Day 0: Planes

Maria, who is much better at identifying the larger-scale patterns in my life than I, observed that this always happens.  I get sick at the start of every break.  So it was that the senior Dobies caravaned the younger (David, moaning and snuffling, Maria keeping us organized and together) to the San Francisco airport at 8am yesterday.

We had an Air Canada flight to Toronoto, followed by another landing in Madrid almost exactly 24 hour after leaving SFO.  Weeks ago I proposed to Maria that we start taking Melatonin pills and moving our sleep schedule back 30 minutes a day until we were perfectly synced to Spain's time zone.  She sensibly pointed out that we were both still working, and so the de facto new plan had become to try and sleep the full 17 hours to both shift time zones and become miraculously well in one fell stroke.  Maria's plan was to try and sleep at all, since she allegedly doesn't sleep on planes. 

Our plane—or, more specifically, its ceiling—was vaguely reminiscent of Superman's ice cave in the original film.  It shone a cold, bright blue illuminated as if from a light source far behind a thick translucent slab (though upon later inspection it seemed to be scattering upward facing lights running the length of the aisles).  At various times during our flight this uncanny ceiling was strongly pink, or dark red, or glowingly richly golden.

Superman's ice cave

Ceiling of our airplane

The full length of the glorious cabin

Our first impression of the Toronto airport was the strikingly poor planning of putting all restrooms at the end of a 10-minute long corridor, which is only accessible by first walking 10 minute in the opposite direction to go through customs.  Once we had traversed that minor crises, I quite enjoyed a huge iron sculpture sculpture which I could have sworn was 'Tilted Arc' by Richard Serra.

(The Internet confirms it's Serra, but a different piece entitled 'Tilted Sphere').  We also ate an interesting Indian meal whose i-pad ordering system promised us "full control" over our experience; something I thought Dad would have appreciated.  Sadly, the vindaloo (which the waiter had proudly described as 'like nothing you have ever had before') had an almost overpowering quantity of tamarind and clove.

The populace of our first leg had struck me as very French.  Young, rail-thin fathers wearing sweat-pants still somehow came off as fashionable and urbane.  A baby on the flight screaming 'no' with that rounded 'oh' vowel-sound was echoed by sweet French cooing from all directions.  The general feeling was friendly, but also restrained.  By contrast, the crowd on the second leg to Madrid had an immediate convivial "hail fellow well met" attitude.  Carpeted by a dozen Spanish conversations and much laughter, I felt as if groups of old friends were reuniting in an ale house.

I slept entirely through the hot meal, and after switching seats with Maria, confirmed (between my own cat naps) that Maria was sleeping as well.  Mission successful!  Our first test upon landing would be to see whether we could successfully use the metro and navigate on foot to our hotel.