Photo by WhyNotThisOne

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The last time I was in Montreal’s domestic departure lounge was due to terrorism. Some fanatical wind-up monkey had just tried to ignite some fluid containers in an airplane and my newspaper put me on the first flight to Toronto to chronicle the beginnings of what is now the entirely normal age of deadly toothpaste.

It was a mess.

This time, the domestic terminal is homier. The seats look more comfortable, even if they are identical to the international side. It’s roomier; the Starbucks has patio tables scattered around it. It lacks that hard Tetris arrangement of shops and food-warming franchises.

That my first flight on my one-year round-the-world trip is a domestic one feels slightly symbolic on a few levels. For one, I’m avoiding the multiple hoops of Gestapo-inspired screenings between check-in and a U.S.-bound gate.

Using a driver’s licence as ID to board a flight? Wow.

These bonus comforts combine to create what seems like a softer transition into the nomadic life. I’m traveling across the continent, but I’m still in my country. The vast distance is assuaged by familiarity.

As such, I have not yet fully realized the enormity of what I’m about to embark on.

Last night, as I delivered some bags to Bianca’s mother for safekeeping, she grabbed me by the shoulders and tried to shake me from what seemed like a stupor of denial. “Do you realize what you’re about to do,” she urged me.

Kind of. I was divesting of my last possessions I wouldn’t be taking with me. I was en route to another friend’s house to re-swap some long-ago swapped DVDs. I was hoping to see my neighbour one last time before cleaning the apartment where I’m couchsurfing.

Immediate details. Trees obstructing the deep, intimidating forest.

I’m sure Vancouver will be fun and parts of it exotic. But I doubt I’ll feel that ball of ice in my stomach that many long-term travelers relate when realize the decision they made.