Pandemonium strikes in the model apartment, as the girls realize that one of their roommates has done the unthinkable before
judgement measurements day at the Agency.
“Oh no!” cries out the American model to the Romanian. “B has gone to Butterfingers Pancake house for dinner!”
“WHAT?!?!” replies the Romanian. “Did she not get the message?!?! We need to stop her!!!”
I can tell by the way I turn my head and look at her, that she saw me first. She continues to stare right ahead, while I examine her profile, all poker-faced and ignoring me. Yup, it’s definitely her. You’d think she’d bother to grace me with a hello, after we spent two months in Shanghai as best nemeses a year and a half ago.
She has a conniving look about her, with a sneering smile. Her resemblance to Lady Mary Crawley of Downton Abbey in uncanny.
But unlike Mary - who may be conniving, but has class and manners - this girl is just plain rude, disrespectful to all those around her and isn’t afraid to get physical. Raised in Some Hick Town, Nowhere Russia with parents that don’t teach their children to use “please,” “thank you” and not their fists when resolving conflict.
Her beauty is all she has and even that’s fading quickly, slowly turning to ash just like the cigarette she’s puffing on. Blue-grey smoke billows out of her nostrils, as she turns to one of her comrades next to her and utters something in Russian.
I smile to myself, as of course something like this would happen to me. I would be in town with the one female I despise the most on the planet.
She’s probably wondering whether or not we’ll end up in the same city, at the same agency after our stints in Seoul. It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t wondering the same thing at the moment, but a greater part of me was wondering the following:
Anna, what wonderful material will you give me this time to write all about, while I travel throughout Asia?
One thing is for sure, shit just got a whole lot more juicier in the Far East…
Shot by Denise McMullin in Toronto, May 2012. Hair and Make Up by Erin Winn, Styling by Peghah Maleknejad, assisted by [my highschool friend] Tiffany Sin.
This post chronicles the events that occurred on the morning of Wednesday, November 19th before I boarded my 7:00am flight from YOW to YVR. Names of individuals and airlines will be altered to protect the identities. Minimal amounts exaggeration and humor have been incorporated for your reading pleasure.
4:30 - I wake up nauseous, with swollen glands and a fever. I lie in bed, snoozing for a few minutes before my alarm and my stomach go off.
4:37 - I run to the bathroom and begin to retch violently into the porcelain throne. Any doubt I had before about my state of health has been confirmed: yup, I definitely have the flu.
4:40 - It’s snowing outside. Great. It’s going to be SO much fun getting to the airport.
4:45 - I contemplate going back to bed and not going to the airport - although I know my mother will kill me and it will be nearly impossible to catch another flight home before Christmas. I get into the shower and pretend I don’t feel and look like shit. I remember I still need to finish packing my carry-on and a few other essentials. Fuck.
4:57 - I wake up A, who has promised to take me to the airport for 6:00. He lazes around in bed (also feeling like shit), while I finishing cramming a laptop, iPad, iPad Keyboard and various electronics into my leather Furla tote.
5:00 - Why, oh, why didn’t I just finish before going to bed. I’m back in the bathroom, retching.
5:02 - A, who’s half-asleep half-awake, knocks on the bathroom door, inquiring if I’m alright. “No, I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply, in between dry heaving into the toilet. “Ok, good to know,” he responds. Ugh, Men.
5:05 - I force myself out of the bathroom to finish packing my luggage. There’s no question about it, one
suitcase hockey bag and one carry-on are definitely over weight. I know I’ll probably be able to get away with the over-weight carry-on, but the hockey bag is another story…
5:10 - I make tea. Maybe that will settle my tummy.
5:15 - I am trying to rearrange my luggage, while sipping on tea. It’s helping to settle my stomach a bit. A has promised that he would help me finish packing, however, he’s in his office downloading “The Game of Thrones” e-book series for me to read on the flight. I ponder whether or not I’ll have the time to put them on my iPad.
5:20 - I drag my luggage into the laundry room by the garage and canvas A’s house for any belongings left behind.
5:25 - A has discovered that my Ugg Boots are wet and need to be dried. He’s in his mother’s bathroom with a hair drying, being benevolent in his last few minutes of the role of “Loving Boyfriend” and drying them out. I snap at him that it’s not priority, that we need to be leaving for the airport NOW, and immediately feel awful afterwards. It’s our last morning together, after all.
5:30 - We FINALLY start loading my baggage into A’s car. There’s no question about it, that hockey bag sure is overweight.
5:35 - After a final check, we hop into the driver and passengers seat and are on the road.
5:50 - I am trying not to vomit in A’s car, while we are stuck behind a snowplow on the highway.
5:55 - There is no way we are making it to the airport for 6:00.
6:10 - We arrive at YOW. It takes A a good few minutes to find a parking spot.
6:15 - We park. I find a cart and load it up. We haul ass to domestic departures.
6:25 - I’m having technical difficulties with the Self Check-In Machines. After seeking aid from an attendant, it still isn’t working. We play around with it for another few minutes - with various credit cards and reservation codes - and FINALLY everything goes through. We make our way into the checked baggage line up…
6:33 - The Moment of Truth: Will My Overweigh Bag Fly…
6:35 - Fortunately, The Very Nice Man working at “National Airlines” doesn’t hate his life this morning! Hurrah! Even though my bag is a good eight kilograms overweight, we do some minimal shuffling of the articles inside and not a dime is charged.
6:36 - “Miss, you should probably make your way through security… your flight is beginning to board…” The Very Nice Man from “National Airlines” tells me. I thank him profusely for being so understanding with my over-weight baggage, wave goodbye, and don’t take his wisdom pertaining to airport security seriously.
6:40 - Tearful goodbye between A and I occurs, before make my way down to security.
6:41 - Oh, fuck. The Very Nice Man from “National Airlines” wasn’t kidding. Security is PACKED. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
6:45 - I decide not to sweat it out, there is nothing I can do about it, as I snake through the line up. At this point, I am really kicking myself for not getting a Nexus pass.
6:48 - National Airlines is paging me personally, informing me that it’s last boarding call and that I should make my way to Gate 16. I start to sweat and begin to care about missing my flight.
6:50 - I make it to the front of security line up. For some reason, I still have to wait, while an abundance of people make their way through the X-Ray Machines, Scanners and Metal Detectors. National Airlines is paging me again. I am so fucked.
6:52 - I am able to get in a lineup to go THROUGH a scanner and am stuck behind a family of four, taking their sweet time before hoping on a plane to Cuba or wherever. I pull one of the security personal aside, inform them that National Airlines is paging me to board my 7:00 flight and that I need to get through security RIGHT NOW. Or else my Mom will kill me for missing my flight.
6:53 - BONUS! I get put in the Nexus security line up. Things are moving much quicker and personal aren’t being as anal. I thank The Baby Jesus for bestow some holiday mercy upon me.
6:54 - Security Personal to Me: “Any liquids, gels-” Me: “YUP, IT’S ALL IN THE PLASTIC BAG! AND HERE ARE MY BOOTS, LAPTOP, iPAD, I’M NOT WEARING A BELT AND/OR JEWELRY, DON’T HAVE A WALLET AND/OR AN INSULATED COFFEE MUG ON ME. By the way, do you know where Gate 16 is?”
6:55 - I pass through the metal scanner with no problems, and wait on the other side while my luggage goes through the X-Ray scanner. Please, oh, please, Baby Jesus, let it go through with no problems… Please..
6:56 - God loves me. I get my crap - literally pick it up with both arms, like I’m holding twin toddlers, and make a run for it. I see Gate 16 in the near distance.
6:57 - “WAIT! WAIT! I’M PASSENGER KELL! I’M PASSENGER KELL!” I scream at the top of my lungs, as I lunge towards Gate 16. “Sorry, what’s your name?!?” A National Airlines Staff Member shouts back at me, while another frantically starts in on her radio.
“KELL! KELL! IT RHYMES WITH HELL!” I scream as I throw my boarding pass and ID at one of the woman, while the other with the radio frantically says into it, “Put the bags on the plane! I repeat, put Passenger Kell’s bags on the plane immediately!”
I notice other people around the gate are looking at me like I’m crazy. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’m shouting, “HELL” at the top of my lungs… in an airport…
7:01 - I board the aircraft. I find my seat. I sit down and ignore the people giving me dirty looks for making their flight late. I legitimately do not care. I deserve a metal for what I’ve just been through. Suckasss.
7:10 - The flight begins to Take Off and I remember that I’ve come down with the flu. As the sensation of nausea creeps back up into my stomach, tell myself, if anything else, at lease I made it. I made it.
Male Model: “It seems like you girls are real professionals…”
Me: “Yea, well, I finished university, so now I’m just taking the time to travel and see where this all goes…”
MM: “Yea, I just model part-time, you know. I’ve got an exclusive contract with Burberry, so I just do that during the day and then take courses at night…”
Me: “… oh cool.”
MM: “Yea, it’s fun. I can still walk for other shows, though. I flew out to Tokyo once for a Prada show.”
Being in the UK, of course I had to buy union jack leggings. And egg cup holders.
I think there are two types of beauty.
The easier kind is inherited beauty. Youth and its accessories. Flawless skin, toned muscles, bright eyes, silken hair. Also, the ageless genetic gifts of symmetry, grace, and form.
While I cannot help but appreciate inherited beauty, I do not respect it…
Books Not Bombs
After spending more than a week in rural Northern Scotland, I came to the conclusion that I was, and always will be, a true city girl. I don’t care about the pollution, gum stuck to the pavement or the honking of car horns; if it’s a city, then it’s my home.
Me, the Uber Polite and Courteous Canadian Model, to Club Promoter Male Model: “It’s my last night out, I’m leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to say thanks for everything. I know it’s your job to get me wasted for free… but… you know… thanks.”
CPMM: “I’m really drunk. Reaaallyyy drrunnk.”
Me: “Ugh, yea. I can see that.”
CPMM: “So, itsss your lassst nigghtt?”
Me: “Yup. Leave tomorrow at 11am!”
CPMM: “You look good…”
Me: “… Okay, so, nice knowing you! Bye!”