Joe and I book a trip together, which leaves from JFK, so we meet in New York.
I’m unable to find the email with my flight details, and I can’t figure it how to look it up. I have a strong feeling I missed takeoff anyway. Joe’s on a later flight so he’s trying to help me. I find out we’re destined for Vanuatu.
Me: “Vanuatu? I thought we were going to the States.”
Joe: “You kept telling me you had it all figured out.”
Me: “Wait, I’m having such a hard time doing this, it must be a dream, right?”
Joe and our AirBNB host agree with me, but that doesn’t solve the problem, so I search for the airport code YYT in my email and find the itinerary.
Me: “Wait, I live in Vancouver! Fuck. It’ll probably be like $6000 for a ticket to Vanuatu at this point, and it will take forever to get there.”
Joe: “They don’t have any fish and chips anyway, so why bother.”
[Dreamor’s note: In junior high, I did a project on Vanuatu and learned that it contains many islands. They also export some sunshine and import their diapers, although over there they’re their pampers.]