Well, that happened.

We somehow crammed 33 hours into our Saturday, May 24. I’m now in a position to call bullshit on people who wish they had more hours in a day. You will likely only waste those extra hours being cranky at other people.

Traveling home is a weird thing. You’re doing your best to be quiet, still, calm. You’re broken by jet lag, by exhaustion, by the emotions of leaving a place. Just get me to the other side without incident, please. It’s like stumbling through the woods for days before coming across a giant sleeping bear. You tip-toe around her, knowing that safety is painfully close, but also that one careless misstep and one broken twig could awake the slumbering beast.

The longer the journey, the more likely you are to step on a twig.

When traveling home to Victoria, a city only accessible by ridiculously expensive flights or a ferry that takes you half an hour out of town, the twig moment always comes when you land in Vancouver. In theory, you are so close. But you still need to get past the sleeping bear.

Snap.