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I say that because there are twelve flights of stairs between our flat and the ground floor of the building, and we had over sixty pounds of luggage, in six different, equally awkward bags, to shift from the top to the bottom. To others, this might not have seemed the best start to our holiday, but since Otis sent a man out in a blue boilersuit to mend the lift, finishing at least an hour before we needed it, I see is as a mark of good fortune.
After all, otherwise we might have been complacent, unimpressed by our lift's ability to convey us through the building, rather than shocked and awed by its operability. I suppose it's shocking that I'm shocked by a lift working properly; perhaps I've been in Hong Kong too long.
We have so, so much luggage because in a week and a day, I'll be married, and since wedding bands and dresses and suits and toothpaste and shiny shoes all weigh so much, we've ended up carrying a large fraction of our body weight to Canada. I'm very fortunate to have a kind and industrious fiancee who's packed our bags, or alternately she's very unfortunate to have a grumpy and indolent fiance, who has been too busy/too tired/too confused by life to lend a hand to packing. But I did heft our cases into the back of the taxi, so I do come in useful for something.
And thus, when we get back in a few weeks, we'll be married, and I'm worried that we'll have even more luggage, although after a few weeks of carting it around I'll have arms like a Spartan.
I mean like a very old, dead Greek bloke. Oh well. That's some improvement.
When we get back, I'll be wise and responsible and calm and mature and ... Well, I'll be married, anyway.
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