It all started in the early hours of February 4th. While most people heading to the airport just… go to the airport, I live on Salt Spring Island — which means before any trip, I get to embark on a small adventure just to reach the departure hall.
The routine goes like this: ferry from Salt Spring to Swartz Bay, another ferry from Swartz Bay across to Tsawwassen on the mainland, then a bus, and then a train to finally land at YVR. Every mode of transport short of a hot air balloon. I’ve started telling my parents that my trips don’t begin at the destination — they begin the moment I leave the house.
My flight was at 2pm. To make that work, I was out the door at 6am, catching the first ferry off the island. Four hours of transit before I even see a check-in counter. Most people have a commute to work. I have a commute to my commute.
But this time, something was different.
As I stepped off the second ferry and started mentally calculating whether I could make the bus work, I had a small panic moment. The thing is — I needed to be at the check-in counter early. Not just “airport early.” Actually early.
Here’s the backstory: I have an Indian passport. My flight to Santiago goes through the US. And because American carriers have a special talent for making life inconvenient, I couldn’t check in online. Doesn’t matter that I have Canadian PR. Doesn’t matter that I’ve done this before. Indian passport holder transiting the US? You’re showing up in person, standing in line, and explaining yourself to a human being at a counter. No exceptions.
So the bus wasn’t going to cut it. I pulled out my phone and started looking for an Uber.
That’s when I noticed her — standing near the ferry terminal exit, two big bags at her feet, clearly also trying to figure out a cab situation. One look and I thought: Indian. Going somewhere far. Probably also stressed. Worth a shot.
I walked over and asked if she wanted to split a cab to the airport. She said yes without hesitation. Turns out the universe occasionally rewards you for just asking.
And that’s how I ended up with unexpected company for the ride to YVR — which, honestly, was a much better start to the trip than standing alone on a curb doing Uber math.
And that, in a nutshell, is one of the quiet joys of traveling the way I do.
You meet people. Not curated, not planned — just people. Different backgrounds, different destinations, different stories. The woman sharing my cab to the airport was just one small example of something I’ve noticed across every trip I’ve taken: the world opens up a lot more when you’re willing to just ask.
Ask if someone wants to share a cab. Ask a stranger for a recommendation. Ask the person sitting next to you on a bus where they’re headed. Sometimes you get a great response. Sometimes you get a polite no. Sometimes you get a blank stare. But occasionally — often enough to keep doing it — you get a genuinely good moment you never planned for.
The worst that can happen is someone says no. That’s it. And yet most people never ask.
It’s become something of an unwritten rule for me: if something’s in your head, just say it. The trip hadn’t even started yet and it was already teaching me something.
The cab ride was good — easy conversation, the kind that flows naturally when two people have nowhere to be yet but somewhere to get to. But the moment we hit the departures drop-off, I switched modes. Social Saurabh clocked out. Airport Saurabh clocked in.
First objective: check-in counter. Get the boarding passes. Move.
Here’s a little budget travel hack that’s served me well: when you book the cheapest possible fare — which I always do — you’re usually not paying for a seat selection. No assigned seat means you’re at the mercy of whatever’s left. Which sounds terrible until you realize there’s a simple workaround: check in as early as humanly possible.
The earlier you’re at that counter, the more seats are still available. And with a bit of luck and some strategic politeness, you can still end up with a decent spot — window seat, extra legroom, or at the very least not the middle seat between two strangers who both want the armrest.
I’ve made a habit of this. Show up early, be pleasant, and let the check-in agent do their thing. It works more often than it has any right to.
I made it to the check-in counter, smiled my most charming smile, and did what I always do — politely asked if there was an aisle seat available. It’s become part of the ritual at this point. Sometimes it works beautifully. This time, the travel gods were not in a generous mood.
Limited seats left. Middle seat. Assigned. Done.
Sad.
Then came round two of the charm offensive. When I travel carry-on only and the flight looks full, I usually ask the check-in agent if they’re accepting volunteers to gate-check bags — essentially, you hand over your carry-on to be put in the hold for free, and pick it up on the jet bridge at the other end. It’s a win-win: the airline solves their overhead bin problem, and I don’t have to wrestle my bag into an overhead compartment while twelve people queue behind me giving me the look.
Agents are usually pretty happy about this arrangement.
Not today’s agent.
Today’s agent was not particularly moved by my offer, my logic, or my general existence. No gate-check. No aisle seat. Middle seat it was. I took my boarding passes, thanked her anyway, and accepted my fate with the quiet dignity of someone who has been thoroughly outwitted by an airport check-in process.
But here’s the silver lining — and there’s always one if you look hard enough.
This was only the first leg. Vancouver to Dallas. And in Dallas, I had a layover of almost 24 hours, which sounds brutal on paper but was actually the opposite. Because as luck would have it, I have friends in Dallas. Real ones. The kind who let you show up at their door with a backpack and no warning.
So the middle seat? Manageable. It’s a few hours, not a transatlantic torture session. The carry-on staying with me? Fine. I wasn’t checking into a hostel that night — I was crashing with friends.
Sometimes the trip works out not because everything goes right, but because the things that go wrong stop mattering. This was one of those times.
The flight itself was genuinely fine. I had a show lined up — The Studio on Apple TV+ — the kind of thing you save specifically for long flights and then end up watching three episodes of before you realize you’ve forgotten to be bored. The food was decent, it was free, and I was in no position to complain. Economy class fed me. That’s all I needed.
We landed in Dallas.
Now. For context: I live on Salt Spring Island, BC. And one of the quiet casualties of living on the west coast of Canada is that there is no Panda Express anywhere near me. The chain exists in Canada — Ontario, Alberta — but BC? Nothing. Not a single location.
So there exists an unwritten personal rule: any time I pass through the US, regardless of layover length, regardless of how hungry or full I am, a Panda Express meal is non-negotiable. It’s not even really about the food at this point. It’s a ritual. A homecoming of sorts.
Dallas Airport. Panda Express. Orange chicken. Done.
With that important business taken care of, I made my way to my friend’s apartment — conveniently close to the airport, just a short train ride away. He’s someone I’ve known since college back in India, now living and working in the US and doing well for himself. The kind of friend where no matter how long the gap between meetings, you pick up exactly where you left off.
That night, he had some other friends over. Since I was in full travel mode — body clock already confused, bag still packed — I did the sensible thing and slept early. They decided to go out. No hard feelings. The night ended quietly, which was exactly what I needed.
The next morning, it was just the two of us. His friends had left, he hadn’t headed to work yet, and we had a few unhurried hours to just catch up. Life updates, where things are going, the usual. Simple, easy, and genuinely good. The best kind of conversation — no agenda, no rush.
But it was a working day, and he had to be at the office by noon. My layover was a full 24 hours, so my flight to Santiago wasn’t until 7 that evening. Which left me with a plan: head back to the airport early, check in in person, and try my luck at the seat lottery again.
This time, the travel gods showed up.
I was at the counter by 11am. The agent was friendly, cheerful, and apparently in a generous mood — because without much fuss, she handed me an aisle seat. Just like that. Same move, completely different result. Turns out it’s not always about the strategy. Sometimes it’s just about who’s standing on the other side of the counter.
I was happy. Genuinely, unreasonably happy about an aisle seat. Travel does that to you.
Boarding passes secured, aisle seat confirmed, and still a few hours to burn. I did what any sensible person would do — put on my tourist hat and decided to finally visit the Dallas Farmers Market.
Here’s the thing: I lived in Dallas. And in all that time, I never once went to the Farmers Market. Not once. So this felt like the universe giving me a chance to correct a personal oversight.
I made my way there, arrived with mild excitement, and found it closed.
Just closed. No dramatic reason, no sign explaining anything. Just — not open today.
I stood there for a moment, took in the general area, confirmed that yes, this is where the Dallas Farmers Market is, and headed back. On the bright side, it killed some time. On the other bright side, I now know exactly where the Dallas Farmers Market is, for the next time I have a 24-hour layover and it might actually be open.
Back at the airport, I got myself sorted, went through security, and got ready to board my next flight — Dallas to Santiago.
The actual trip was finally about to begin.
Next up: Landing in Santiago for the first time, first impressions of Chile, and figuring out how to get from the airport to the city without getting ripped off.