Apr 24-26, 2025

[Mission Log #001: SNAFU International Dateline Breach]

When I set out from Ottawa on Thursday evening, I knew I’d be traveling for a while. I just didn’t realize it would be long enough to spiritually age 17 years and become an internationally wanted fruit smuggler.

Things started unraveling immediately.

My flight from Ottawa to Vancouver was late leaving, late arriving, and gave me just enough false hope to sprint like a caffeinated lunatic from arrival gate to departure gate. And because fate loves irony, I arrived exactly one minute too late for my Air New Zealand flight. One minute. Sixty tragic seconds. The staff at the gate hit me with the emotional equivalent of a shrug and a “Too bad, so sad,” which honestly could have been printed on a commemorative t-shirt for this trip.

I camped out at Vancouver Airport for a few grim hours, dangling all my dignity in front of the Air New Zealand counter until a pitying agent finally said, “Look, best I can do is Australia.”

Cool. That’s… a continent, but sure. Let’s pivot.

I boarded a 16-hour flight to Sydney, sandwiched beside two hilarious Australian women: one about 65 (shoutout to Kath) and one my age, though honestly, in Australia it’s hard to tell—everyone’s either 22 or 82 depending on how much UV damage they’ve collected. During our descent into Sydney, Kath casually told me about Australia’s snakes and spiders and how the poisonous ones are the real problem. When I nervously asked if people bring anti-venom kits hiking, she laughed and said, “Oh no, they just die.”

Honestly, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. Nothing like gallows humor to bond new friends.

After 24 hours of travel, I landed in Sydney on Saturday morning at 7am, officially time-traveling into the future.

The plane rolled to the gate and immediately began blasting the most aggressive, threatening biosecurity video I’ve ever seen. The message was clear: if you brought an apple into Australia, you were basically an eco-terrorist.

Which was awkward, because—as a well-meaning mom—I had packed a Costco-sized sack of apples and enough trail mix to feed a mid-sized militia. I had no idea fruit was contraband. Suddenly I wasn’t a traveler. I was Pablo Escobar of Produce with ten illegal apples in my bag.

Full panic set in. At Sydney Airport, after nervously browsing several luxury stores where I obviously couldn’t afford to exist, I panic-dumped all my forbidden snacks into the biosecurity depository bin like a war criminal covering my tracks. RIP, contraband apples. You deserved better.

Eventually, I found a connector flight to Wellington.

Onboard, I sat next to an adorable older Aussie couple who were visibly disappointed I wasn’t an empty seat. (Their faces said it all.)

We got to chatting about Australia and Canada both having federal elections this year. The Australian man casually mentioned voting is mandatory there—you literally get fined if you don’t vote. (Insert Canadian gasp.) Apparently, Australia is about to swing back to Labour (the liberal side). Meanwhile, our election remains an unpredictable dumpster fire.

Democracy Down Under: aggressive but efficient. Respect.

Also, Qantas airlines fed me a roast chicken lunch with cheese, wine, and roast vegetables, followed by a coffee and a Lindor chocolate. For a 2 hour flight. I was in economy. What is this magic??

Landing in Wellington was the final boss battle.

Another biosecurity propaganda video played, this time even more dramatic, warning against the unspeakable horror of smuggling… a banana. A story played about an innocent child who had a banana in his pocket and forgot it… and was “taken down” by biosecurity officers at the airport (read: NZ SEAL Team 7). Child was slapped with a $400 fine and public shaming.

Immigration and customs were smooth enough, but biosecurity at baggage claim was next-level intense.

Police dogs everywhere… sniffing for forbidden fruit.

Security scanning every bag.

Sniffing passengers like we were drug mules—but specifically, fruit mules.

I have never felt more like a criminal in my life.

DID YOU TRY TO IMPORT A GRANNY SMITH, YOU MONSTER?

Well, technically I imported ten. But don’t worry—I ate them and sprinkled the seeds as an offering.

After surviving the sniff brigade, I arrived at baggage claim… and no baggage.

No backpack. No suitcase.

Gone.

Presumed dead.

Likely launched into the middle of the Pacific Ocean—or even better, still in Canada.

There’s nothing more assuring than airline staff telling you that “we have no idea where your bag is”.

A few moments later, standing at the curb outside Wellington Airport wearing 30 hours of travel grime and carrying only my dignity and an expired boarding pass, it hit me:

I had packed no spare clothes in my carry-on.

No toothbrush.

No AirTag on my luggage.

Just a rogue pantry of fruit snacks I had already murdered back in Sydney.

I shouldn’t have panic packed.

I was fucked.

Wellington shops close early on Saturdays—by 6pm, the sidewalks are rolled up like a sleeping bag at a bad campsite. No stores open. No underwear to be found.

At the time, it felt like something I could resolve with one day delivery. I might have to Amazon Prime some essentials to the hotel… except surprise! New Zealand doesn’t have Amazon Prime.

They don’t even have Amazon warehouses.

Everything ships from Australia.

Estimated delivery for a new pair of underwear?

May 6th.

I slumped in the taxi, quietly mourning my dead clothes.

My cabbie, a super nice Sikh guy, chatted with me about the trip, telling me I had to see the Beehive (NZ Parliament) while I was here and that the South Island was “the closest thing to heaven on Earth.”

I smiled and said, “But heaven doesn’t have Amazon, does it?”

He laughed. I cried internally.

At 6pm, I finally dragged my corpse into the Rydges Hotel lobby, where John was waiting for me—along with a half-dozen of his work colleagues who were checking in too.

Perfect timing.

First impressions?

A woman who looked like she’d fought an airport and lost.

We collapsed into our room, I did an emergency scrubdown of myself and everything I owned, popped a sleeping pill, and was unconscious by 7:30pm.

I woke up at 3:30am Sunday morning (right now), officially a creature of the night.

Australians I met warned me: it takes weeks for lost luggage to be found, if it ever is. I have no choice now but to buy new clothes, improvise, and hope Martinborough wineries will accept a slightly “dressed down” guest today.

Wish me luck.

And if you’re smuggling apples through international airports…

Godspeed.