The man gives me a nudge with his elbow, and nods towards the window.
‘Canada,’ he says, as though the plane’s destination had hitherto been uncertain.
I strain my neck to see out through the window. All I can see are brown forests.
‘I thought there were mostly pine trees in Canada,’ I say.
‘They are pines,’ the woman says.
It’s the first thing she’s said throughout the whole journey.
‘But they’re brown?’ I say.
The man and the woman look at me and nod.
‘Oh yeah,’ the woman says. ‘That’s the pine beetle, it’s killed all the trees. It’s probably killed more than half the trees in British Columbia. Some people say it’s the world’s worst insect plague. And the winters these days are never cold enough to kill the beetles off.’
I’m almost too shocked to speak. Outside on the ground there’s still nothing but brown forests, as far as the eye can see.
‘So all these forests are dead?’ I ask.
The man and the woman nod again.
‘But why isn’t anyone writing about this?’ I burst out. ‘This is world news! The world’s biggest insect plague. Half of the forests are dead. It’s terrible.’
The woman shrugs.
‘Oh, no one ever writes about Canada,’ she says.
I give the Lonely Planet book in my hand and its photos of dark-green forests an angry look. For the rest of our descent I refuse to look out of the window in shock and in protest against the pine beetle and British Columbia’s dead forests.
At last we land and, like a herd of zombies, everyone staggers off the plane. My legs are hurting so much I would have crawled out along the boarding bridge if I could. Outside it’s overcast, and a clock inside the airport says it’s twenty to eleven. I stand still for a while, trying to figure out whether it’s twenty to eleven in the morning or the evening. After the long journey and over twenty-four hours with no sleep, time has become a slippery, confusing concept. On tottering legs I start to move in the same direction as all the others. A wave of mild nausea washes over me.
‘Passport, please.’
I give my passport to the stubbly man behind the bulletproof glass and try to smile at the first Canadian I meet in Canada. He doesn’t smile back.
‘What’s the reason for your trip to Canada?’ the man says.
‘I’m visiting a friend.’
‘What is your friend called and what’s the address of his or her place of residence?’
‘It … he … is called Ben Richards and he lives at 1348 Commercial Drive. Here in Vancouver.’
Am I imagining things or did the man react slightly when I said Commercial Drive?
‘What kind of friends are you?’
I almost want to turn around to the traveller behind me to ask whether the man is really allowed to ask me that. But instead I lean closer to the bulletproof glass so that only he can hear me.
‘We’re lovers,’ I say and blush, more from anger over the personal question than from embarrassment.
The man looks at me for a while.
‘Where have you flown from?’
‘Vienna,’ I say. ‘In Austria. I had a stopover in London.’
‘Why did you fly from Vienna if your passport is Swedish?’
‘I live in Vienna.’
‘What is your occupation?’
‘I’m an English teacher.’
‘Do you intend to work while you are in Canada?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Canadians already speak such good English. Apart from the French Canadians, of course.’
I already realise it was a mistake to try and joke. The man with the stubble looks at me.
‘Are you being insolent?’ he asks.
I quickly shake my head and my cheeks grow hot.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Not at all. I’m not intending to work while I’m in Canada. Sorry.’
‘How much money do you have on you?’
‘I-I have 200 Canadian dollars with me in cash,’ I stammer. ‘And my Visa card.’
‘How did you obtain the money?’
‘Human trafficking in Moldova,’ I say. Not. Instead I say:
‘Working as an English teacher. At Berlitz. I am, as I said, an English teacher.’
When I’ve finally got the stamp in my passport and am allowed to go and fetch my bag, my legs are shaking. I’m dismayed at the way the Canadian people have treated me so far. In my head I have a go at Ben for the fact that Canadians are nothing like as friendly as he’s always claimed, and in my head Ben assures me that I just happened to meet a twat who gets a kick out of being an arsehole towards other people.
My nausea gets worse. After collecting my bag I come out into an enormous hall and try to find the train that goes direct to Vancouver. My relief at being in Canada is wrestling with the exhaustion and the jet lag that seem to be getting worse with every minute, and everything feels a bit surreal. I’m sure I’m talking too slowly when I ask the woman at the information desk where I can buy a train ticket. Suddenly I’m struck by a terrifying thought. I’m upside down. Vancouver is on the other side of the globe. I’m upside down. Or inside out. Or the other way around. Or something. Everything. Is. In. The. Wrong. Place. I’m on the verge of falling to the ground and hanging on for dear life, and it’s only with the greatest of effort that I manage to sit down on one of the blue seats on the train. Even though I’ve never taken LSD, I realise this must be what it feels like. How can everyone around me be pretending that this is normal? Stiffly, I hold onto the armrest of my seat to stop myself flying up to the ceiling. Or down to the ground.