✈️ Montreal, the beginning of our Italian adventure. Because in 2025, Ottawa Airport is still in the planning stages.

Each time we think about the start of a vacation, we imagine smiles, carefully packed suitcases, and the perfect playlist for the trip. For us, the start was a little different: a deep sigh and nerves on edge on the highway as we weaved between trucks and potholes on our way to… Montreal. Why? Because in 2025, Ottawa International Airport still seems to be unaware of Europe’s existence. So if you want a direct flight to Rome, you have to say goodbye to the Canadian capital and drive 250 km to our better-connected neighbors.

We hit the road with enthusiasm (and lots of coffee), drove through the Gatineau hills, and checked off all the usual pre-departure questions: “Did we bring our passports?” “Did you charge your phone?” “Did we check everything?” Luckily, my sister, who lives in Montreal, saved us a month of expensive airport parking: we left the car at her place and headed to the terminal with light hearts and heavy luggage.

Montreal Airport: A Test of Patience

The moment we arrived at the airport, we found ourselves in the middle of a real-time episode of an imaginary reality TV show: “Who can stand in line the longest without giving up?” ” Queues everywhere, people running in all directions, announcements over the loudspeaker and general organized confusion — everyone seemed busy, but no one seemed to know exactly what to do.

Check-in? A test of patience. Security? We had another close call when we got to baggage check, as we were afraid they would tell us our bags were too heavy. No matter how hard I try to reduce the amount of stuff we take for four weeks, it seems unthinkable to me that I could manage with only a few changes of clothes for so many days.

🪑 Seats on the plane: a mission (almost) impossible

After all the commotion, we finally got three seats together on the plane—a small victory worth celebrating with the cookies served on board. Me? I ended up, of course, in the middle, between Anna and Georges. Because, well… I’m kind of a buffer between those two. A sort of emotional support, equipped with a tightly fastened seatbelt and a reassuring smile.

The problem is that I have poor circulation in my legs, and long flights aren’t really recommended. So, after enduring the sardine-like position for as long as I could, I asked my companions to give me some space and took a few steps down the aisle, trying to convince my body that everything was under control. It helped a little, but not enough to make me forget how badly I wanted to get to my destination. 7.5 hours of torture…

And yes, I couldn’t wait to drink some water in peace, without fear of fainting at the toilet door, suffocated by the foul smells floating in the thin air of the cabin. Who said flying was glamorous? They’ve clearly never flown economy class.

🍽️ The in-flight menu: between courage and survival

If you think airplane food is “edible,” you’ve never flown Air Canada. What we were served on board was unfit for human consumption—disgusting is the nicest word I can use without censoring my blog. A sad combination of bland pasta and a dessert that looked like it was made of cardboard and tasted like some kind of pudding.

Georges, in a desperate attempt to save the situation, had a “brilliant” idea: he labelled us all Jews and asked for kosher meals. I must say that the kosher option was a little more edible than the standard menu, probably because it was packaged separately and seemed to have been handled by fewer people. But it was still awful.

🧘‍♀️ Just when you think it’s over, there’s more

Finally, we accepted our fate. We kept still in our narrow seats, knees pressed against our chests, hoping that time would pass more quickly if we didn’t look at the clock. I hate flying. The crowds, the overwhelming proximity of other souls equally emotionally spent as us, the cries of tired babies, and the stifling, almost unbreathable atmosphere make me count the minutes until landing like I would count raindrops after a scorching day. The whole experience reminds me of that song “Alors on danse” by Stromae. It describes the situation perfectly.

But after all, it’s all for Rome, isn’t it? And for gelato. 🍦 Lots of gelato. 🍦