Home sweet home

After 24 hours in transit, I am shouting "home at last, home at last, thank God Almighty we're home at last."
I have concluded that these large airports, like Heathrow and Pearson, are just beyond any human scale now.
There should be a sign above their entrances, Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
Sweating thousands clump along endless corridors toward their mythical airline gate, now harassed by airline staff at desks in the hallways who demand to see boarding passes or passports or both, then emerging into another vast hall of chaos where serpentine lines must funnel through yet another security checkpoint - sometimes shoes off, sometimes laptops in a basket, sometimes not -- then up another escalator and down yet another grey corridor.
The tedium is relieved only by muttered complaints about people who ignore the "stand on the right, walk on the left" convention.
As we were pell-melling through Heathrow to make our flight, I found myself pushing a 12-year-old boy who had stopped at the end of an moving sidewalk to look at something interesting. "You can't stop, you have to keep moving!" -- sort of a motto for today's airport, I guess.
We experienced the usual airport horror stories, culminating in this one -- when another pell-mell effort finally got us to the gate for our last Air Canada connection, from Toronto to Saskatoon, we were told our seats had already been cancelled because our luggage could not possibly have made it.
So we sat in Pearson for the next three hours waiting for the next flight.
And of course, our luggage was waiting for us when we finally arrived in Saskatoon.