4 O'Clock In The Morning

"I'm leavin', on a jet plane,
Don't know when I'll be back again . . ."

Dep. 8:45 a.m., and I know I'll be back at Christmas. Saying goodbye to my son was miserable. He's now at an age (8) at which he actually realises the consequences of Daddy leaving, ie. he won't be seeing me again for many months, unlike before, when he was too young and somehow thought I was going out for a stroll.

So he cried, and what could I do? I cried too. I remembered all too well those ugly days when I had to go to boarding school in England -- I was just a year older than him -- and it came time to contemplate being separated from my mother. Basically, it was like going into the pen.

I tried every trick in the book, but nothing ever worked. I'd cry until no tears would come any more, just a red face and swollen eyes, but I still got on that plane. They were of the school of "Let him cry, he'll get over it."

Well, I never got over it and still haven't to this day. Abandonment is not pretty. At least Tai-chan isn't being abandoned, but still, living in Japan pretty much constitutes abandonment to me.

But I got my revenge. I lay in wait for years until the opportunity came and then I pounced. My elder brother, who went to the same school as me, and I were stranded at Brussels airport because of a blizzard, on our way to England from Africa, where we lived. We had hours to kill. And I had a return ticket in my pocket. And there was a flight leaving for Zaïre that very same evening.

In a life-changing moment, I decided I was going to be on that flight, and my brother agreed. Even egged me on. I would escape and he would live the escape vicariously. For a 14-year-old, that was quite a crazy thing to contemplate.

It took at least three hours for us to make the decision, but in the end, he ushered me to the gate and I said goodbye. He had his own flight to England to think about.

I remember arriving in Kinshasa, a boy well-versed in the ways of corrupt customs and immigration, and made my way to a taxi, in which I proceeded to light the first cigarette of my new freedom. They were called 555s.

I remember walking up on the porch, where my parents were reading the newspaper and my father was getting ready for work.

They freaked.

Some day I'll tell you what happened after that, but right now I'm waaaay off-topic.

Anyway, this is a fantastic hotel -- at around 4:50 p.m. I went out, but stopped by the front desk to ask if they could clean the room, but he apologized and said the cutoff was 5, so sorry.

Yet when I got back, guess what -- they'd cleaned the room. Nice to know when you're in good hands.

You will hear nothing further until I am safely lying in my bed in Montreal Thursday night. No doubt the adventures and rants will be many.

Cheers from the Land of the Crying Son.