The airline I take to Toronto is one of those small start-ups, the kind with the little regional planes. I always get seated next to the propeller, which is a real pain what with the noise and all. Being able to see those thin blades also makes me think about what a thin line it is between flying and falling to our deaths.

There’s a giant of a man sitting next to me too.

What is the etiquette on sharing an arm-rest? I always think it’s so rude to hog an entire one.

You can kind of lean your elbow against the side of it, but there’s an invisible line right between our seats, and I don’t want your fleshy arm poking into me. You could also use some deodorant. I feel a little bad thinking this. The man is huge. It can’t be comfortable for him to fly with his knees all pushed up against the seat in front. Flying is one of the few times I’m grateful to be just shy of 5 foot 1.

We’re landing. It’s pretty rocky. Is it always this rocky? Damn you propellers.

We bump our way onto a little island just off of Toronto. Flying into Canada is a treat for me. The people are quiet and orderly, you almost never hear a raised voice or a complaint. If anything, you’ll hear a chorus of “sorry!” and “after you!” and “let me help you with that, eh?” as we deplane. The customs officers are friendly and they say “welcome home,” something that still warms my heart to hear. It’s a pretty far cry from rough and tumble Boston.

A little ferry takes us on the world’s shortest ferry ride: 5 minutes and we’re docking under the shadow of the CN Tower. Once the tallest building in the world, it’s looking a little tired today. Its grey concrete spire looks washed out against the saturated colors of the sky. Never mind though, it’s just nice to be home.

This post is part of the Arriving/ Leaving series.

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By River