grabbing your arm that hard,” you said.
“Let’s go to the airport and buy tickets to wherever the next flight’s going,” you said.

Me, in my mother’s old lavender sundress, braless, six days of stubble laughing in my armpits. You, a denim shirt and black cut-offs, On The Road in your back pocket, the pages a promise of your wanderlust.

“Let’s have cake for dinner,” you said.
“Can you make me salad with exactly 15 green peas in it?” you said.
“I would impregnate you right now if we had the money and the bananas in the fruit basket,” you said.

“We invite you to relax” by Julia at Toronto Pearson International Airport

Sunday, September 7, 2014 at Pearson International Airport
5 minutes
from some bullshit air transat “discount” lounge voucher

I was eating an eight dollar red quinoa salad (don’t worry, I didn’t buy it. My cab driver, Irfan got it from the grocery store for me because I personally requested him to take me to the airport. The only thing is, I can’t give anyone his car number because he gets really weird about “sharing the love”. But, you know, whatever.) and I realized how easy it is to just mow down on something refreshing and light. I ate the entire tub of it (it was eight dollars, remember. But I always tip Irfan well so I pretty much did pay for it. Whatever whatever,) and I didn’t even feel bad. Except for when the man with the pink tie watched me lick the lid. That was not my finest moment. But then I didn’t care because I was just one person at the airport and so was he, but we weren’t connected in any way at all, and I didn’t owe him sensible table manners. But the point of all of this is that you should make yourself red quinoa salads in advance because they will feed you (and oh so happily) for days.

“Marvellous convenient place” by Sasha at Jane Station

Saturday May 3, 2014
5 minutes
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Wiliam Shakespeare

“Take off your shoes, Steve,” says my father. I hesitate and then I do it. “You can feel the air on your toes and it’s like nothing else,” he adds, removing his green argyle socks. He folds them into a ball and sticks them into one of his loafers. It’s after ten and our bellies are full of roast beef, mashed potatoes and Baked Alaska. He’s already stretched out on the hood of the station wagon. I take a swig of whisky from the flask in the pocket of my jean jacket. “Come on, Steve! Get out here!” He calls. The grass is wet under my feet and I think about the last time we did this. It was right after I got back from college, when I moved home to work at the factory and save money before moving to Saskatoon. He gave me a hundred dollar bill, a value pack of condoms and a blue scarf that had belonged to his father. “I’m proud of you son,” he’d said. “Now, you’re a good looking guy, don’t go getting some gal preggers. That would really screw over your five year plan…” At that moment a jet lifted, we gasped, and he grabbed my hand. As it flew higher and higher, he yelled, “HOLY!” and laughed like a maniac. “There’s nothing like that rush, Steve,” he said, wide-eyed. “It’s better than blow jobs.”

“once” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday December 11, 2013
5 minutes
from a poster for Once The Musical

Once, when I was standing on the edge of a volcano I was struck by my own significant insignificance. Then, two months later I looked at a man that I thought I loved and realized that what I really felt was pity. That was the same year that I saw Picasso. That was the same year I tried rambutan.

Lying on the black sand beach and feeling the water ebb over my toe-tips, I knew that I was on the right track. I’d gotten myself into the middle of the ocean, after all. I’d sprinted through the Vancouver airport after a snowstorm had threatened to kibosh my plan. Nothing could. It was impossible. I sat beside a man who was ready in shorts and a sunhat.

“valid for all countries” by Sasha in a taxi on the Gardiner Expressway

Friday March 1, 2013
5 minutes
A Canadian Passport

He stamped hard
“Welcome to Zimbabwe”
He looked up
And in
“Welcome to your home”
My eyes are light
Betraying my mother’s whiteness
“Beautiful girl” he says
I wait
For confirmation
That I can put
One foot
The other foot
One foot
The other foot
You call it walking
I call in phoenix from the flame
Get my pack
Wait almost an hour
You must be waiting
You must be waiting
You won’t have made a sign
You won’t run towards me
You won’t even recognize me in 3D
The picture on your fridge is from the summer
I shaved my head
The summer
I drank rum and diet coke
The summer I forgot to call you on your birthday
You’ve brought Danika
She’s tall now
Up to your shoulder
We’re the new race taking over the world
The half-this-half-that
My mother’s proud of her cornrows