The Odyssey

I knew that working on an international job during a surging global pandemic was not going to be business as usual. And when it came to the logistics of actually getting here… well thereby hangs a tale. Buckle up, kids, it's going to be a bumpy ride!

COVID rules in Abu Dhabi require incoming travellers have a negative COVID test within 96 hours of their departure. And though I knew what day they wanted me to fly, for a long time there was no flight booked. Frustrating though it may be, this is normal for these sort of jobs. Often the flights are booked by a third party and they tend to leave things to the last minute because changes are common. It’s usually not an issue, but when you’re trying to schedule a COVID test to leave the most possible time for test processing, but not so much time that a slight change in plans means the 96-hour window expires, then not having a confirmed flight and not knowing test processing times is a toxic combination. Add to that an extra layer of faff caused by the fact that I’m not actually a Canadian resident anymore, so I’m not covered by the Canadian health system. This means I can't log onto the government web portal to get a test appointment or receive results. Instead I have to pay a consultation fee to a doctor at a randomly-chosen local clinic to get referred for the test, then have the same random clinic get the results to me, sidestepping the unavailable web system. 

Luckily, the people at the local clinic were unfailingly friendly and helpful. This is the first time I’ve been back in Canada for any length of time since I relocated to the UK, and I must say that anyone I’ve dealt with here in a professional setting has just been really, really nice. Whether it’s the guys at the Bolt Supply House who special ordered 5/16” aluminium hex nuts for me, or the clinic doctors who renewed a prescription so fast that it was available at the pharmacy next door before I hung up the phone, or, well, kind of everybody. It really is true. Canadians are generally nice, friendly, and disposed to help if they can (or commiserate if they can’t). I probably notice it more because I’ve been away, but it’s clear. Sure we have our share of assholes. But I think the average Canadian is much more likely to jump-start your dead car battery than steal your hubcaps. Way to go, Canada!

The clinic referred me for a COVID test and the people at the testing centre phoned me back so quickly that I actually had to request they defer my appointment a bit to preserve more of the precious 96-hour window. Of course they were happy to reschedule because… Canada. I was also slightly concerned that the production company hiring me had asked for a very specific sort of documentation of the test results, largely based on the system in the UK, where most people were traveling from. Actually the fact I was coming from Canada threw everyone for a loop in general. For instance, the UAE airline's list of acceptable global test centres didn’t even have an entry for Canada. (Really?) Also, I was asked to suggest the best way to get from Saskatoon to a flight in Toronto, as if they expected that part of the journey would be by float plane or dogsled with a short portage between. (“Just use Google Flights,” I said. “And make sure you click the CANOE option.") 

Nonetheless I got the test booked and I alerted them it was for travel, which I hoped meant it would be flagged for especially timely processing (cue ominous background music). And on a Tuesday morning I went and got the stick shoved up my nose. In the interim, my flight was booked for the following Friday around noon. With nothing else to do but wait, I got to grips with packing, having decided I was going to bring the fabulous rolling toolbox workbench for its maiden voyage. 

Meanwhile, back in London, the helpful Piran volunteered to drive to the marina to visit the boat and root around in my drawers extracting things I didn’t bring with me to Canada in March, but are mission-critical for a job, like my steel-toed shoes, hard hat, hot weather work clothes and spare bourbon cream biscuits. He even arranged a rendezvous with the equally helpful Kieran to hand over the goods, which Kieran then schlepped to Abu Dhabi.

And unasked, Kieran also brought me TWO giant jars of Marmite. For their good works, both he and Piran are officially awarded the Go Stay Work Play Live Honourary Canadian Maple Leaf Award for Excellence in the Field of Inherent Niceness. (GSWPLHCMLAEFIN for short.)

Back in Canada, I fretted. Wednesday passed with no test result. On Thursday I waited as long as I could stand it before calling the friendly random clinic (FRC), and they called the test processing lab to see if anything could be discovered. (I was, after all, scheduled to fly in less than 24 hours, so I don’t think I was being overly needy.) They clinic called back quickly with the less-than-heartening news that the lab had placed my test sample “in the wrong batch” and hadn’t even started processing it. At this point I may have started hyper-ventilating because the whole precarious house of cards was tumbling down around me. With no test result I couldn’t fly the next day. And I knew there were very other few flights from Toronto to UAE that fell inside my precious 96 hour window of time. This might mean cancelling the existing flight, scheduling another test, and then booking another flight. And there was the intervening weekend to throw off test-result timing. And and and… it was just awful.

Gratuitous photo of grey October weather on the prairies, which matched my mood appropriately.

I spent a disconsolate Thursday evening texting with friends and trying to decide what to do. Eventually I determined the best option was to get up early and be ready to fly, on the ridiculously slim chance that a test result manifested itself in the tiny window of time between the clinic opening (9:00am) and the moment when the production company would have to cancel my flight (about 10:00am), which was also when I’d have to leave the house to get to the airport in time. Let’s just say it was not a restful night. 

The alarm rang at 6:00am and I packed half-heartedly, because it really felt like it was wasted effort. At 9:00:01am I called the FRC and the receptionist remembered me and promised to get right on it. So with the clock ticking I sat, unshowered and already exhausted, stared at my packed toolbox that wouldn’t quite close, and waited for a call back.

And then a miracle happened.

At 9:19am the clinic phoned and the I heard the words “I have your test results IN MY HAND.” Then there was a frantic 45 minutes in which I called the production company to tell them to please not cancel my flight, had a shower, finished packing and got everything into the car.

I call this photo “Luggage and Snow”

We drove to the clinic on the way to the airport so I could pick up a hard copy of the coveted test results. (Negative, obviously. Phew.) Check in for the Saskatoon-Toronto part of the trip was smooth, and surprisingly, they marked the box to travel straight through, which I did not expect. And even at 60.4 pounds, it was within the luggage weight limit for my ticket, so no excess baggage fees! Things were definitely looking up.

The Box, ready to fly the nest. Travel safely, little box! 

As expected, the airport was mostly deserted and it was quick getting through security. That emptiness made it all the more inexplicable when I finally got to the airside Tim Hortons and they were COMPLETELY OUT OF DONUTS. How is that even possible? It’s like McDonalds running out of fries or Donald Trump running out of stupid. Hadn’t I endured enough already? (Spoiler alert: Oh no, I certainly had not.) And how can they not have an emergency system in place for this kind thing? There should be Donut Special Forces shock troops that abseil in from a helicopter with a dozen each of old fashioned plain and maple dip. (Full disclosure: there were actually a few French Crullers left but they are basically just deep-fried air and do not count.) Luckily, I managed to secure the last six Timbits and a large coffee and finally got to draw my first deep breath in about 18 hours.

The flight to Toronto was uneventful, which is good because it turns out I was going to need what strength I had left for what came next. Back in Saskatoon the agent had tried to issue my Toronto-Abu Dhabi boarding pass, but couldn’t get it to work because they’d only resumed International flights into Abu Dhabi a day or two earlier, and there were apparently still some bugs to work out. I’d assumed this would be the case, because Kieran flew a day earlier from London and said there was a whole rigamarole at check-in that involved the agent having to email someone in Abu Dhabi, then follow up with a phone call. What could possibly go wrong?

I was braced for this when I landed in Toronto, but the first step was to get the shuttle to the international terminal. Simple, right? Bwahahahaha! Instead of a normal, uneventful shuttle trip, here are the steps I took, because apparently things weren’t stressful enough already:

1. Wait on comfy bench between two train platforms. 
2. Notice signs on the right indicate that’s where the next train will arrive.
3. Realise there’s a bit of time to wait. Take some things out of carry-on bag to get at something on the bottom.
4. Notice train arriving on left side of the platform.
5. Realise at the last moment that left-hand train is actually going to the correct place before right-hand train will arrive.
6. Dash for left-hand train, board, and congratulate self for getting to check-in a bit sooner.
7. Realise that things taken out of bag are still sitting on bench on platform.
8. Itemise things in head: brand new hand-made notebook, Kindle, iPad Pro with Apple Pencil.
9. Immediately swear loudly and effusively.
10. Disembark at new terminal, swear more, pace, sweat profusely.
11. Wait ONE MILLION YEARS for train back to previous terminal.
12. Get on train, continue swearing, desperately hope aforementioned niceness of Canadians means everything is still there when I arrive.
13. Arrive.
14. Become suffused with joy at goodness of my fellow man, recover abandoned items.
15. Go back to Step 1.

It was an interlude I really did not need. Still drenched in sweat, and definitely in no state to pass a temperature check, I found the check-in desk and braced myself for whatever fresh hell awaited. The agent at the desk was friendly and helpful, and accepted my passport, my precious COVID test paperwork, and my visa, and then started tapping away on her computer. Minutes passed. There was more tapping. Photos were taken of the visa. More tapping. Phone calls were made. More minutes passed. Hope dimmed. There was a problem with the visa. “How could that be?” I asked. I had colleagues who’d flown from London the day before on the same type of visa! “Yes” she said, “But this visa is only valid for travel from the UK, not Canada." 

Of course.

Finally, the agent escorted me to a chair, murmuring apologies all the way, and promising that it would be sorted out, it would just take some time. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will of course realise that time was not something I had a lot of. If I didn’t make my scheduled flight, I only had until about 2pm the next day to get on a plane to Abu Dhabi, or my COVID test results would be invalid because of the magic 96-hour window. If I was still sitting in Toronto at 2pm Saturday I’d have to start the whole cycle again, but as an added bonus I’d be doing it from a hotel room in Toronto. Or possibly from back in Saskatoon where I’d retreat to lick my wounds. It was all a bit much, I don’t mind telling you.

Eventually, after a lot of waiting, and with growing certainty it was all doomed, the agent came back and reported that whatever “special permission” that was needed had been granted, and I was free to check in. Angels sang. Crowds gathered in the streets spontaneously to celebrate, heedless of social distancing rules. CNN news helicopters circled the airport reporting live, and I was finally, finally, issued my cherished Toronto-to-Abu Dhabi boarding pass. (You probably saw the live stream.) And as a parting gift the lovely agent put me in an exit row, on the aisle, with three whole seats to myself. 

Soon after I secured this very large glass of wine and breathed again.

The exit row seat turned out to be a much-appreciated, because a flight from Toronto to Abu Dhabi is very long. Very, very long. Like, twelve hours long. I watched a few movies, and slept a bit, and hoped that my little toolbox was safe in the cargo hold. And then because I was bored and a bit fuzzy-headed and this is just how my brain works, I started anthropomorphising the box. It was kind of nice to feel like I wasn’t alone. That me and the box were in this together. So I sat in the darkened cabin with my recovered iPad and drew this guy:

Introducing… J. S. Bachs. (Name courtesy of the one and only Anne Tanaka.)

Finally we landed in Abu Dhabi, and after getting the stick up my nose again and making it past passport control, I finally got to the baggage carousel with my heart in my throat, hoping J.S. wouldn’t arrive broken and bleeding out underwear and KD Snack Cups.

J.S. Bachs’ triumphant arrival! Still in one piece, though now with one wonky wheel. Somehow it seems appropriate that we both came out of that journey with some scars.

And now I sit in quarantine in a pleasant hotel room, kind of over the jet lag after seven days, and just having had the stick up my nose again (third time lucky!). I’ve been working from here, spending hours conferring with Kieran on speaker phone, even though he’s just down the hall. Meals arrive packed in a thousand plastic containers, and the days are passing agreeably. I’m also proud to report that J.S. Bachs is performing exceptionally well, tucked away in the corner of the room. We’ll both get to relocate to the work site soon.

Let’s just hope that journey is a little bit smoother than our last one.

The trusty J.S. hard at work.