The Curse

February 8^th 2009: departure day. With inventory rivalling that of eBay safely packed in my new Samsonites, the pre-booked airport limousine comes to pick me up and brings me to Pearson International Airport. I meet the members of my tour group at the check-in counter. There are eleven of us, all eager to get going. After spending a short time in the spacious and bright waiting area at the departure gate, our flight is called and we board the plane, happy and excited. We’re headed to Frankfurt where we’ll catch another plane to Cairo, our target destination.

The first four hours of the flight are pleasant, including the dinner, a tasty chicken affair. At least, I think it was chicken. It could have been tofu disguised as chicken, but at this point, I don’t really care. I’m on my way to Egypt and life is wonderful. 

Unaware that I’ve been targeted for major damage, I leave the safety of my seat and make my way to the airplane’s washroom for a routine stop. Just as I step into the cubicle, at 37,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, the pharaoh’s curse arrives ahead of schedule. Geez Louise! I haven’t even set foot in Egypt, let alone entered the proverbially cursed tomb—that’s the usual procedure isn’t it?—and trigger-happy Ramses, egged on by Fate and not following the approved protocol, has already dispatched the Apocalypse.

The deployment of a pharaonic hex is, in this case, fairly straightforward and swift, yet manages to produce fulminating results. One millisecond after entering and closing the door of the infernal lavatory, Armageddon is activated and delivered, causing three distinct thoughts to enter my mind in rapid succession:

1.       I’ve got shoe boxes that are bigger than this washroom.

2.       I feel dizzy and need to sit down.

3.       Why am I sitting on the floor with my knees jammed into my nostrils?

You can understand my confusion at finding myself wedged like a pretzel on the floor between the door, toilet, wall, and sink. Since I can’t recall deciding that sitting on the floor was a good idea, I must have arrived there by way of my brain hitting the pause button and gravity taking over. Fainting has never been one of my favourite forms of entertainment, yet there I am. 

After extricating myself from this undignified position, I sit on the only available seat—yes, the toilet—and ponder what has happened to my now numb, deformed, and swelling left ankle. The foot hangs, limp as a noodle, seemingly unhinged from the rest of my leg. If my extremity hadn’t been encased in skin, I bet my foot would have fallen off, and with enough air turbulence to induce it into motion, rolled and flip-flopped across the floor like an old bit of two by four.  

I come to the only possible conclusion that, since it doesn’t hurt, it’s only a sprain and must go away. Soon. 

With the washroom visit over, it’s time to regain my seat. It doesn’t take me longer than a second to discover that I can’t walk on the mangled foot. Since I have not yet mastered the art of levitation, this leaves only one alternative. I somehow fling myself out of the washroom and hop back to my seat, on one leg, acquiring stares, funny looks, and gestures involving the index finger doing little circles around one’s temple from the other passengers. 

After managing a semi-graceful tumble into my seat, I mumble something about a sprain to the lady next to me, a member of my travel group, in response to her raised eyebrows. Nodding her head, she declares, “Of course, this explains why you were gone for so long. You must have been unconscious for some time!” 

It’s my turn to nod in agreement even though I know I’m not being entirely truthful with her. What my companion doesn’t know—I didn’t really want to share this with a relative stranger at this particular time—is that I probably wasn’t “out” for that long. The delay was due to the reason for which I went to the washroom in the first place. 

After all the hoopla with the ankle, the reason for the washroom visit still remained. Things like that don’t go away; it would make life way too easy if they did. So, bouncing around the inside of a box the size of a jam cupboard, on one foot, fiddling with clothes, and trying to appease the peepee gods without falling head first into the toilet is not an easy task. It took some time, hence the delay.

Settling back in my seat, I fasten my seatbelt, wedge the ballooning foot under the seat in front of me, and bury my face in my novel. Ramses, his job done for the day, leaves me alone for the rest of the flight.

When the time comes to deplane in Frankfurt, I can hop but I’m unable to carry my hand luggage at the same time for the simple reason that, having been packed with an assortment of beauty products, the portable drugstore, three changes of clothes, and all my valuables, my bag is the size of a small village. That way, in the event that my checked luggage ends up in the wrong solar system, I still have everything that I need with me. Well, almost everything. The only item missing is a strong personal butler to carry the bag and me. I explain my predicament to the flight attendant, and then hop down the aisle with the attendant in tow who mercifully carries my bag. She didn’t offer to carry me. 

With the aid of a wheelchair and many helpful people from my group and the airline, we quickly navigate the halls and corridors of Frankfurt airport to the waiting area for our next flight. With two hours to spare, I have plenty of time to chat with my companions. Someone suggests that I visit the first aid clinic and have them look at my ankle. Not wanting to bother the nice Germans and cause a ruckus with the foolish foot—I still refuse to believe there is anything majorly wrong with it—I remain in place, comfortably plopped in the wheelchair. 

I didn’t realize it then, but thinking about it now, as I write this narrative, that was a wise decision. At least as far as my holiday was concerned. Had I gone to the clinic, I would surely have been detained in a German hospital for several days, never to reach Egypt, destination of my dreams. 

So, although I don’t know it yet, my disinclination—sheer stubbornness, really—to seek medical attention here, in Frankfurt, saves the quest for the Holy Grail. Indeed, pigheadedness can be a good thing at times, especially when tempered with a dose of jocularity.

In addition to my headstrong nature, and perhaps because of it, I possess the ability to trigger raised eyebrows in people. I’m very good at it, my prowess often surpassing that of a facelift gone wrong. When the time comes to board the aircraft in Frankfurt, the cabin crew’s eyebrows get an extensive workout. Let me explain. The attendants have been warned that I’m coming, but instead of the expected gentle and easygoing wheelchair passenger, they receive a laughing, joke-cracking, revved-up misfit trying to set a speed record for the one-legged bounce down the aisle to her assigned seat. Ergo, eyebrows straight to the stratosphere for everyone. 

My energetic bunny hop can also be explained. Adrenalin, and lots of it. This handy little hormone is indomitable. You can’t stop it and you can’t defuse it; you just have to let it do its thing. Powerless to stop me, the crew lets me do my thing, consuming adrenalin as I bounce down the aisle. Arriving at my seat, I plonk myself down with all the elegance of a sack of flour falling out of the back-end of a delivery truck. Shortly thereafter, the carry-on village arrives, carried by a charitable soul—adrenalin doesn’t do luggage—who expertly relocates it to the overhead bin. 

The plane accelerates down the runway and smoothly takes to the skies.  This is the last leg—pun intended—of our Cairo bound journey.