If you're sweaty and you know it clap your hands...

Clap clap.

Papa has landed in Hong Kong and the moment I got off the plane I could feel my poor lungs collapsing from the dense humid air. Even as I walked through the air-conditioned terminal at the airport, I was already expelling a copious amount of sweat. But not only was I sweaty, I was feeling anxiety. Anxiety of being somewhere totally foreign but yet not so. OK, so seeing Chinese signage everywhere is hardly a culture shock. It's pretty much like a stroll through Aberdeen Centre in Richmond on any given day. I think I was feeling trapped and claustrophobic the moment the plane started its descent. I looked out my window and saw endless sites with tightly packed modern age Babylon towers with long intermittent roads and viaducts winding around them. The old and existing towers created a sea of adobe white, while new construction sites were covered in homogenous pine green scaffolding. Apart from the low forested mountains there was really nothing else that reminded me of home. My growing anxiety and profuse sweating made me think of SNL alumnus Molly Shannon's character Mary Katherine Gallagher. Oh how I love her! Superstahhhr!

So for those of you who are thinking of flying to Hong Kong to visit me any time soon, may I suggest that you not make the dire mistake I made when I "chose" to fly with Air Canada. While they may have a slightly cheaper price than their chief competitor, namely Cathay Pacific, the 'pro' list stops there. Allow me to use the following paragraph to express my overall displeasure from flying with Canada's national airline, fresh out from bankruptcy protection. (Oh by the way, congrats, Air Canada. How on earth did you manage to do that?) Starting with the minor things, eh... First, let's talk about the blankets. Do your cleaners use Bounce when they take these things out for a washing? For the first two hours I endured non-stop electric shock therapy from my extremely staticky blanket, that was not so much a blanket as a small dish rag. I couldn't handle it any further when I got the shock of my life when I went to rebuckle my seat belt during some crazy-ass turbulence. I took my zip up sweater from my bag and wore it underneath my hoodie so I didn;t need the damn blanket anymore. Real comfortable. Second, your in-flight "entertainment," shown on one tiny television, can't possibly be enjoyed by the hundreds of peasants in "Hospitality Class" (more on the 'Hospitality" later) when the obscenely bright TV screen is shaking constantly. If we weren't blinded by the screen, we would have had to take a pack of Gravol to stop us from throwing up the lovely meals you served us. This brings us to the "Hospitality Class" bit. So the lovely lady and gent were pushing their meal carts down the aisle. I took off my earphones to hear the what wide selection they had for us today. I heard them ask "Chicken or Beef" to about 20 passengers in front of me. Well, the trough finally got to my aisle, when suddenly the overly made-up woman clad in Celine Dion Air Canada green thrusted a tray in my face and roughly placed it on my fold out table. I looked down at the tin-foil covered dish and looked back up and gave her a blank stare. Not necessarily of outrage, but I was puzzled. I didn;t ask for anything yet. But I had to ask her anyway. "What's this?" "Beef," she replied sharply. "Oh well, sorry i don't eat beef," ensuring I stressed the word beef the same way she did. "Well, that's all we have left." said she in a hospitable manner. "Well, I can't have beef."

Truth is, I do eat beef. Hell, I am an omnivore, but in this case I wasn't pleased with my lack of choice. When 20 people ahead of me had the choice between two dishes, I expect to have the same liberty to choose at my disposal. So anyway, she just reached right in front of me and grabbed the Tupperware of beef off my tray. "I'll see what I can do," she said dismissively as she pulled the cart away further and further from my row.

Surely, it was at this moment that I should have leapt from my seat and grovelled at her feet! She'll see what she can do! WOW!

Five minutes into the meal service, I decided to eat my fruit cup instead, when all of a sudden I saw the tanned hand and forearm of this other AC flight attendant thrust a plastic container topped with an Air Canada plastic film. "Here's the chicken." He promptly walked away, surely rushing off to provide another happy customer with extraordinary in-flight service.

So should I be pissed that the woman pretty much lied about the chicken thing cause she was a lazy bitch?

Well, all is resolved I guess on international flights, thanks to their gracious offering of complementary liquors and spirits. I was pretty much drunk for most of the flight. A quiet drunk. And when I took out my latest Joan Didion book, I was a quiet and pensive drunk. All was forgotten, when I passed out after my seventh drink, the third potent Caesar, sans Worcestershire sauce.

Finally, Air Canada, you are truly making your airline a strong competitor in the market, when you hire only pre-/post-menopausal women and grey-haired and heavily fob-accented Chinese men who don't give two rats asses about their job. As they were reading out supposedly important information over the muted speakers, I swear they sounded like they were on the verge of having a stroke. Call me anal, but when I listened to the four different announcers on the flight speaking in different languages (English, French, Cantonese, Mandarin), I heard four totally different set of facts. So is it 29, 30, 28, or 27 degrees in Hong Kong? How long is the flight? 13 hours or 12.5 hours or a god damn eternity thanks to the determination, competence, and above all, the hopsitable service of your cabin crew?

Fuck you Air Canada. Fuck you to Hell.