Fraser Mountain - Living the snow life

Chapter Five

Needless to say, I’m a tad miffed when I look out of the small window of the plane and see blinding sunshine instead of a swirling snowstorm. This wasn’t how I’d pictured the start of my new life, remembering the Calgary airport I’d seen in films. Jamaican bobsleigh team anyone? As if to rub my face in it, a man driving one of the baggage trucks on the tarmac outside is wearing shorts and sunglasses as he trundles past.

Canadians are obviously crazy. No Englishman in his right mind would wear shorts in November, no matter how warm it is. Yes, bright sunshine is one thing, but the pilot did say it was about ten degrees outside; not exactly tropical, if you ask me. Then again, I won’t even think about getting my legs out in public until at least mid-June and even then, they’re practically translucent with whiteness. I look like a walking Tip-Ex bottle.

My aching body is crying for a proper stretch and I really don’t think I can listen to Marjorie jabber on for much longer. Having peeled myself off the evil seat that’s been torturing me for the last eight hours and 25 minutes, I stand up and bump my head on the base of the overhead locker. I really, really want to get off the darn plane now.

My stomach churns nervously as I follow the other passengers to the arrivals area, noticing an abundance of red and white flags with the symbolic maple leaf everywhere. As if endorsing my previous observation that Canadians are a little on the mad side, I turn the corner to be faced with the sight of a woman wearing the biggest white cowboy hat I have ever seen.

‘Welcome to Cal-garee! If you have inny questions, you just let me know. Elevators are on the left!’ she shouts with apparent glee, an enthusiastic smile plastered to her rosy face. The badge on her red and white uniform reads ‘Host’ and because I’m a polite Brit and I’ve been brought up properly, I can’t help but return her wide grin with a bemused smile of my own as I scurry past, giving the hat a very wide birth. The last time I landed at Gatwick or Heathrow, I remember the first thing that greeted me was a suicidal-looking passport control officer and a massive line of disgruntled people from Zimbabwe. What a difference a few thousand miles can make. I often think a tourist’s first impressions of the UK must be thoroughly depressing – especially if they land in a major London airport. No wonder the whole world thinks we’re a nation obsessed with queuing.

The feeling of walking and stretching my legs after being cramped for so long is blissful, as is escaping from the delightfully batty Marjorie. The journey hasn’t been all bad. So far, I’ve been in the country for a total of eight hours (seven hours and fifty-two minutes of those on the plane) and I’ve been welcomed three times already. My guidebook is right on the money so far… Canada is a very welcoming place.

I search through my rucksack for the customs form I carefully filled in mid-flight and join the rest of the passengers in a large windowless room, where we’re all waiting to walk past the large red line painted on the beige floor. Is it just me, or no matter which airport you find yourself in, an immigration/customs/security hall is likely to be lit like a prison and definitely feels claustrophobic, even though it’s always the size of a football stadium? There is always a queue, naturally, and I will always choose the one that moves at a snails pace. For once, I’m grateful for the extra minutes as I double and triple check that I have everything ready. It’s not every day that you arrive in a foreign country with the sole intention of staying put for a while. This morning felt like it happened a month ago, when I’d said a tearful goodbye to Mum and Evie, while they desperately tried to reassure me that I’m doing the right thing.

Have I done the right thing? Perhaps a little late for that question now. I can hardly turn on my heel and get a flight back to Blighty. That would be…. the old me. The Lexie that got stuck in a rut in her job and her relationship without even realise that things were a bit rubbish. My fingers curl around the familiar smooth shape of the mobile phone in my bag – my last connection to Henry and the life I’ve just bolted away from.Before I have time for more deep-breathing exercises, I’m crossing the red line and my form is dealt with swiftly, given a cursory one-over, minor questions asked and I’m nonchalantly waved through to Immigration.