As easy as going to San Sebastian ...

London, ON, to Toronto, ON, to Newark, NJ, to Paris, France, to Brussels, Belgium

Music: Audioslave, Out of Exile album; Jeff Buckley, “Hallelujah”
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)

Rough morning, but again my ability to recover is impressive. Bassin drives me to the airport, and I settle in for what I hope will be a stress-free and relatively peaceful journey to Brussels. First leg, London to Toronto. So far so good. Starting to feel the weekend catching up with me, but feeling otherwise amazingly spry after such a rough weekend. Spoke to sister at London airport, and she sounds good. Charlie is finally beginning to work on a schedule, and Ann’s starting to get the hang of it. She’s completely infatuated with her son, and though it’s understandable, it really makes me anxious to see this little marvel.

Once in Toronto, I get the urge to call a few people. I speak briefly to Jon, as one can expect. I briefly toy with the notion of calling D., but think better of it, reasoning that the first call in months shouldn’t come when I’m bored in an airport. These gentlemanly notions, however, are cast aside as I call La Poulette, and once again I’m pleasantly surprised at just how well he’s doing. I miss him, and I’m so impressed and proud of how solid he is. His voice is confident, strong and full of purpose. After all he’s been through, he’s still managed to emerge solid and peaceful. Sofia’s due on May 5th, and in preparation for this, it seems as though he’s managed to center himself and focus on what really matters, which is something he’s always been able to do better than most, but has now elevated to a high art.

Gotta make it a point to call him more often.

After a slight delay where my flight was moved from a convenient gate to a spectaculary more inconvenient one, I fly to Newark, a flight during which it dawns on me that I have far more to do for the next leg than to just walk over to the next gate. Things like pick up my luggage and check in all over again. Why these things escape my attention is beyond me. Meh. Whatever. I pick up my luggage and head over to the Air France check-in counter, where I’m greeted by a huge line. It is 5:30, and the flight leaves at 7:30. This line looks like it could take more than two hours to liquidate, and I’m left to wonder whether the flight will actually leave on time. But this situation gives me some time to call mom. She’s planning a trip, either to Egypt or China. I gotta side with China on that one, not only because of the price, but because it may be one last chance to see a country which will undergo a sea change during the coming decade. I’m excited for her, though at the same time, I worry that I can’t be there more for her. Yet another reason that my flubbing of the McK interview irks me. I miss our interactions, and I miss making her laugh.

My mother: The easiest audience in the world.

She chats me up for the duration of my stay in the check-in line from hell, and I feel better about having spoken to her before I left. Final result is that the plane—as expected—leaves an hour late, and now I’m starting to worry whether I’ll make my train once I get to Paris ...