As the parent of a seven year old, I often – too often – find myself attending children’s birthday parties. Events that frequently run far longer than they should, and like a MarineLand show, have a splash zone that goes further than you think possible. The plus side, for adults anyway, is that you get to meet new people that you wouldn’t normally interact with. Like a free trial of a new streaming service, you can see if you enjoy the content before committing.
It was at a recent cake-laden affair that I met an American pilot. He had moved to Jamaica back in the mid-2000’s to fly for a local carrier. He met his wife on the island, they had a kid and settled into a nice life here. It was during our chat that he asked me if, in my travels, I’d ever witnessed what he called the miracle skyway.
I wasn’t familiar with the term, but if you’ve flown to Kingston out of Florida or Toronto, you have also born witness. Pilots, as I was told, refer to this phenomenon of passengers who request wheelchairs for the boarding portion of their journey, but walk off the plane without any help once they’ve reached their destination as a sort of Capernaum in the clouds.
Of course no miracle is happening, this is simply a case of people being smart enough to make their flight as comfortable as possible, while staying on budget. It’s worth noting this isn’t always the case and that there are folks who require assistance from start to finish, but the former seems to happen enough that pilots have a name for it.
This got me thinking about the little things I do to try to make air travel a bit better for me and my family. While I insist that we use our daughter and my wife’s pregnancy as a tool to board and de-plane faster there is what I thought would be an ace up my sleeve…or rather in my RFID cross body bag (fanny pack to you 90’s dads), our diplomatic passports. Surely these majestic booklets, finished in a regal burgundy and emblazoned with the coat of arms of our great northern expanse would grant us some sort of
special service.
The answer is yes and no…but mostly no. When entering a foreign country you get to use a different customs line. Usually, but not always, that line is shorter than that of returning nationals or visiting punters. The trade-off lies in there being more paperwork for the customs agent to fill out than that of the holiday family or repatriating national. The reality is that customs agents are also human, move at human speeds, and have had human days, so a lot rests in that balance as well. Call me crazy, but I still prefer a person asking me for my papers over a T-1000, at least for now. Surely there is some benefit to returning home on a diplomatic passport. A hearty “welcome back, bud,” or a free pint of maple syrup to get your sugar levels back up from the arduous journey.
There is not.
Canada Border Services agents couldn’t care less, and this antipathy to the issuing of one’s credentials should warm the hearts of every Canadian. There is a democracy in the customs line that’s enviable. You get in the queue, you stay in the queue until it’s your turn and you get processed. The only people who complain about this have never traveled outside of North America or the Schengen Zone, trust me when
I say it’s a sliding scale of awful.
There was one stand out from our last trip back, and despite its rocky launch The ArriveCan App streamlined what is already a vastly more efficient ordeal than it was in the past, and everyone can use it. So much for getting to show my wine-hued booklet to an agent of the Crown and hoping to squeeze out a “right this way your majesty” while being led to a gilded landing where Beefeaters would haul my luggage onto a waiting coach.
Despite this lack of deference, our diplomatic passports did garner some extra attention at Pearson airport while waiting to fly back to Kingston. Sitting down at a deli (great ruben by the way) the server noticed their colour as we were re-arranging our kit. She commented on how much prettier they were than the regular ones. They are pretty, and as my wife worked from her phone, and my daughter played music on her tablet I took in their depth.
Sitting in that aerodrome named after a former pilot and one of Canada’s finest diplomats, I ruminated on which position he deferred to in order to garner special treatment while traveling…probably Prime Minister.
At 40, Andrew Elliott packed up his old life as a radio morning man to start a new chapter abroad—without a job, a clear plan, or expectations beyond supporting his family. He quickly learned that life as a diplomatic spouse isn’t all glamor. Somewhere between becoming a hunk, a chunk, or a monk, he found the humor, challenges, and unexpected growth in a role that often goes unspoken.
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- Guide to Nurturing Relationships from Afar
- A Moving Experience
- Driving abroad: Tips, tricks and risks
- Goers, Stayers, and Newbies
- Bring your meds, leave the assumptions
