11. How to Get On A Plane Without Getting Into A Plane
With Eight Stuffed Bags We Walk Across the Insanity Borderline
Continued from:
Hitting the Road Jack, Aparigraha Revisited and the Elephant in the Bedroom
From the beginning:
Yoga and pure newslessness as covid prophylactic
How to Get On that Jet Plane: A Dose of Equanimous Hubris Reveals an Epitome of Convid Stupidity
As well as discovering that we were alive inside the belying beast’s bellicose belly I was engaged in the logistical and financial details of us leaving Canada as dignified refugees without a lot money. I had read of people hiring private planes to by-pass Transport Canada’s travel ban. These were prohibitively expensive for us. So I jumped off the anti-social media band-wagon I’d been mostly on for about six years and found myself closely attending to the ‘real’ truth-tellers, mostly on Telegram at the time. Until we joined the other Whitehorse anti-tyranny protestors I didn’t even know of Telegram’s existence. From the half dozen channels I came to follow I read two or three anecdotes of Canadians having successfully used section “6(1) Mobility Rights” of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms to get onto a plane. Really?
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And so I found and read what my Canadian rights are. Were? Where are they, exactly, these intangible rights? And that small voice cautioned me that the charter writing was … what? Fragile? False? Fiction? Ineffectual? And I ignored that small voice and latched my mind tightly onto the ‘free’ travel anecdotes. The idea, the dream of them. And I practiced yogi-centric conviction and New Age mantric intention. I wasn’t paying attention to my friend Jebin who didn’t think it would work. I certainly was squelching whatever voice was struggling inside me to be heard. I did my muscle testing (that I now call PS-RAP for Psyche-Somatic Resonance Awareness Process) and that confirmed that what I was doing was the correct, eccentric, direction to embody. Okay. So be it!
Much later I would learn that before Nazi Germany began killing first the undeserving children then herding other undeservings into camps, Germany had been praised for a similar charter of human rights that by some commentators was considered to be the best in Europe at the time. Is that a clue that chartered human rights are drafted by those who have the realisation of, or even the intention to make, those carte blanche words as potential and/or actual weapons of distraction; and to provide a verbal structure by which the words can be carefully by-passed? Or is it a shibboleth that the need to draft rights in the first place is a kind of canary or tell that the actual respect for human rights doesn’t exist and that the charters are guidelines to how best to get around so-called human rights whenever gaslighting is to be enacted to determine who would be the desired scapegoated victims de jour?
And thus with a subtleness and humour that I wasn’t aware was possible with and from my body muscle-testing process, I was guided by my body into a stick-to-my-rights mind-centric delusion of spiritual hubris. At the same time I made sure that I had printed in duplicate all the documents to present to whomever we would be faced with at the airport — ‘The Charter’, published legal opinions and whatever other documented evidence I had scraped up from the barrel of those few successful travel anecdotes.
What? What do you Mean You Can’t Ship Our Stuff From Whitehorse? A Nascent Refugee Initiation of the Negative as Embryonic Positive
With a firm plan of action that would see us fly out of Whitehorse about a week after my 61st birthday, Yoshiko and I worked to complete the final packing, offloading and getting whatever remained of our stuff ready to be transported to Nicaragua. And to transcribe yoga practices from magazine to phone to keep us yogic during the transition.
Earlier I had searched the internet for all things Nicaragua-immigration. I found someone interesting and, following my PS-RAP (Psyche-Somatic Resonance Awareness Process), spent some money to talk with the experienced ex-pat whose real estate career in Nicaragua included helping people move to Nicaragua. (Conflict of interest?) He gave us very clear directions and advice, and assured us that the troubles of Nicaragua we may have heard about have been settled into the past and were exaggerated at the time. And he recommended a particular Nicaragua-based international moving company. The one clear negative was the highly recommended and popular travel injections to a southern clime. Fortunately they weren’t mandatory and so we chose to not get them. [Late synchronicity addendum: today, while editing this to finish it, into my email popped that very ex-pat with his very rare notice. In fact, his previous email was from May 2023. Did he know I was writing about him today?]
Best in show only? I contacted the moving company and started the process of getting our stuff to Nicaragua. It was going to be about $10k and take at best several weeks to complete. Perhaps longer if customs became a problem, with the threat of a large import tax as well. They would begin the steps after they had received confirmation of my deposit to them. That ‘deposit’ was an interesting introduction to a world completely different from what I had until then experienced. The directions from the moving company to whom I was to send the deposit and how the transfer was to be done were long and complicated. So much so that the bank had rarely seen such a thing and required tracking down someone experienced with subtle international banking skills. After the process was completed — which took close to an hour — I pictured the signed banking confirmation and sent it to the moving company. They acknowledged its receipt and I trusted them to get things done. They also directed me to get some kind of special packing boxes and/or a wooden crate bought or made with specific dimensions. I was surprised and within a short time located something I could buy locally. As it was to turn out that purchase became unnecessary with a strange, perhaps even synchronistic, set of timings a few weeks later and before I had made the purchase.
About a month before our refugee day, and several weeks after sending the international movers the notice of deposit, the moving company advised us that they could not find a way to ship our stuff from Whitehorse to Vancouver!!!! What?! And they were humble enough to ask for my help with that. Really???? Okay. Whitehorse isn’t that big, and yet it isn’t that small either. The German adventure tourists like it so much, for example, that there is a direct flight to Whitehorse from Germany that makes Whitehorse an international flight destination!
I talked with ‘my’ mover and acquiesced to his inability to get it done. And so I began the process of shipping, which kind of took me back to the 1990s when I worked in a warehouse that did international shipping. I started looking into various ways and in a kind of desperation called the local AirNorth airline. And, with that, discovered yet again the truth of the assumption-trap. The three or four land-based companies that I had contacted had quoted me costs more than $5k! Half of what the Nicaragua company claimed they would charge to go from Vancouver to Nicaragua. AirNorth’s estimated cost would likely be less than $1k to Vancouver, with the final cost to be determined with the stuff being weighed when it was to be on-boarded. Okay! And no special packaging required. They provided me with their packaging guidelines — which we had met in part because of my previous experience and simple common sense — and their guide to costs. The final, easy part, was to confirm the delivery location in Vancouver’s airport and relay that to the Nicaraguans. Phew! All set. And something I had been making hard, by rigid assumption-(non)thinking became, in actuality, simple. And on the day before R-day, I dropped the stuff off and the cost was less than $400. Snoopy dance!
Equanimity in the Face of Brick-Wall-Refusal Creates the Yellow Brick Tao
The time zips past as Yoshiko and I each look to complete the various physical things to be done for this one-way trip. And the more difficult challenges were the mental and emotional and psychological manifestations that arose in our bodies, our hearts and minds as the leap into the abyss of the unknown approached. At the time I saw this as a ‘true’ living yogic trust-fall into the Universe — whatever the Universe is, of course. Well, for our universe was being reconfigured from the snowy north to the sultry south.
We’d heard the phrase ‘trust-fall into the Universe’ spoken by guru Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswati, a year or so earlier during her contribution to the eight week ‘spiritual recovery’ course with Tommy Rosen of Recovery 2.0. Saraswati is an interesting guru in Rishikesh India — called by some the birth place of yoga — who was born into a wealthy Jewish-American family in Hollywood. See her book Hollywood to the Himalayas: A Journey of Healing and Transformation. It turns out that that ‘trust-fall’ to Nicaragua was to be an appetiser only! A tasty-testing ground of intention, resilience and dedication as we moved forward, down and out of constriction and into life.
On Tuesday, after rushing around crazily to get everything done for the flight the following day, we expressed our gratitude for this delightful little house with the ancient gas stove, Korean-style dots and colour in the tiny bathroom and for the below zero ice-cold water. And we said good-bye to it before locking the door and leaving the keys for our kind landlady. And in anticipation of warm temperatures soon, we had given away almost all of our winter clothes, keeping with us a bare minimum to get us to the airport. We drove to our friends’ Jebin and Katy’s house where we left our car and went by taxi to the hotel adjacent to the airport. Jebin kindly agreed to assist me with selling the car later.
Amazingly enough we both slept comfortably. We threw away a couple more winter items we wouldn’t be needing, including our toques. I managed to talk Yoshiko out of throwing away her good hiking boots with the argument that we would be hiking in Nicaragua.
We checked out early the next morning to be at the airport a few hours before the flight to allow time for my blustering efforts to get us boarded — or white-coated, which ever came first. With our four suitcases and four shoulder bags in minimal cold weather clothes and summer shoes we walked across the highway and into the airport. I puffed up my confidence as if I was indeed full of it and not just full of shit. I stepped up to the agent and affirmed to her our statutory charter right as Canadians to be on the plane without injection. The agent calmly directed me to wait while she arranged to contact the airline’s compliance officer who would talk with me. ‘He’s not here?’ I asked. ’No. He is in Yellowknife.’ That is another small northern city about twenty-five hundred kilometres east of where we were standing. Hmmmmm. I hadn’t seen that coming.
We eventually connected by phone. Calmly and firmly I gave all my reasoned arguments and the compliance officer confirmed that I was quite likely correct about the charter. And he was aware that that issue was in fact being argued in court. He added, however, that his governance overseer, Transport Canada, controls his airline’s right to fly and would shut them down if they violated the travel ban directive that they had received. Yes, he was adamant that he was under threat of closure. So he did as he had been directed to do, likely unaware that he had aligned himself with the energy of compliance to (medical) tyranny.
We had an interesting and long conversation during which I managed to remain calm and perhaps something close to equanimous. No doubt because of my sincere yogic practices and healthy low agitation diet, and maybe because, deep in my heart or soul (or something), I really did have confidence that somehow, one way or the other, Yoshiko and I would leave Canada as our body guidance had assured us we would do.
Eventually the compliance officer said, paraphrased ‘I will tell you how to get on the plane, if you want. Get a test in the city and then drive north to Dawson City. Transport Canada has not mandated convid injections for tiny and remote airports. [Inappropriate thought: was that for humanitarian grounds or purely financial and logistical ones? I’ll naïvely assume humanitarian because that makes what happens more humorous and stupid.] Once you are on the plane from Dawson City, then you will be able to transfer onto a connecting flight in Whitehorse and so get to Vancouver without injection.’ Not once did I read that juicy bit of injection-by-pass information in my Telegram channels and, of course, it wasn’t made public!
Unseaworthy Charter to Court: Narcissistic Gaslighting or Powerful Narrative Breaker?
Definition: charter (plural charters)
A document issued by some authority, creating a public or private institution, and defining its purposes and privileges.
A similar document conferring rights and privileges on a person, corporation etc.
A contract for the commercial leasing of a vessel, or space on a vessel.
The temporary hiring or leasing of a vehicle.
A deed (legal contract).
A special privilege, immunity, or exemption.
(UK, derogatory, in a noun phrase with another noun which is either an agent or action) a provision whose unintended consequence would be to encourage an undesirable activity — Wiktionary (my emphasis).
And thus Canadian insanity and tyranny are exposed at the same time. And reveal that charters of rights are a fancy form of distraction, or malicious preparation (subtle predictive programming?), and more likely useful as toilet paper when a country’s anointed government — perhaps accentuated with being lead by a government being a nose-pulled WEF Young Leader Grad — decides it is going to lock down its citizenry with gaslighting and lies. It is an odd hypocrisy though, isn’t it, that in deference to the need for humanitarian allowance for the lives of remote Canadians, that injections weren’t required to travel from there? (Okay, not likely humanitarian because Trudeau hasn’t really shown any humanitarian sentiment anywhere to anyone, even dying people being kept untouchable. So likely the loop hole was for strictly financial and logistical reasons.)
So, the charter was a failure to protect me from tyranny, and the small (non-humanitarian) logistical failure-limits of the government’s medical-travel tyranny was what opened the door to getting on that jet plane. Well, at first a prop plane. And, I re-iterate, that the compliance officer was under no obligation to share that by-pass and that if I hadn’t remained equanimous and patient and provided him with the space for our encounter to become an extended, eccentric and intimate communication, it is unlikely he would have shared the prop-plane tao with me.
And later, when I had some time to reflect on this charter thing, and with some expanded awareness of past government explosions into tyranny, charters such as this one guarantees a right to … What does that mean, really? A guaranteed right to does not actually preclude the government from disallowing that or setting up conditions to stop the enactment of that right. Yes, I have the right to leave that’s true. Just that I cannot exercise that right whenever I want to if I get disqualified as undeserving from access to it for any reason.
And with that we have a really great example of the power of words to imprison us with their masked intention as a kind of trick or that relies on a naïve understanding of their intent. When words have become tools of propaganda and coercion they are carefully crafted in ways that can be used by the governors as a foundation on how to subvert or prevent the enactment of the right. If the purpose of the government is to lie, and the media supports the lie, which is normal in our oligarchy, then there is no charter that will save us from tyrannical governance. And, with that tyranny, life will in turn ask us to take courage enough to become our own agents of truth. More specifically, to take our own agency to see the lies and look for where the truth has been hidden, twisted and/or demonised.
In this instant of history Yoshiko and I were ‘lucky’ because the forced camps and injection sites hadn’t been built yet. Planned, I learned later when I also learned that there had already been contracted rooming houses for sick people and plans for an expanded future enforcement for isolation. We were in the process of being able to leave, barely, as refugees from what many people around the world now see as CCP Kanada. (Even now CCP Kanada is being extended with things like Bill C-63 putting into governance draconian anti-communication rules.)
And, as the compliance officer had said, ‘my’ charter had indeed been used to take the federal government to court by none other than the esteemed and respected ex premier Brian Peckford, the last living person associated with and who co-sighed off on that charter back in 1982. And it came to pass, in 2022 that the dispositions and cross-examinations of that court case were made public. They confirmed that the prime minister’s office had indeed used threats and had knowingly and maliciously lied to initiate a media supported medical tyranny with false scientific claims about the efficacy of travel restrictions. When it was pretty obvious that the government was going to lose their case in court — too many admitted lies and most of them egregious — the government removed the travel restriction mandates. And shortly after those restrictions were lifted the government lawyers asked, and got, the court to moot the case despite the frequent threats from Trudeau that he would happily and quickly re-instate those same, ostensibly unconstitutional, restrictions for the good of Canadians despite the charter’s rights chatter. (The amount of false evidence is actually astounding. For some of the juicy bits watch “Interview with Keith Wilson - Brian Peckford's Charter Challenge Update - Viva Frei Lives”.)
Northward Ho, We Go! The Unexpected is Starting to Become the Expected
And so, that is what we did. We got tested with a non-PCR test that didn’t require deep sticking into our sinuses. And our friend Jebin agreed to chauffeur us to Dawson City — thank you! — which is a six hour drive mostly in the early dark with ice and snow at that time of year. We paid for his gas, time and hotel. And thus it was that our muscle-tested guided trip began with unexpected costs and delays including the lost airfare of the originally planned connecting flight from YVR-Vancouver Airport to Nicaragua. And on hindsight this really set the bizarre tone to what would be a kind of eccentrically nomadic life of unplanned events and broken plans everywhere we went in the first six months after having become travelling convid refugees.
The next day it was about -25°C and we had light shoes and barely adequate cold weather clothes after optimistically giving them away earlier or dumping the remaining few at the hotel the previous morning. Even being underdressed we calmly walked towards the prop plane waiting for us on the tarmac. Suddenly, unexpectedly, that calmness was transformed into deep surprise and a bit of melodrama when Yoshiko realised that she was missing her purse. We rushed back to the waiting area. No purse. Where was it? While the plane was taxiing for takeoff we called the hotel and there it was, safe and sound. Relief. Earlier that morning in the hotel we had been given some misdirection about the timing of transport to the airstrip. That confusion had us return from the lobby area, unexpectedly, back to the hotel room where we waited for the proper time to get the transport. That was when the purse was left behind in such a way that neither of us noticed it.
That situation was odd and becomes a synchronicity later at the airport when we went to get our boarding passes. This ‘airport’ was indeed tiny and the person at the counter also did the luggage and likely just about everything else too. He had no interest in our documentation, including the ‘required’ test results. So we received our boarding passes in a way that by-passed Yoshiko looking in her purse for those documents. If he had asked her in the ’normal’ way of getting boarding papers, she would have discovered that her purse was missing then and it could have been taxied to the airport in time for us to meet takeoff. As it was, thankfully, it was while walking to the plane, and not after boarding it and being in the air, that she realised her purse was missing. Funny timing that, that while waiting she didn’t once reach for anything in her purse.
And so it came to pass we spent another day in Dawson City and accrued more unexpected expenses. And those expense basically doubled when the next day’s flight from Dawson City to Whitehorse did not have a connecting flight until Saturday. So we had another hotel stay. And another call to the compliance officer to confirm that the next day’s connecting flight would still honour our no-injection status after having stayed overnight in that same nearby hotel. ‘Yes,’ he assured us. ‘You will be allowed onto the next day’s flight.’
With the Miss We are Gifted With A Lovely Farewell Meditation and Synchronistic Encounter
We returned to the Dawson City airport that Friday afternoon to alight in Whitehorse in early evening. The unexpected Whitehorse layover gave us the opportunity to say good-bye again to some people. I texted Juliette, the somatic healer I had discovered in late 2021. She kindly invited us to attend her Friday night meditation group! It was she who had first suggested to us that Nicaragua was a good place. She and her husband have a house there and usually spend the winters there with their children. That is when travel restrictions aren’t imposed. And it was she who had, in November, invited us to join her in a native sweat which was a powerful experience! Our muscle testing really liked the idea of the meditation with her and her group and so we hired a taxi and our last night in Whitehorse was to experience her unique somatic-centric meditation. And for Yoshiko to have the delightful surprise that one of the group members was a interesting man she had met in Dawson City in 2019. It was in his café that Yoshiko discovered the amazing book The Case Against Sugar by Gary Taubes.
There was a joy and beauty and delight with this group of people that was as perfect a way to say good-bye to the community of Whitehorse as it is possible to imagine.
With Loving Thanks to Dhanya and Jebin, and to the USA Border Agents at Peace Arch, Yoshiko and I Become Refugees from Canada and Its Healthy Medical Tyranny
So it came to pass that four days after we had walked into the Whitehorse airport from the hotel across the highway to it, and only to be redirected to an airport about six hundred kilometres north, we retraced that exact same path from the same hotel to the same airport still without injection and this time we walked out onto the tarmac and up into a jet plane that flew us to Vancouver. In thin almost winter-like clothes with a temperature of -25°C.
With our flight to Vancouver began what was to become an astonishing series of synchronistic encounters with remarkable people. We were sat beside a very tall man. He had hoped that the plane wouldn’t be full so that he could sit in one of the seats that has more leg room. The plane was full and so we found ourselves talking with him. He was an RCMP training officer and who had been partnered for a time with famous/infamous RCMP Corporal Daniel Bulford. Bulford, a highly respected sniper and intelligence officer, became vilified and smeared by the corporate media for publicly resigning from his position in protest against the tyranny of medical mandates. For a time, pre-convid, he had been part of the detail protecting Trudeau. Within the defenders of freedom of medical choice and movement he was, of course, praised as a hero. The officer we talked to on the flight had high respect for Bulford’s integrity and honesty. And he respected Bulford’s choice to refuse being injected with an experimental novel treatment falsely pushed as a vaccine.
After our experience of being rejected from flying and then the by-pass via Dawson City, we understood that leaving Vancouver by air was not likely to happen. We checked at a couple of non-Canadian airlines about flying uninjected. They assured us that, like AirNorth, Transport Canada had made it clear that they would be shut down if they did not comply with the ‘health’ order. But Canada is not a tyranny because those threats were healthy ones.
No charter-blustering from me this time. What to do? Jebin’s plan B, thank you Jebin.
During the drive to Dawson City Jebin had offered to arrange to help us leave Vancouver. He had confirmed that his ex, Dhanya, would drive us to the US border if we were unable to get a flight. (He was sure that we would not be able to get one.) So after we concluded that YVR was no-exit we accepted their kind offer and, in relatively short order, were in a car heading south with Dhanya and a friend of hers. She apologised in advance for not driving us across the border because Canada would not let them return for three days while test results were being processed in the USA. This testing and delay was still required because, despite them both being injected before leaving Canada, it must be that the injections didn’t work. Otherwise why the need to test before returning to Canada? (Unless the purpose was to constrict freedom to move, maybe?)
Once at the border Yoshiko and Dhanya’s friend needed to complete and pay for ESTA, a document the US transport agency demands of most everyone except Canadians. Yoshiko’s card was stamped valid until May 28th. Once that was done we unloaded ourselves and our stuff. Then Dhanya and her friend got into the car and returned to Canada without crossing the border. Thus it was that Yoshiko and I walked, in the dark, into the USA with our eight bags without being questioned or seeing anyone.
Did you notice anything odd? I mean besides the peculiar normalcy of an injected person requiring testing and isolation before being allowed to legally return to Canada? The US border agents didn’t ask for vaccine cards or tests or masks. It was as if they knew that convid was a scamdemick and paid it no mind.
And so we walked to nearby tiny Blaine, about 750 metres or so south of the border. Despite pretty much everything being closed in Canada and the late time — after 8pm — unlike in Canada we found an open restaurant that we were allowed to enter and called a cab that would take us to Bellingham from where we would catch a bus to Seattle the next day. Wow! It was a lovely leather-seated and big Cadillac whose driver was friendly and calm and who had an interesting history.
And with that, more of the expected unexpected (costs) continued to be experienced. We asked the driver to take us to an inexpensive hotel in Bellingham, which he did. It was full. So was the next one. And the next. He then called a couple of more places for us until he found one that had a room. Just one left. It was, as expected by now, the most expensive room they had! Why? All the hotels in Bellingham had filled up early for the Valentine’s Day (Monday) weekend! And the taxi ride was about $US170.
At the time I was still gripping tightly onto my precious tiny store of money. Each of these ‘unexpected’ expenses felt like I was being financially nicked or bled into some kind of destitute vague future. With monetary fear tickling my heart and breath, I kept a smile on my face as best I could; I remained calm as best I could; I appreciated the wicked sense of humour life was expressing, as best as I could. And I did my best to let go of the smarting I was still feeling from being the blustering dummy who forsook the money for the unused airline tickets I had bought for the Wednesday’s connecting flight that was to have taken us from Vancouver to Nicaragua.
We were in America. We were in a giant hotel suite with a king sized bed and big washroom and lovely shower. We were now officially convid refugees. And we didn’t have an exact path beyond this PS-RAP guided intention to somehow get to Nicaragua. And, during this hurly-burly, AirNorth confirmed that our stuff had been successfully offloaded at their holding area at YVR.
And so it was that our indoctrination into becoming convid refugees from Canada had begun with a short walk on a lovely dry night, followed by a ride in a beautifully maintained very large Cadillac with leather seats and then a night in a executive hotel suite with a giant beautiful shower and a king-sized bed. Synchronicity? Life with a wicked sense of humour? Luck? What?
It was midnight or so, when we went to bed with another early morning for us. We were to go to Seattle by bus and to the SeaTac Airport. We slept soundly in the king sized bed that felt unnecessary and silly to me. What next?
To be continued.
From the beginning:
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Song of the essay:
Macy Gray — Beauty in the World.
Lyrics
I know you're fed up But life don't let up for us All they talk about is What is going down? Whats been messed up for us? When I look around I see blue skies I see butterflies for us Listen to the sound and lose it Its sweet music and dance with me There is beauty in the world So much beauty in the world Always beauty in the world So much beauty in the world Shake your booty boys and girls for the beauty in the world Pick your diamond pick your pearl there is beauty in the world All together now We need more lovin' We need more money, they say Change is gonna come Like the weather They say forever They say When they're in between Notice the blue skies Notice the butterflies Notice me Stop and smell the flowers And lose it the sweet music and dance with me There is beauty in the world So much beauty in the world Always beauty in the world There is beauty in the world Shake your booty boys and girls for the beauty in the world Pick your diamond pick your pearl there is beauty in the world All together now Heya throw your hands up and holla Throw your hands up and holla When you don't know what to do Don't know if you'll make it through Remember god is giving you beauty in the world So love (Beauty in the world) Yeah love (Beauty in the world) There is beauty in the world (Beauty in the world) Beauty in the world (Beauty in the world) Shake your booty boys and girls (Boys and Girls) All the beauty in the world (Beauty in the world) Pick your diamond pick your pearl (Pick your pearl) There is beauty in the world (Beauty in the world) All together now Yeah love Yeah love Oh love All together now Hey baby when I'm looking at you I know its fact is true There is hope for love There is beauty in the world Hey baby Hey baby when I'm looking at you I know this vibe is true There's love There's hope for love There's beauty in the world
"What do you Mean You Can’t Ship Our Stuff From Whitehorse?"
That reminds me of the northern New England joke about old-timers saying, "You can't there from here", where "there" and "here" are pronounced with the "r" nearly gone so that they're more like "theah" and "heah".
Anyway, what a story! Congratulations on escaping from Trudeau-land (almost spelled that as "Turdeau", which maybe would have been better).
What an incredible ordeal, Guy. I'm feeling the trauma of these events hit me like waves. I'm glad to have known in advance that you would land well, safe and happy, among good people.