Pete slept very well on the way over here, but the way back was all daylight and at the wrong time. Still, we were going from Terminal 2, "The Queen's Terminal" no less, brand new and opened for the Olympics. It has a cafe run by amazing British chef (yes, those words can go together) Heston Blumenthal.
First, the car rental company didn't charge us any extra for the filthy state our motor was in when we dropped it off. The poor thing was carrying a lot of mud from at least three countries, inside and out, but apart from the loss in fuel economy from the added weight and aerodynamic drag, we got away with it.
Second, the check-in lady informed us that the flight was only a quarter full and moved us to an empty row. A whole four seats to ourselves! In all honesty, I'm not sure if we could have managed in two seats without some kind of international incident, given Pete's spirited bounciness for ninety percent of the journey.
Third, we managed to eat in Heston Blumenthal's restaurant before we departed, and while I imagine it's not quite like his massively Michelin-starred one it does have ice cream made with liquid nitrogen, famous chips, and cocktails that contain wine clouds.
So we were happy when we landed back in Vancouver, although one thing I didn't miss was the traffic. Like SF, there are too many cars for too few bridges, so our taxi quickly ground to a standstill. "I know it's marked for three lanes," I shouted at the driver, "but you could easily fit five cars down here! Come on!" and "It's only a one-way street if there's somebody coming down it towards you! Move!" Yes, Tbilisi has changed me.
Back home the jetlag kicked in, and Pete (who I now refer to as my external body clock) woke several time confused that it was the middle of the night, and wondering why there weren't grandparents around to play with him. There's snow on the mountains opposite our window, and apparently December starts next week. How long were we away for?!
Hannah and a Black Forest Gateau sundae, so no wonder she's smiling.
Pete: juvenile food critic.
