The Adventure of Luke's Suitcase

Once upon a time, in an airport far, far, away, there was a fellow named Luke, who checked his two bags in to Air Canada for a long flight home from London to Boston. As he watched his two bags move away from him on a conveyor belt, he felt a sense of loss, like he was losing a valued friend.

The flight was uneventful. Luke, homesick for his country, watched American-themed movies like "Gangs of New York," and got unnecessarily emotional during that "Hey Dad? You wanna play catch?" part of "Field of Dreams," starring Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones. Yes, things were quiet, and Luke was hopeful for a simple trip back home, free from problems and complications. He closed his eyes, and allowed sleep to make its way into his mind for the rest of the flight.

But then, Luke arrived in the magical city of Toronto.
And shit really went down.

With 20 minutes to try to get to his connecting flight, Luke bounded through the airport like a rabbit on crack, dodging disgruntled businessmen, overwhelmed mothers, and angry rich entitled old couples that didn't like being in the same place as the lower classes, not realizing we all make fun of them for wearing fanny packs.
Luke ran and ran, through the hallway, down the escalator, in and out of the duty-free shop, until he came to customs.
Nobody told him US customs had a station in Toronto.
"Ah, crap," Luke said, audibly and with conviction.

There was no way to get to his flight in time. He had to reschedule for a flight two hours later. But positively, he thought "Hey, if this is the only hiccup, then I guess things aren't so bad!"

Luke has always been painfully optimistic, like a kid walking in to his first standardized test, unaware of the level of sheer boredom and the amount of #2 pencils that will be endured in a day.

But, finally, after long hours of flying, and waiting, and swearing, and waiting, and yelling at airport staff, and waiting, and taking his shoes off at security, and waiting, and eating food, and waiting, and flying again, and waiting, Luke arrived in Boston.

His luggage didn't.
"SON OF A [bing!]" said he, "SON OF A [bang.], SON OF A [boom.]"
His luggage was left in Toronto, by the very people he trusted to take care of it.
He had never felt so betrayed.

Eventually, his luggage made its way to his house, intact.
And if that is an anticlimactic ending to a story, I don't know what is.





Thanks for reading my blog, everyone. I enjoyed sharing my trip online, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Addendum:
I'll keep writing, as stupid things happen to me during the summer. They just won't be British stupid things.