To fill you in on the latest happenings in my little world - Ian and I just arrived home from the Canadian Swing Championships at le Hôtel du Lac Carling, a resort in the Laurentian mountains in Quebec. Now you might think that this sounds like a luxury jaunt in paradise, but Think Again.

The story begins, after much confusion, as we find ourselves working as volunteers - me in exchange for a full pass of dances and workshops, and Ian for $10 an hour as a non-dancer. Friday afternoon - After a harrowing 2 hour drive down the freeway in the pouring rain with zero visibility, deafening out-of-tune singing, a van full of dancers and 15 cases of beer we arrive safely at the hotel. The first evening rolls by without major incident, and after a poker tournament (which both Ian and I play, but neither win), my first stint working on the registration desk, and some pretty sparse social dancing on my part, we fall into bed (an inflatable mattress on the floor of someone's hotel room - gotta love free accommodation!!) at 4am. *Just a note on the sleeping arrangements - if you have ever shared a poorly inflated air mattress with a 230 pound man then you know it's like trying get a decent sleep on the back of a moving camel. On a bamboo life raft. In a tsunami. Not Good.*

Three hours later I am back sitting at the registration desk - the only grim hold I have on sanity provided by Tylenol and a coffee the size of my head. And so begins my day, registering dancers and competitors, answering questions (mostly in my pathetic French (which, incidently, improved HUGELY over the course of the weekend - I was even complimented on my accent! Nice.)) and trying not to fall into a sleep-deprived coma. Despite all my bitching, I actually really enjoyed the work - it was great to meet so many people from all over, and to feel a real sense of satisfaction watching the competitions and knowing that I helped organise it. But at the time the warm fuzzies were definitely overtaken by extreme frustration when 9 hours later WITHOUT A BREAK I find myself STILL on the registration desk, with the organisers nowhere to be found. Luckily, Lisa (Ubiquitous Committee Member Extraordinaire) helped sort it out, and finally (still only having had one dance the whole weekend) I collapse into bed early (okay, 3am is early for the CSC).

Four hours later and there I am, back on the registration desk - known by all who enter as Dante's seventh circle of hell :D - and again drinking a mammoth coffee, this time with a Red Bull chaser (as I sat there I could have sworn I saw a black cat walk past the same doorway twice... but it was probably just the caffeine). I won't go into too much bitching (I did enough of it there! *shame*) but suffice to say the scheduling gripes are eventually sorted out and I am set free to roam in my natural habitat. I take an awesome workshop (as a lead) with Sylvia Sykes, swing dance legend and all-round sassy chick) and catch up with some friends I'd missed so far (including those magificent Texan bastards Matt and Todd - love those boys). At around 10pm we decide to go back to our room to relax for a bit, in preparation for a huge night of dancing and cutting loose in the party room (with free booze and the consummate Shaun "Colonel" Sanders' famous 7-layer shots). Unfortunately, as soon as my head hits the pillow I crash like a kid after a showbag-induced sugar binge. Ian wakes me up at 4am, and I drag myself out of bed, cursing that I'd missed my one night of freedom and fun, and any chance to get my work's worth from this event. The ballroom is still in full (well, 1/2) swing, so I catch a dance with one of my poker buddies from Quebec city, then take a quick stop to say goodbye to my Texans and Detroiters in the party room.

Cut to 8:30am the next morning - in the minivan on the way home to Montreal, we find a brain damaged Kate, a very relieved Ian, and big Wes from Winnipeg crammed in the back, and Sylvia Sykes, Yuval Hod and some chick from New York in the front. After an infinitely more entertaining trip than on the way up (including discussions about politics, dating and travel - that Yuval is damn entertaining) we drop the teachers off at the airport and make a last ditch sprint for home.

As the door slams and our luggage hits the floor, we sink onto the couch with a boneshaking sigh of relief that rings with an unspoken vow - Never. Again.

It's good to be home.

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