Air Canada.com: c'est pas plus chere

Pickup was by a crazed Welshman in sunglasses with a penchant for Vietnam (he's planning on visiting next year). "Move ya gut ya lardy plonker" is muttered as we head towards Heathrow, interrupting the commentary of the other passanger: her trip to Vietnam, her four trips to America, how she's going to be dropped off early over a bridge...

To explain, we are on our way to Canada, two and a half weeks of haulin' ass around the different cities en route to Washington. The tour is booked with Titan Tours, famed for their ass-haulin' of octogenarians. They pick you up, take you to the airport, and only there are you presented with your tickets (heaven forbid you lose them and hold up the rest of the party). There is a rotated seating plan for the coach. None of this was revealed until the departure lounge, locked safely behind the security. It should be interesting.

Back on the way to the airport, another pedestrian has engaged in Welsh wrath, and bowled himself into a stack of luggage. With a "Thank you, Squire" I'm ushered out (NB: I could get used to being Squire). Green jacketed people swarm over the suitcases and we are marched crocodile fashion to the desk where tickets are presented, and then the slowest queue proceeds as the octogenarians forget how things works.

Of course, the point of this is not just to bitch about old people, but to see how WiFi uptake has spread. In the departure lounge, screens advertise the T-Mobile hotspots, and a quick signal check shows that it is indeed there. Normally Starbucks work with T-Mobile, as anyone in London knows. One mango frappucino later, Starbucks have no idea. BAA officials are somewhat surprised as to it, and Dixons employees apologise that they aren't sure what the product is. So far, England, score zero. (Will WiFi follow the football..?)

Some mild bluejacking and book buying later, we're on Air Canada's flight across with possibly the happiest flight attendant ever: "You can't miss me, I'm the tall guy with the beard." He claims to bake the desert cookies himself, and one of his stewardess' claims to have caught the fish for lunch last night. Across the aisle someone is playing in Word, sorting out photos and listening to music on her Creative Nomad, and looking over at my PowerBook like a boy racer at a red light. Finally she bows out of the battery race and reclines with for a nap, not without a jealous glance. (I'll try and keep my PowerBook obsessing to a minimum, promise.) Pizza is delivered, and considering it is aeroplane pizza, it is Italian by standard, with a cold Canadian beer it makes a nice break from ruling the universe.

Some time, and a worryingly noisy landing later, we are waiting for the gantry to drive to the plane. A fellow passanger assures us that the "our airport is terrible" (he is Canadian). All I can think about is smelling fresh air (and not recycled passanger) and an Apple Airport.

Interrogation at Checkpoint Charlie (Part I)

"Do you have any [insert a long list here]?" We dutifully shake our heads, no, and no, we have no firearms. Although I'm beginning to wish we did. For such a small country Canada seems to relish it's border authority, inflicting the best of small-minded burecracy on tired passangers. That said, I can't wait for American border crossings.

The drive in from the airport reveals first of all, very French styled buildings. And then Soviet styled bare concrete. In rectangles. Very similar to Kyiv, except that the cars are more shiny. We roll up at the hotel, play the 'Itdentify your luggage' game and depart for Hotel Exploration (business center!) and sleep for the weaker lot. Sushi for supper, minor exploration reveals five strip clubs within ten minutes of the hotel. New French Phrase: danse contacte: lap dance. Now, French is supposed to be sexy, and I agree completely, except here. Obviously this sexiness is reserved for the higher paying clubs.