Travel

My Week 145: Line-ups Are Hell, The Todd

Tuesday to Friday: I Go Abroad

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been conspicuously AFK this week (“away from keyboard” for those of you who don’t watch The Big Bang Theory).  I was in a different country and my laptop wouldn’t work because the hotel wifi was ‘open’ as opposed to ‘secured’. Every time I tried to open Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, or even my own work drives (you can see how I prioritize when I have free wifi, right?), I would get a message saying that someone might be trying to hack into my system.  I was like, “Listen, laptop. You’re not the boss of me,” but the laptop didn’t give a sh*t and refused to let me connect with the world like a mean babysitter. Sure, I had my phone, but I HATE trying to read and comment on things via a handheld device. I really need a full keyboard to feel articulate. Also my hands are gigantic, so I make so many typos with my phone that I get frustrated.

That having been said, the conference was very interesting and I was with a couple of really nice guys from work who made sure I didn’t get lost or get on the wrong plane. I’ve never actually travelled out of the country by myself before, and Ken usually arranges everything, and keeps all the pertinent itinerary materials in a file folder in order of date, while I’m all ‘devil-may-care’ and try to throw him off by insisting on unscheduled stops at scenic bars and such. But I was feeling super-confident because I’d gone and booked my own transit to the airport from downtown and I’d made my OWN file folder. Then I got to the airport. I walked inside and immediately had a panic attack. There were kiosks and line-ups and counters and people, and I didn’t know how to even begin. So I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken. But just as the phone was ringing, I saw one of my colleagues, and he was like “Great, you’re here. Have you checked in yet? You do that here—let me show you” and I was SO relieved that I hung up the phone.

Then Ken messaged me to say “Why did you call? Are you OK?” But I’d just exchanged Blackberry PINs with my colleague, and when I sent back a reply to Ken that said, “Yes” with two great big HEARTS, it accidentally went to the guy I work with. I was mortified and didn’t know what to do, because he hadn’t seen it yet. By this time, our other co-worker had arrived, and when I told him what had happened, he said, “Don’t say anything. Later, I’m going to whisper, ‘I think mydangblog has a crush on you—have you checked your messages lately?’ and we’ll see what he says.” I was even more appalled but then I realized 2 things: 1) that both these guys had a good sense of humour and that 2) I should probably stop making fun of Ken with his “file folder system” and his “knowledge of airports”.

We arrived at our destination without incident, and the rest of the trip was excellent. But it occurred to me over and over again, that the main problem with any kind of travel is other people. That is to say, other people who are ahead of you in any kind of line-up and who have seemingly complicated issues that inevitably delay you from doing the things you need to do:

1) The bank

I had to get American money for the trip. I went to a bank. I stood in line for 20 minutes while the tellers were each dealing with people who apparently had never been in a bank before. One girl was asking numerous questions and signing several documents, another guy was just standing there while three bank employees looked at a computer terminal, another woman just looked confused and kept digging in her purse for god-knows-what and handing the teller the same piece of paper back, and so on. When it was finally my turn, I went to the teller with 3 twenty-dollar bills in my hand and said, “Here is 60 dollars Canadian. I would like this turned into as much American money as you can.” I had my 44 bucks and 5 cents in under 2 minutes, and I was like, “The rest of you in line can thank me NOW.”

2) The airport

Both coming and going, the airport was another place where people who don’t know what they’re doing hold up lines. Yes, I was confused and didn’t know where to go when I arrived, but I DIDN’T stand in a line just to ask someone. If my colleague hadn’t appeared and if Ken hadn’t answered the phone, I would have simply Googled “What do you do when you get to the airport?” Either that or called my Mom.

At the self-baggage check, we literally had to wait 5 minutes for a family who was standing there, discussing and debating what to do with their luggage. The sign clearly read, “Place bag on belt.” I don’t know what there was to talk about—it’s four words. And an ARROW.

On the way back, there was literally no one at the airport and there were only two people in line ahead of us at the Air Canada desk, with two service representatives. Guess how long it took to get a boarding pass? You can probably imagine, given the nature of people in line-ups. At one point, the guy ahead of me had 4 clerks staring back and forth between his passport and a computer terminal. Then one of the clerks got on the PHONE. The other person in line ahead of us was busy repacking his suitcase, because it was over the weight limit. You know how I knew my suitcase was UNDER the weight limit? Because I had it weighed at the hotel. Also, he had two sets of golf clubs that were being inspected ONE BY ONE by a security guard. Who the hell travels alone with TWO sets of golf clubs?!

When I DID step up to the counter to check in and get my boarding pass, I had my passport open to the right page to expedite the process. The woman looked at my passport and asked me, “What’s your country of origin?” I really wanted to say, “You’re looking at my passport right now. I believe that information is readily available to you on the page you’re currently staring at, so FIGURE IT OUT.” What I actually did was say “Canada”. But when she asked, “Are you travelling alone?”, I refrained from answering, “Do you see anyone else standing here?!” and I just pretended not to hear the question. Eventually, she DID figure that one out.

3) On the plane

What was I waiting for on the plane, you ask? The bar cart, obviously. And it would have been there in fine time if the old dude in the second row hadn’t wanted to know the ingredients of each and every menu item:

Old Dude (pointing to cart): What’s that?
Flight Attendant: That’s hummus.
Old Dude: What’s hummus?
Flight Attendant: It’s a spread made out of chick peas.
Old Dude (pointing to cart): Oh. What’s that?
Flight Attendant: It’s another type of hummus.
Old Dude: What’s in it?
Me: F*ckity f*ck f*ck can a girl get a damned drink before this plane lands??!!

I didn’t need to know about the hummus, or what was in the ‘Fiesta Snack Pack’, or the ‘Airline Surprise’, because I had read the MENU that Air Canada thoughtfully provides to every passenger.

To paraphrase Jean Paul Sartre, “Hell is other people ahead of you in line”.

Last Sunday:

Last week, I challenged a fantastic fellow blogger to write on a specific topic. He goes by ‘desertcurmudgeon’ and his blog is Two Voices in One Transmission. His posts are extremely articulate and always thought-provoking and entertaining, so be sure to check him out. When he challenged his readers to give him a topic, I gave him the following prompt: “A daughter’s a daughter all of her life; a son’s a son ‘til he takes a wife.” I’ve heard this saying many times, and while I don’t necessarily believe it’s true, I wanted to see what desertcurmudgeon could do with it. The result is the hilarious Todd.

As funny as it is, when you dig beneath the surface, “Todd” is a pointed example of being so fearful of your child leaving you that you coddle him until he has no coping skills and no independence. I think being a good mother is a very delicate balancing act between supporting your child, but also raising him or her to be good with the world. And while I sometimes struggle with feelings of loss now that my own daughter has become an adult and doesn’t really ‘need’ me much anymore, I’m still extremely proud of her independence and her resiliency. Also, she has a lovely girlfriend, and when I see how she treats her, I know I raised her well. So thank you, desertcurmudgeon, for “Todd” and for helping me realize that if I’d done what Todd’s mom had done, I’d have nobody to blame but myself when Todd was travelling and  pissed everyone else off on the plane because he hadn’t read the menu and treated the flight attendant like she was his mother.

My Week 123: A Wine Tour, A Dog’s Purpose

Saturday: We go on a wine tour

Last weekend, out of the blue, Ken said, “Hey, why don’t I take you and your dad on a wine tour?” And I was like, “Hells to the yeah!” because Ken doesn’t really like wine, so he’s happy to just drive and take cool photographs like the one I’m using today. Dad was down for it, because who wouldn’t want to spend an entire day drinking wine? Well, maybe some people, but not us. We set off for the Beamsville Bench with a plan to hit at least 5 different wineries. Now, if you’re unaware of this, Ontario is a great wine-producing province, but the vast majority of the really good stuff cannot be found in the LCBO, the super-controlling entity which is the only place in town to buy alcohol, and where small wineries have to pay a lot of money and produce a lot of wine to get on the shelves. I shouldn’t say “the only place in town” though, because there’s also the corporate “wine shoppes” in some big grocery store chains that only sell Vincor wines, or what I like to call “Vincorps”. Vincor is the eighth largest wine producer in the world and trades on the stock market, unlike the independent wineries, who just hope that people will come to their tasting bars and maybe buy a bottle or two. This isn’t to say that corporate wine isn’t good, but there’s just no sense of adventure like there is on a tour of independent wineries—as you will soon see.

First stop: Peninsula Ridge.

Don’t be put off by the seemingly oxymoronic name—the main house IS on a bit of a hill, and the Niagara Peninsula is around SOMEWHERE. Peninsula Ridge is one of our favourites, mostly because they’re generous with their samples. 4 tastings for $5, which sounds like a bit of a cheek, but if you buy a bottle, they waive the tasting fee. Dad and I were in our element, while Ken wandered the property taking pictures. We’d been there before, and Dad and I started reminiscing:

Dad: Remember that Meritage from a couple of years ago?
Me: The one where the tasting notes said the flavour on the palate was “leather and pipe tobacco”?
Dad: And it tasted like someone had strained it through an old wallet?
Both: HAHAHA!
Girl Behind Counter: ?

She didn’t seem to know a lot about wine, but she kept offering to let us try other stuff, and by the fourth sample, we were pretty much old friends, as so often happens on these outings. We left with four bottles (I’m drinking the Sauvignon Blanc as I write this) and a decidedly warm glow.

Second stop: Angel’s Gate

Another strange name, as you won’t see any angels hovering about, but there ARE very large gates. Angel’s Gate is another tried and true place, but the serving sizes are somewhat less than generous, and the tasting fee is only waived if you spend $50, which IS a bit of a cheek. It was harder to tell if the wines were good, since we were only given a scant mouthful, but the server was friendly and knowledgeable, and conceded that, if we spent $50 combined, which seemed pretty likely, she’d waive the $5 apiece tasting fee. At one point, I looked up and realized that high above the bar, there was a door leading to a balcony which had no railings—it was just a plinth sticking out into the air. I asked the woman about it, and she said, “Oh, we’ve been doing some renovating—the offices are up there, but the door’s locked from the inside.” I was like, “Thank god, because I can’t think of a worse combination than a balcony without railings in a place where people can get drunk.” Which is maybe why they only give you a splash rather than a slosh. We each bought a couple of bottles, while Ken wandered around taking pictures, and I realized that after she rang mine in, she quickly scanned a bar code on the counter next to the cash register. I’d been to the eye doctor last week, and was happy to hear that my post-laser surgery eyes were better than 20/20, so I could clearly see that under the bar code, it said “Tasting Fee”. I called her on it, and she quickly took it off my bill. Thanks, laser beams. Besides, that was never $5 worth of wine—maybe $2.25 tops.

Third stop: Mountain Road Wine Company

It wasn’t quite noon yet, and Ken was insisting that we go somewhere that we’d never been before, which was tricky because we’ve been to most of the wineries in that area over the years. Then we passed a sign outside a small, red tarpaper barn that said, “Mountain Road Wine Company”.

Ken: Let’s go there.
Me: It’s a broken down lawn mower shed!
Dad: It looks like there’s a dirt road leading somewhere. Maybe the winery’s down that way.

We drove down a laneway that was littered on either side with old cars, appliances and heavy machinery. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a T-shirt that said “Paddle faster. I hear banjos,” and that’s how I was feeling. Now, maybe you’re thinking, “Oh—they got to the end of the lane, and it was a magical, wonderful place with amazing wine!” And you would be sadly wrong. The “winery” was in the walkout basement area of a bungalow. The proprietor was watching Netflix on his computer when we walked in, and he looked totally shocked to see us.

Owner: Oh. Do you want to sample the wine? I have a 2005 Chardonnay. Or a 2006 Chardonnay.
Me: Uh…I’ll take the 2006?

When I related this to K, she said, “But isn’t old wine even better than new wine?” and I was like, “Well, you’d think.” But this isn’t necessarily true of white wine anyway. The guy who owns the place where Dad and I make our own wine keeps saying, “Fill it all the way up the neck! It’ll oxidize if you don’t drink it after a couple of months, and then it won’t taste as good!” A couple of months? Oh, silly wine man—you don’t know me at all.

There was literally nothing for Ken to take pictures of, outside of an old cement mixer, so he hung out while we tried Mountain Road’s wares. It seemed like maybe the sampling bottle had been open for a loonngg time, because the aftertaste was “squirrel rubbing its ass on an oak tree”. But I felt bad, mostly because the guy’s hands seemed a little shaky when he was pouring the samples, like we made him nervous or something, so I bought a bottle, hoping that ‘fresher might be better’. Later that night, I opened it, thinking that I might as well drink it myself because I sure wouldn’t serve it to friends. After the first three sips, I poured it down the sink. Ken was like, “Why did it take you THREE sips?” Well, maybe I was hoping it would mellow out, but it just kept getting nastier. When I looked Mountain Road Wine Company up on Trip Advisor, there was a similar review to mine, so I’m not the only one who heard banjos. (Just so we’re clear—I’m not saying “Don’t go there yourself.” Maybe squirrel ass oak tree is an acquired taste that I’ve yet to acquire, like beets.)

Fourth stop: Ridgepoint Wines

I love this place, mostly because the owner, a huge jolly Italian guy, always seems to recognize me. I don’t know if he really does, but it’s either a great vibe or I’m a memorable lush. Also, the restaurant there is excellent. We were hungry for lunch by this point, so we postponed the tasting for something to soak up the alcohol. Dad had a pasta soup kind of thing, we shared a charcuterie, and Ken had pizza, which he swooned over and said it was the best pizza he’d had in ages, which is saying something because Ken had pizza three times last week. The wine we had with lunch was wonderful as usual, and we came away ready to face at least two more places…

Fifth stop: Calamus Estates

It was dimly lit. There was wine and it was tasty. I bought some.

Sixth stop: Sue Ann Staff Wines

I think there was a dog. Also, wine…yum…bought…

Last stop: Home

Me: How the hell did we get here so fast?
Ken: You both fell asleep the minute we hit the highway.
Dad: Yawn…are we back already?
Ken: Sigh.

Wine tours, and my husband, are the best.

wine-barreks

Titus and I discuss films

Me: So have you heard all the controversy about that movie “A Dog’s Purpose?
Titus: What does that mean?
Me: “Prolonged public dispute, debate or—“
Titus: I know what “controversy” is. I meant a dog’s purpose. Is it a looping GIF of a dog eating, sleeping, and pooping? Because I’d pay good money to watch that.
Me: No, it’s about a dog who brings joy to its owners—
Titus: We aim to please. You’re welcome.
Me: —by being reincarnated over the course of 50 years.
Titus: Reincarnated as a dog EVERY TIME?! That sucks. After 50 years, I’m hoping to reach at least naked mole rat level.
Raven: Naked mole rat? WTF?
Titus: Naked mole rats are like superheroes. They can’t feel pain, they’re immune to cancer, they live for the equivalent of 600 human years and they look like scrot–
Me: No! Stop. Anyway, back to the movie. Apparently, someone leaked footage of a handler trying to force a German Shepherd into rushing water, even though the dog was obviously terrified.
Titus: But why not just get another German Shepherd who LIKES the water? No one would know the difference—they all look the same anyway.
Raven: That’s so racist.
Titus: No it’s not! All dogs of a certain breed look alike. Whenever I walk by Skippy from down the block, even I’M not sure which one is me. Lemme see the video….ooh, that’s not nice.
Raven: Dogs are such big babies. It’s only a little water.
Titus: Says the one who’d rather use her own spit than take an actual bath.
Me: Anyway, PETA’s condemned it.
Titus: I didn’t know pitas could do that. I thought they were just luscious snacks.
Me: Not the bread—People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.
Titus: Really? That’s a thing? Ok, I want steak for dinner or I’m calling them.
Me: Here’s the phone. Knock yourself out, Mr. Slappy Paws.
Titus: How about we compromise, and you share a little of that wine you just bought?
Me: Stop drooling! Gawd! You’re getting the cat wet!
Titus: And THAT’S my purpose.

My Week 116: Holland America’s Eurodam, Mishima is Pissed, I’ve Got A Little List

Cruising on Holland America’s Eurodam

Well, if you looked up “weary traveller” in the dictionary, you would see my sunburned face and crazy hair, after the night I just spent trying to get home from the cruise I was on with my parents and my aunt, thanks to Delta Airlines, who have to be one of the most incompetent and weird airlines I’ve ever flown on. After a comedy of errors involving plane delays, transfers, flights into cities across America trying to get back to Canada during a snowstorm, lost luggage, closed border bridges, and freezing rain, I finally made it back home to the loving arms of my family (most of them), only to be greeted with this:

Mishima: You’re back. What the f*ck was THAT?
Me: Sigh. You’re mad about last week’s blog. I TOLD Ken to include you. This is NOT my fault.
Mishima: I am the linchpin that keeps this motley platoon together, and no one wants to get MY perspective on anything?! This is as bad as the day I said we should “go over the top” but nobody listened, and we were stuck in a trench for 3 weeks.
Me: Um…that’s not ringing any bells.
Mishima: Lest we forget, baby—lest we forget.
Me: You’ve completely lost me, which is not surprising. Anyway, I’m sorry about the blog, but it wasn’t my fault. I brought you back this cool seashell for your tank though.
Mishima: Is there a tiny mermaid trapped within it, and when I rub the shell, she’ll grant me three wishes?
Me: No. It’s just a seashell.
Mishima: You disappoint me once again, woman. And I’ll bet you can guess what the first wish would have been.
Me: So many options…

But aside from Mishima’s disgruntlement, I was glad to be home. Not that the cruise wasn’t great, because it was. In fact, here are the reasons why I would highly recommend Holland America:

The staff: If you’ve ever felt Downton Abbey-ish, and wished for the more simple days when people treated you like royalty for absolutely no reason, you’ve come to the right place. I was called “Milady”. Every f*cking day. Like, “Would Milady like more wine?” Um, yes. Obviously (and by the third day they stopped asking and just poured it). The general staff on this boat were not only adorable, but they were the nicest people on the planet. The majority of them came from either the Philippines or Indonesia, and I don’t know whether they actually liked us or not, but they always acted like they did. I’ve never seen a more cheerful group of people—they had great senses of humour, did whatever they could to help you if you needed it (like how many times did I have to ask Agus, my cabin steward to let me in the room because my keycard had gotten de-magnetized again?), and had the uncanny ability to immediately remember ALL our names after meeting us only once. A huge shout-out to the crew of the Eurodam (and especially our wine steward, Lester)—you guys were awesome and made us feel like we were all in this together.

Here’s an exchange between my mom and our dinner steward, Tomo:

Mom: Could I have the fried chicken, corn, and salad, but without the fried chicken?
Tomo (confused): Milady? You don’t want the fried chicken that comes with the fried chicken?
Mom: No, I’m not that hungry. Oh, and I’d like Jello for dessert.
Tomo: Well, only if you eat your corn and salad…

The next night:

Mom: I’d like the rainbow trout, carrots, and mashed potatoes, please.
Tomo (deadpan): Without the trout. Yes, Milady.
Mom (laughing): No, I’d like the trout.
Tomo: Of course. If you eat it all, I’ll bring you Jello again. (winks).

Seriously—these guys were AWESOME.

The food: The food was bountiful and delicious. Almost TOO bountiful. A word to the wise—just because it’s an “All You Can Eat” buffet, doesn’t mean you should eat ALL of it. After the first day, I realized I needed to pace myself, because they literally give you food all day, and there are only so many times you can walk the deck in an attempt to burn it all off. Me, I’m not too consumed with food, so I was able to have my cereal and yogurt for breakfast, a salad or something small for lunch, then have a good dinner. But there were people, a LOT of them, who you’d think hadn’t eaten for a week the way they were shoveling down the crab legs and prime rib—at breakfast, no less! I guess for some folks it’s as much a food-cation as a vacation.

The passengers: As it is in any situation, you will always meet really nice people that you might normally never have much to do with. Personally, my favourite was Jan, a hulking 77-year-old retired aviation instructor who asked to join our trivia team the first day (trivia is the driving force behind everything that happens on the ship—people literally plan their entire days around when the Trivia Challenge is taking place. The prizes are crap—a cruiseline pin, or a mug, but these people are hardcore, all guts and glory). Jan proved to be invaluable on occasion, knowing the colour that the majority of original Corvettes were (white), or the name of the Wright Brother’s first plane (I said “Kittyhawk”, but he reminded me that was where they took off from, not the name of the plane, which was the Wright Flyer). Our whole team won three times and came in second or third on most other occasions so we were like minor celebrities in the world of cruiseship trivia. On the last night, we won and got free drinks, so it made the struggle to remember how many teeth a shark loses in a year worthwhile.

The room: The room was fantastic, with a great balcony. But the best part was that every night, we’d come back after the room had been turned down, and someone had put a towel animal on the bed. One night it was an elephant, another night a crab—you never knew what you might find. The last night, I walked in, and a towel monkey was hanging from a coat hanger attached to the ceiling vent. I laughed my ass off—I may or may not have been drinking pina coladas during Happy Hour—but it’s the kind of thing that just adds a little bit more to the experience.

monkey

Overall, it was a great trip—we did some amazing shore excursions (seriously, can I LIVE in Key West?), my dad and I went snorkelling together (his first time and my second), I got to pet a stingray, and visited a rum factory. Of course, it wasn’t all fantastic—being aboard a floating hotel with 2500 other people can be a bit of a challenge, and there was a serious lack of on-board entertainment (if you don’t count eavesdropping on people debating over whether or not Donald Trump is great, or will ruin the United States—we stayed out of that sh*t because who wants to ruin a good holiday with politics? Am I right?). So I wrote this little ditty for you, based on Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, and the song “As Some Day It May Happen (I’ve Got A Little List). Here’s a link so that you can listen to it first (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NLV24qTnlg).

The song is updated with each production of The Mikado so that it’s contemporary and relevant. And now, you can apply my own lyrics, based on Holland America’s Eurodam and the people who are on MY list:

As some day it might happen that a victim must be found
I’ve got a little list. I’ve got a little list
Of society offenders who might well be underground
And never would be missed
No, never would be missed.

There’s the couple from the lower deck whose stateroom “smells like mould”,
The people who can barely walk because they’re so damned old,
The 30-something single gal who’s travelling on her own
Who talks and TALKS to anyone but “prefers to be alone”
The buffet line enthusiasts who simply can’t resist—
I’ve got them on my list and they never will be missed.

There’s the gentleman from HBO who’s “smartest on his team”,
Whose wife just lets him brag away but always looks quite steamed,
The ladies playing dominoes whose faces seem so grim,
The people hogging hot tubs but who never want to swim,
The man who calls you “Honey”—f*cking misogynist–
I’ve got HIM on my list and he never would be missed.

There’s the smarmy cruise director who won’t pay you any mind,
Until it’s time to fill the survey card in, THEN he’s kind,
The folks on shore excursions who forget their boarding cards
Despite repeated warnings—hey, is listening THAT hard?
The husband-wife piano team who simply won’t desist–
I’m got them on my list, and they never would be missed!

Well, that’s all. I still have my sea legs, and it feels like the whole room is swaying as I’m writing. Or it could be the pina coladas…

My Week 98: Iceland FAQs

Iceland FAQs

waterfall2

Ken, K, and I have just arrived home from Iceland. K really wanted to go back to Spain and practice her Spanish, but Ken and I were interested in a new experience. We were able to compromise, thanks to Air Iceland’s ploy to lure tourists into their country. They offer really cheap flights to Europe on the condition that you stop over in Iceland on the way there and back. This sounded like a great deal, and it satisfied everyone’s desires. So we were in Iceland for four days, then Spain for three days, then back to Iceland again for three more days. But Iceland has only recently become a major tourist destination, and if you’re like me, you probably don’t know a lot about it. It’s definitely a unique experience, but there were some questions I would have LOVED to know the answer to before we went. Therefore, I’ve decided to create a list of Frequently Asked Questions, a primer, if you will, to the Icelandic experience. Or at least from my own perspective.

First, let me say that we really liked a lot of things about Iceland. It’s very different from just about anywhere else, which is part of its charm. It’s visually stunning, and incredibly clean. You can drive around the whole island very easily, stopping just about anywhere to enjoy the gorgeous landscape. But it’s also a very quirky place, and if you plan to travel there, you definitely need to be aware of a few things. So here’s the list of questions that I would have wanted answered BEFORE we arrived:

1) OMG, should the water smell like that?!

We arrived from the airport around 11 pm, rented our car, and drove to the apartment we had booked through AirBNB. Bjorn, the owner, had left a key for us in a lockbox outside the apartment door. It was a really nice little place and we were relieved, because you never know when you’re booking things relatively sight unseen. It was late, and all we wanted to do was go to bed, so we’d be rested up for the next few days’ adventures. Ken went in the bathroom first to brush his teeth. When he came out, he said, “The water smells a little different.” I was like, “How different?” and he said, “Kind of like sulphur, but it’s not too bad.” Then I went into the bathroom and started running the hot water to wash my face. Suddenly, I was standing at the gates of the deepest part of hell, breathing in acrid fumes that smelled like someone had put a dozen hardboiled eggs in an airtight box and left them out in the hot sun. I called out to Ken, “I thought you said it wasn’t THAT bad! I’m dying here!!” Turns out the Iceland sits on top of a sh*tload of naturally scalding hotsprings which supplies 85% of the island with geothermic energy and hot water. The only downside is that it reeks. It clings to your skin for a good ten minutes after you shower, and it fills the air with what can only be described as “farts of death”. But it’s only the hot water—the cold water is just fine, and you can drink it straight from the tap. It tastes terrific and not like demonwater at all. But we didn’t know this at first, and we were really scared that there was a sewer line break or something, and that we’d end up with Icelandic dysentery. When we met our host the next morning, it was the first thing we asked him, and he explained that it was perfectly healthy and safe, finishing with, “You get used to the smell.” And it’s true—you do. In fact, it becomes kind of comforting and homey, like when your dog farts and you just look at him affectionately and say, “Oh Bowser, you’re so smelly, but I love you.” Plus, it might be nasty, but apparently the minerals in it are really good for your skin. Icelanders are EXTREMEMLY proud of their stinkwater and the best part is if YOU fart, you can blame it on the water, not the dog. Because your dog will NEVER smell that bad. It’s not everywhere you go though—some of the hotels must filter it out, which would account for the incredible cost (see question 3).

2) Will I be able to eat the food?

Well that depends on how hungry you are. Icelandic food is a little different. I don’t mean different like a little more spicy, or in a “using mayonnaise instead of ketchup on your fries” kind of way—I mean “pickled ram’s testicle” kind of different. I’m not a picky eater, but I have two problems that plague me when I travel: I can’t eat gluten (I have arthritis and it makes my joints swell) and I’m allergic to shellfish (I carry an epipen for that one). So any foreign country can pose a challenge, but I can usually find SOMETHING to eat. Iceland made it a little harder because not only do they have a LOT of seafood and bread on their menus, they feel compelled to weird it up. We finally found a restaurant in Reyjkavik called “Kol” where the menu had a couple of relatively straightforward items on it, and they brought warm bread up first for Ken and K. It came with some kind of spread, which was bright red and looked like pureed strawberries. Ken tried it and said, “It’s slightly sweet—try it and see if you can figure out what’s in it.” I thought it was supersalty and strange, then I got worried that maybe it had squid blood or something in it, so we asked the waitress. It was beet hummus. Why would anyone ruin perfectly good hummus by putting beets in it?! Maybe you like beets, but if you want to know how I feel about it, read My Week 48: Deathly Beets, and you’ll understand. And it’s not enough to serve your run-of-the-mill fish and meat. No, the Icelandic specialty is Minke Whale. I’m already unhappy enough that I’m not a vegetarian (screw you, bacon), but there’s no way I’m eating something that can carry on an actual conversation with another member of its species and is probably smarter than I am. Plus, don’t forget that I swam with dolphins last year, so I’m almost one of them. It would be like cannibalism.

But my favourite item had to be “Salted Cod and Deep Fried Cod Cheeks with Couscous, Carrot, Cumin, and Mussel.” Seriously, how many different aquatic forms of life do you need in ONE dish? And Cod Cheek? WTF is that? Do cods even HAVE cheeks? Wouldn’t they be really tiny and not even worth deepfrying? I know there are lots of people out there who LOVE eating talking animals, freaky vegetables, and baby sheep, and if so, then Iceland is the place for you. You weirdos. But if not, then there ARE restaurants that cater to the more timid among us, Our last night there, for example, we went to an awesome Thai place and the Massaman Chicken (yellow curry), Spring Rolls and Pineapple Fried Rice were fantastic.

Side note 1: Make sure you specify that you want your food cooked all the way through. Icelanders like to eat their fish “medium rare” and their beef while it’s still mooing. As we discovered.

Side note 2: Iceland is also supposed to be known for its fantastic hot dogs. I don’t know where this mythology developed or why. All I know is that we were all dying to try one, and when we did, they were simply pre-packaged boiled hotdogs, like any other storebought hotdog. Except they tasted kind of plastic-y. Oh well. They only cost $15 each (see question 3).

3) If I find something to eat, and it’s cooked properly, will I be able to afford it?

That depends. Did you win the lottery last week? Be warned—Iceland is unbelievably expensive, especially compared to Spain, which is often cheaper than Canada. At Kol, we had three main courses (two salmon, one steak), one glass of wine, one beer, and one milkshake. It totalled out at the equivalent of over $200 American. No appetizers—the asparagus spears that I wanted were $30—and no dessert. (Well, we got dessert but it was free to make up for the double recooking of my steak, which I had asked for to be cooked “medium” but kept being served bloody; dessert would have cost us another $60 otherwise). In comparison, on our last night in Seville, Ken and K each had homemade 14” pizzas, I had poutine with bacon and cheese, and we had wine and beer. The whole meal was not quite $25. Which is exactly what I paid for lunch at a cafeteria in Iceland which consisted of 5 meatballs, a scoop of rice, and a side of sweet potato cubes. Even the grocery stores are expensive when it comes to certain items. A block of regular cheese can run you 25 00 Krona (the Icelandic currency which makes you THINK you’re getting a lot for your money because of all the extra zeroes), which is just about $25, and a small bottle of Pepsi can run around 4 bucks depending where you are. Which just goes to show that it’s not about ripping off tourists—the cost of living there is just really high for EVERYONE.

And hotels? It’s enough to make you cry. One night’s stay at the Radisson in Reykjavik cost us $500 for a room that you might find in a Motel 6. It was the same amount that we paid for 3 nights in Spain for the three of us, or the same as one night in the most luxurious hotel in Canada. Check out Langdon Hall for a comparison. Our “hotel” near Hella was even worse. It took 43 km. on a gravel road to get to it, and when we arrived, there were three single cots; there was no TV, no wifi in the rooms, and no soap for the shower. I wouldn’t have cared if we weren’t expecting more for the price, but it was $425 for the night, and dinner at the restaurant there was $225 for three entrees, drinks, and two pieces of chocolate cake. A word to the wise—use AirBNB whenever you can, because it’s a lot cheaper than the hotels, and make sure your accommodation comes with a kitchen so you can cook your own meals and save a little that way.

hotel

4) Do Icelanders like tourists?

They seem to. But this tourism thing is pretty new to them, and they always seem slightly bemused by foreigners. It’s not obnoxious or mocking—it’s kind of charming, like they’re not entirely sure what to do with tourists, instead of taking advantage of us like other countries do. For example, most tourist attractions are free, and there are relatively few souvenir shops. The people are polite and pleasant, and almost everyone speaks English really well; in fact, they learn it in school. We were at a restaurant seated next to two elderly gentlemen—when they heard us talking, they struck up a conversation in almost fluent English with us. As Canadians, we felt very comfortable in a country that seems as friendly and polite as our own.

5) Will I have a good time?

Yes. If you appreciate beautiful scenery, unique geographic elements, and interesting things to do, then you absolutely will. It’s an amazing country. Even though I’m 50 years old and was still in recovery mode from surgery, I found myself compelled to clamber over rocks to walk behind waterfalls, hike for kilometres to touch a glacier, watch in amazement at geysers exploding (then run away when we realized the hot water was about to rain down on us), and make my way through lava fields just to touch the crystal clear water of a rushing stream. It’s a great country, and we now know how to explore it the next time without having to take out a second mortgage.

Now, here are some questions that are more particular to me:

5) Is there always that one guy who has to smoke?

Yes. You will find him at every tourist stop, standing in nature’s pristine beauty, blowing smoke into the crisp, clean air, then throwing his cigarette butt on the ground. He comes in all nationalities, shapes, and sizes, and he will annoy the hell out of you with his inability to get out of his car and NOT immediately light up.

6) If I go to a swimming pool, will someone steal my towel?

Yes. Believe it or not. This happened to us at the Blue Lagoon, the most popular tourist spot in Iceland. It’s a giant hot spring where the water is bright blue. It’s one of the few places we had to pay to visit and like everything else in Iceland, it was very expensive. The regular admission was $50 Euros (about $73) but we chose the “Comfort Package” for $75 Euros each (about $108), because it came with a rented towel. You couldn’t take your towels beyond the entry, where they had hooks and racks for them, but when we came out of the lagoon , both K’s and my towels were gone. Yes, someone jacked our $35 rented f*cking towels. The same thing happened to my brother at a public pool in Reykjavik. They had their OWN towels, and when they came out of the pool, they were all gone. He complained to the attendant, who just shrugged and said, “Yes, that happens a lot.” So maybe it’s better, and cheaper, to drip dry. Otherwise, I highly recommend the Blue Lagoon, which is superwarm and not too deep. They also give you silica mud to put on your face, and K used it to create a mustache, beard, and monocle, which made me laugh insanely, despite the theft of the towels.

7) What about those Icelandic men?

Every time we saw a guy wandering around, half-smiling and looking a little lost, you could bet he was Icelandic. A lot of men in Iceland seem perpetually baffled. By what, we were never sure, but it became a running joke with us. It started at the airport with an Icelandic man who wanted to bring two loose lacrosse sticks onto the plane with him, and seemed very confused when he was told he couldn’t. The female clerk gave him tape to wrap around them, and it took his whole family almost ten minutes to help him do it. From the airport to the city centres to the countryside, there were men who just randomly wandered around looking perplexed and a little helpless. Maybe in the same way that some women are said to have a “resting mean face”, Icelandic men have a resting “why am I here?” face. At any rate, they’re all very nice. Even if they don’t know where they are. You might not believe me about this, so go there and see for yourself. You’ll love it—if you can afford it.

NB: I didn’t say anything about Spain. Spain was as great as always, except hotter. If you want to know about Spain, you can read My Week 45: Adventures in Spain. It hasn’t changed:-)

 

My Week 56 – My Crazy Cruise On The Norwegian Star

The Cruise

As you may or may not be aware (if you read my blog regularly then you WILL know this), I just got back from a cruise. I’d never been on a cruise before, and last week, I wrote a bit about the two things I was most excited about: my butler, and swimming with my own dolphin. I was worried that my expectations might have been too high, but I was wrong on both counts. My butler was an awesome guy, and although he wasn’t called Johnson, he WAS named Cristopher (the lack of the “h” made him even more sophisticated). He was always dressed in a tuxedo outfit minus the topcoat, but his outfit seemed very bespoke, which is one of my new favourite words, the other being “iguana” for reasons which I will explain later. The best thing about Cristopher was that he looked, talked, and acted like a young George Takei, so every time he came in the room, it was like hanging out with Mr. Sulu. Only instead of navigating a starship, he called me “Miss Suzanne” and made hot chocolate for me. He also referred to the dock workers as “stevedores”, which is what they actually are, but I’ve never heard anyone call them that aside from me, so I felt like we were kindred, “butler-and-lady” spirits. Then there was my dolphin, also, unfortunately, NOT named Johnson. Her name was Atlas, because apparently Mexicans are unfamiliar with the genders of the Greek gods, but she was amazing. When she offered me her fins and torpedoed across the lagoon, I hung on for dear life, but laughed like a lunatic the whole way. I have nothing snarky or sarcastic to say about Atlas because she was gorgeous and obviously smarter than me. And DEFINITELY smarter than this guy:

Man (with thick southern drawl): So when I get to swim around with that fish, will someone take a picture of it?
 Mexican Trainer: Sir, she’s not a fish, she’s a mammal. But yes, we have a photographer.
Man: That’s good. I want to show everyone at home that I actually did this thing.

Other Highlights of the Trip

1) Kasi, our Mayan tour guide: Kasi spoke English with an American accent, but she also spoke fluent Spanish and Mayan, having been raised in Chacchoben by an American father, Mexican mother, and Mayan grandmother. She treated the seven of us like we were her class and she was our teacher—she even had a little whiteboard so that she could draw us pictures to illustrate her points.

Kasi: OK, you guys. People think the Mayans just disappeared or were abducted by aliens, but that’s not true. Does anyone know what REALLY happened to the Mayans? Anyone?
 Me: They were all killed…?
Kasi: No, but good try! If I told you it had something to do with chewing gum, the “chiclata”, what would you say? Anyone?…
The chewing gum story is true, but very complicated, so you all can look it up–but it’s true. Thanks, Adams Gum Company, for destroying the Mayan civilization. 

2) Iguanas: When I was initially told that it was going to cost me $10 US to gain entry to an “iguana sanctuary”, my first thought was “Why the f*ck would I pay to see iguanas?” OK, it’s technically not a sanctuary, and they’re not technically “rescue” iguanas, but they were still extremely cool. I never knew that a) iguanas could be the size of small dogs and that b) they also act quite a lot like dogs. We were given leaves to feed them with, and as soon as they saw us with food, they all came galloping over, staring at us with their excited little iguana eyes, mobbing us and following us around like puppies. You could pet them, and they snuggled into your hand. I texted Ken that I wanted my own iguana, since I don’t have a lagoon for my own dolphin, and he replied “Do you think an iguana would like Toronto?” which seems to me a pretty passive-aggressive way of vetoing my desire for an iguana puppy. The only downside to an iguana is that they like to climb up high and then poop, but I think it would be a fun party game for our friends—we could call it “Look Out Below!” and have prizes for anyone who managed to avoid getting shat on. I think vigilance is the key when it comes to iguanas.

3) Francisco’s No Name Restaurant: On Roatan, which is off the coast of Honduras, we toured the island with a local taxi driver named Franciso. He drove us all over the place, and when we asked about authentic Roatan cuisine and where we could go for lunch, he said, “Don’t worry—I know a place.” This initially sounded a little sketchy, but you have to trust, so we arrived at a building where there were maybe four tables under an awning. He told us what to order, and I was initially somewhat worried, but then I realized that he was going to eat too, and I figured that if the food was good enough for him, then I could feel relatively assured that I wouldn’t be getting food poisoning. Sure enough, the lunch (rice, beans, stewed beef, fried plantains, hot sauce–was delicious. When I asked him what the restaurant was called, he said, “It doesn’t have a name—it’s just a place we go. The owner and I grew up together. It’s much better than the restaurants the cruise ships recommend.” And he was right. Trust.

Of course, there are some weird things about being on cruise ship. First of all, the demographic is a TINY bit older than me. The average age of the passengers was about 75, and an overwhelming majority of them were seasoned cruisers who woke up at the crack of dawn, snagged the best lounge chairs, and stayed there all day unless it was time to hobble to the buffet and eat. Or play trivia. Seriously, there is nothing more hardcore and badass than senior citizens playing trivia for keychains and mugs. They would google answers, argue with the cruise director, and refuse to give part marks for ANYTHING, those f*ckers. But aside from the restaurant dash and the trivia frenzy, they were mostly completely immobile. On the first day, my dad and I went into the “disco lounge” to discover about 60 people just sitting there, staring into space. The silence was absolute. I turned to my dad and said, “This is exactly what I imagined the waiting room for DEATH to look like.” Then we both laughed really loudly but no one noticed, because their hearing aids were all turned off.

I also realized that there are people on cruise ships that you never want to be—you know the people I mean. They are sometimes referred to as “That Guy” or “That Woman”, and after a particular dancing misadventure in the disco lounge one late night, I resolved to never again be “the middle-aged woman who drinks a bit then thinks she can dance like she did when she was a teenager”. I also made a vow to never be any of the following people:

The Guy Who Gets Drunk and Falls Asleep at the Edge of the Pool – After the first day of all-you-can-swallow alcohol consumption, I discovered that it could be very easy to become THAT guy. I actually saw him on the second last day of the cruise, beer bottle precariously perched on the edge of the deck, sprawled out unconscious like a homeless person on a Toronto subway grate. Not a pretty picture, and one I was happy to avoid.

The Woman Whose Ass is Hanging Out of Her String Bikini – Seriously, can you NOT feel the draft? My ass crack is perfectly capable of differentiating between fresh air and the safety of my skirt-ini.

The Person Who is Late Coming Back From an Excursion, Forcing the Ship to Stay in Port and Causing the Passengers to Stand at the Handrails and Boo – I was almost that person after the dolphin swim, when I and my lovely sister-in-law discovered we had come all the way back with the key to our storage locker, which meant her photo ID was still with the dolphin people. After a mad dash in a taxi, we made it back just in time. No boos for us, because we may be forgetful, but we are f*cking efficient.

Bisexual Sexy Dancer – This is the person in every disco who has had a little too much to drink and suddenly becomes open to ANYONE, and will jiggle up to men and women alike, trying to “get me some”. This person is second only to INCESTUOUS Sexy Dancer, the elderly man who has choreographed several pre-set dance sequences which must be performed to either disco or mamba music with women young enough to be his daughters, both of whom hang around with him like he’s their sugar daddy. Only he’s too cheap to buy their drinks. Why, ladies—why?

The Cougar Who Thinks the Male Dancers in the Review Show Are SOOOO Hot – They’re all gay. Yes, even Dmitri. And yes, it’s heartbreaking.

Overall, it was a great experience. Thanks, Mom and Dad, John and Orchid, Cameron and Enayat. If only Ken and K had been there, it would have been perfect. And if either the butler or the dolphin had ACTUALLY been named Johnson, I would never have come home.

 

Sucky Real Estate, I Get A Butler

Thursday: Real Estate deals are stressful and sucky

A few weeks ago, Ken and I decided to sell our cottage. We bought it 6 years ago, after seeing it on the internet. It wasn’t my dream home, but it was super cheap, it was in a great little town close to some of our other family members, and we figured it wouldn’t take much to make it a cozy haven. I remember saying to Ken, “All this place really needs is some redecorating and laminate flooring.” Apparently, I had been watching too many “flipping” shows on HGTV, because holy sh*t, was I ever wrong. We had a home inspection, and found out that the electrical system had been put together by a 5 year-old. There was an electrical box on the wall right above where the bed would go, which looked on the outside like it had been disconnected, but was full of cut, LIVE wires. None of the outlets were grounded, and there were exposed wires everywhere, some held together with scotch tape. Our contractor said it was a miracle that the place hadn’t already burned down. We wanted to back out of the deal then, but the owners dropped the price enough that we could afford the rewiring. Once they moved out though, the real fun started, as we realized their abundance of junky old furniture, knickknacks, and Jesus paintings were covering up a lot of problems. Apparently, the previous owners were into home repairs like alcoholics are into sparkling water, and everything was done in the cheapest, sloppiest, absurdist way possible. My favourite was taking off wallpaper and discovering holes in walls that had been patched with Band aids. Or pulling up carpeting to discover 2 inches of sand underneath. And the place wasn’t THAT close to any beach—they were just slovenly housekeepers. Or maybe they couldn’t use a vacuum because the wiring kept shorting out. I had to clean the oven with Easy-Off—no, it f*cking wasn’t. There was so much build-up in there, and I got so much slime and grease on my hands that I literally almost threw up. There was the soaking wet subfloor under the sink in the kitchen which we pulled up and replaced, the toilet leaning against the bathroom wall (the bathroom was joisted with two by fours, so we had the whole thing pulled up and done to code), the doorways that had been wallpapered over, the painted masking tape disguising gaps between molding and walls, Kleenex stuffed into cracks to stop drafts—the list goes on. It took us almost a year to turn the place from a disgusting stinkbox into something habitable. Ironically, when we bought the place, the wife created a garden plan on graph paper, letting us know about all the unique and rare plants she had—we needed the plan because everything was hidden in crabgrass and weeds. Over the years, we kept on improving the place with the help of our intrepid contractor, Dale, who despite his construction prowess and our 6-year relationship, continues to call me by things other than my actual name, and just calls me names that sound similar, or start with the same consonant. But after 6 years, and a hell of a lot of hard work, the place really is a dream home.

We love our cottage, but the fact is, with me working in Toronto all week and only coming home for weekends, we’re hardly ever getting up there anymore. It’s not too far from our house, but K hates it because it has no wifi, which means she can’t play Counterhalo or League of Duty, or whatever crazy games she and her friends run around with daggers and machine guns in. So generally, she refuses to go, which means I have to choose between seeing my only child (between rounds of her killing animated characters) and having a peaceful getaway. That sounds like a no-brainer, am I right? At any rate, after a long discussion, we decided to put the cottage on the market. This is where the craziness began. After just over a month, or two weeks ago, we got word from our agent that an offer was coming in. “That’s so great!” I said to Ken, “So long as it’s not something ridiculous, like 20 grand below our asking price or something.” Well guess what? It WAS 20 grand below our asking price. And not only that, the woman wanted couches, beds, other miscellaneous furniture, all the outdoor furniture, everything in the sheds, and more, right down to personal items like a picnic basket, our Keurig, and the LINENS ON THE BEDS! Who the hell wants someone else’s old sheets as part of a house deal? I was like “forget that sh*t”, but our agent suggested we take out anything we wanted to keep, and send it back with a higher price. So we took practically everything out, and counter-offered with something a little more reasonable. Eventually, we all settled at a price we could live with, throwing in a couch and a couple of bed frames. AND the linens. She was adamant. Apparently, flannel sheets are a deal-breaker to some people. So Ken and I, with the help of my aunt, started the annoying process of packing stuff into boxes. We’d just nicely gotten the ENTIRE kitchen packed up and brought home when our agent called me to say the deal was off. According to the buyer’s agent, the house was falling down. The foundation was crumbling and the wooden frame under the floor was rotting. F*cking news to me. I was like, “Says who? Did she crawl under the place herself, or is there some more legitimate source for this information? What am I supposed to tell people? ‘Yeah, the place is about to collapse—an eighty-year-old real estate agent told me so.” (Well, she looks eighty on her business card). Our agent was also shocked but said we would have to sign the termination of the agreement, and I was like, “Hell no. Not until I see some actual proof that I’m about to fall through the floor.” This was where things started to get fun and sketchy as they refused to tell us who did the inspection, or provide any kind of report. We’re still embroiled in this sh*t right now. They’ve finally copped to having an inspection, but are demanding that we pay half the cost before they’ll show it to us. So I did what any reasonable person would do—I called Dale. Mainly because he’s the only person I know who will crawl around in a 3 foot high space underneath a cottage that may or may not be on the verge of collapse. And after this, he can call me ANYTHING he wants.

Saturday: I get ready to cruise

So right now, despite all the real estate stress, I’m SUPER excited because I’m going on my first cruise. I’ve been so excited, in fact, that I didn’t even really pay attention to where I’m going. After having several people say, “Where does the cruise go?” and me saying, “Wow, I’m not really sure,” I made my dad write it down for me so I wouldn’t look like a complete idiot. This is my parents’ gift to me for reaching a “milestone” birthday—as some people might say, I am now a woman of “a certain age”, and it’s not the awesomely fun age where you get to finally drink, buy lottery tickets, play bingo, or watch porn. So yeah, an “older” milestone than all of that. Still, I’m young enough to appreciate how cool this cruise is going to be, even if Ken and K can’t come. It’s just me, my parents, my brother, his wife, their son, and her dad. I think Ken feels a little left out, but it’s not my fault that he “can’t get time off work” or whatever. K said she couldn’t miss 5 days of school because missing math would kill her, and I’m hoping it’s because she doesn’t want to fall behind, not because she loves math so much. Because let’s be honest—if you love math so much that you would miss a cruise to a tropical island…enough said. Anyway, there are two main things that I’m the most excited about, aside from the “all you can drink” alcohol package:

1) I just found out today that our suite comes with its own butler. This is the best thing EVER. Ken wasn’t particularly impressed but K totally got it.

K: His name will be Johnson.
Me: Yes! And he’ll wear a tuxedo. Even at 3 o’clock in the morning.
K: And he’ll have an English accent.
Me: Absolutely. The only thing better than my English butler Johnson would be if he was a monkey butler.

I’m probably overthinking it, and my expectations will most likely be dashed when it turns out that my English butler Johnson is a guy in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt named “Jimmy”, who will recommend Budweiser and pretzels instead of champagne cocktails and caviar. Still, a girl can dream.

2) I get to swim with dolphins. This has been a lifelong dream of mine, ever since I almost failed grade 9 science and realized that I was NOT destined to be a marine biologist. Instead, I learned how to analyze poetry, which is almost the same thing. But without the dolphins. (As a side note, it’s still really easy to get into an English program. They ask two questions—1) Do you have the money for tuition? 2) Are you breathing? The second question is just a formality. If you have the tuition, breathing isn’t really a requirement.) I never thought that I would be able to come face to bottlenose with a dolphin, but it looks like that’s going to happen. I even had to buy “biodegradable” sunscreen, so it wouldn’t harm the dolphins. It was expensive, but it’s money well-spent. And if my butler isn’t up to snuff, I can always call my dolphin “Johnson”.

My Week 54: Back on the Train Gang, Conversations

Friday: Back on the train gang

Recently, I started taking the train to Toronto on Sundays and back home on Fridays. This has saved me an intense amount of stress from trying to figure out how to beat a rush hour that starts at noon. The trouble with the 401 is that it’s a great highway when no one else is on it. I can make it door to door in less than an hour and a half if the roads are clear. But that NEVER happens. There’s always a slowdown, for a variety of incomprehensible reasons. Here is my list of top ten favourite circumstances which might cause traffic on the 401 to come to a complete halt:

10) It’s raining.
9) It’s windy.
8) Is that a running shoe? Slow down!!
7) Look, an airplane. Coooool.
6) There’s an accident on the OTHER side of the road.
5) What a weird-looking bird…
4) That guy is changing his tire. What do we do?
3) Are those cloud shadows on the road, or is the beginning of the alien invasion?
2) A bus is on fire.
1) (And this is absolutely true). Radio announcer: Be careful out there today, folks. That sun is really shining brightly!

While a couple of these are legitimate—like a burning bus, or slowing down to avoid hitting someone at the side of the road, the rest are stupid. If people would just drive like normal humans instead of trying to break the landspeed record, none of the other things on the list would a) come as a shock and b) force traffic to a standstill. So, yes, I started taking the train, which is a much more civilized and safer way to travel, albeit not without its own quirks. For example, VIA has a policy that you have to present your boarding pass BEFORE you board at some stations, but not others. At Union Station, you have to have it scanned before you can get on the train. At unstaffed stations, like the one I arrive at, you can get on the train and a conductor will scan it at some point during the trip. If you take a chance and sneak onto the train without paying, there’s a pretty hefty fine. It never occurred to me that anyone would actually TRY this, but on Friday, here’s what happened: I was standing in line, getting ready to board. I’d been standing there for a while, and contemplating the nonsensical nature of me and all the other hundred people standing there, because we all have assigned seating, yet as soon as one person lines up, the rest of us panic and follow like sheep. And then we stand there for half an hour. Waiting. And talking about why we’re standing in line. I said to the woman behind me, “Why are we lined up?” and she said, “I don’t know. I just saw everyone else doing it, and figured I should too.” Anyway, I was standing there like the follower that I apparently am, lacking in free will and all that sh*t, when I noticed a man out of the corner of my eye. I was close to one of the columns that holds up the roof, and pretty close to the front of the line, and he had sauntered over very casually and was now standing against the column with his wheelie bag, looking all innocent. But I knew what he was up to. “Bastard!” I thought to myself. “He’s going to try and cut in. I haven’t been waiting here for almost 40 minutes so this guy can jump the queue. At least not in FRONT of me. I don’t care if he cuts in behind me. Someone else can deal with that.” So, you see, I was equally enraged AND mercenary. Then, the line started to move, and sure enough, the odious little jerk slid in right behind me. Everyone noticed, but we were all too polite, being Canadian and everything, to tell him off. But as we were getting close to the escalator and the conductor, he kept trying to pass me. So I did what any red-blooded Canadian would do—I swung MY wheelie bag out wide to slow him down, forcing him to stay behind me. But this is where things got interesting and supremely karmic. I showed my boarding pass, and got on the escalator with him hot on my heels. Then I heard a voice—“Sir! Sir! I need to scan your boarding pass!” I turned, and a conductor was climbing up the escalator towards us. The man announced, “You did already,” but the conductor was adamant. “No, I didn’t. Let me see it now, please.” At this point, the butt-er reluctantly held out a very crumpled boarding pass. “Sir,” the conductor said with a hint of anger in his voice, “you don’t have a ticket for this train. You’ll have to come with me.” The man protested, but had no choice. As he scurried back down the escalator, I shook my fist in triumph, and actually said out loud, “HAHA! I knew it!!”, much to the delight of the couple ahead of me, who had also noticed that he was up to something. We all smiled knowingly at each other with the smugness of those who had legitimately purchased tickets.

Then there are the “regulars”. Seriously, it’s like Cheers, when Norm walks into the bar. “Hey, Norm”, everyone yells, and all the non-regulars are confused, and a little jealous that they aren’t part of the gang. The first time I took the train, this happened to me. I was sitting near a group of the regulars, and it was like homecoming weekend. The conductor was supremely pleased to see them, and they were all laughing and high-fiving and sh*t. Then she asked if there was anyone who was unfamiliar with train safety procedures, because I guess it’s a requirement of the job, and they were all like “Haha, safety requirements! Right, Ellen!! HAHA.” But you know me, and my need to figure out the worst case scenario, so I was like, “Excuse me. I am unfamiliar with the safety procedures and I would like to hear more about it.” So she started telling me about what to do in case of an emergency, but the gang kept interrupting her, and she would giggle and be like “Oh, you guys!” until finally I said very sternly, “I’d actually appreciate being able to hear what you have to say.” At which point, she realized that maybe she needed to stop being flirty and do her job. So she explained to me that in case of an emergency, there was a little green hammer located next to the rear window, and that I would have to hit one corner of the window with the hammer, then hit another corner to get it to break out of the frame, then use a cushion from one of the seats to push the glass out. How is this even a PLAN, VIA Rail? The train derails, and I’m tossing bodies out of the way, looking for a seat cushion to push out the window with? The window I broke with a LITTLE GREEN HAMMER?! I have the exact same plan at home in case of fire, but it doesn’t involve pillows as much as me shattering things like The Hulk using a much bigger Thor-like hammer (there’s your random Avengers reference for the week), and not caring so much about glass cuts than SAVING MY FAMILY.  Then she was like, “Don’t worry—it’ll never happen. It’s just a precaution.” Oh really, conductor lady?! It’s called a ‘worst case scenario’ for a reason. From now on, I’m bringing my own damn hammer.

But you meet all kinds on the train. There’s the girl who walks down the aisle on her cell phone, loudly alerting all of us to her weekend party plans and spends the next hour calling friend after friend to let them know she’s “on the train but can’t wait to get smashed at Kyle’s house later”, the drunk Blue Jays fans who yell out the names of all the stops, the business men and women whose companies are too cheap to spring for anything more than “economy class”…. Me, I don’t care where I sit, as long as it’s quiet, I can have a glass of wine (hell yeah—they serve wine on the train, which is why I referred to it earlier as a civilized way to travel), read my book, and think my thoughts. This, however, did NOT happen on Friday. I was seated behind a woman and her 6 year-old daughter, who was quite possibly the most obnoxious child I’ve come across. Mainly because the mother seemed to have no idea that children can actually be taught, through patient care and a lot of work, to NOT be f*cking obnoxious. Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE kids, I really do. I have a charming and well-behaved one of my own, and I’ve been successfully working with kids of all ages for over 30 years, so I have a pretty good idea of how to deal with them. The first sign of trouble came about 20 seconds into boarding, when “Cathy” began yelling, “SING SING LALA SING LALALA” over and over again. And to clarify—she wasn’t actually singing—she was yelling the words Sing and LaLa. Finally, the mother admonished her with “Shhhhhh.” “NO!!” came the reply, with a continuation of the racket, until Mom distracted her with the menu. Things went downhill from there. “I want THIS and THIS and THIS!”

Mom: You can only have one thing. You have to choose.
Cathy: NO!! I WANT EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING!
Mom: You can’t have everything. Only one. Which one do you want?
Cathy: I WANT EVERYTHING. I’m going to kick this seat until you get me EVERYTHING! (kick kick kick kick)
Conductor: Can I get you anything?
Mom: Yes, I’ll take this and this and this….

Good work, lady.

Halfway through the trip, I finally had to put my headphones on and drown out Cathy with loud music after this particular conversation:

Cathy: What does ‘technically’ mean? Mommy, what does ‘technically’ mean? MOMMY! Don’t you know? Are you stupid? Mommy, what does ‘technically’ mean? MOMMY!!

You know, I get that people are tired, and it’s really easy to let kids get away with a little cheekiness at the end of a long day, but kicking seats and calling names are a certain sign that little Cathy is going to have BIG trouble if she thinks the rest of the world is going to treat her like Mommy does. She’ll be the one trying to cut into a line, and she’ll be shocked when people like me won’t let her. That’s karma, Cathy.

But I have met some really great people on the train. There’s the kid who’s in Pre-Law at U of T, but who would give it all up to be a rock star with his band–he was visiting his girlfriend at Western and had never taken the train before so we helped each other figure out where the subway was in relation to the train station…The girl who finished a Security course and did a practicum at a northern men’s penitentiary, which taught her that she really didn’t want to be a prison guard and was now working with a pharmaceutical company…The Kinesiology student whose 8 year-old sister lives with her and goes to school in Toronto all week, then goes to London on the weekends to stay with “relatives”–she’s 18 years old but pretty much a surrogate mother, and a very good one at that, judging by the way she cares for little Hailey…The man who’s an accountant by day, but races short track with his classic car on the weekends down in Windsor in a full firesuit and helmet–his brother is his pit crew…the list goes on, and for every annoying Cathy, there are three different people with fascinating stories and lives that you can glimpse into for a brief moment, and realize that the world can be a pretty decent place if you let it. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Best elevator conversation of the week:

Guy in Elevator: Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Carol Burnett?
Me: Uh, thanks—it must be the haircut.
Guy: Kids today have no appreciation for Carol Burnett. The other night I was at a bar and I was being hit on by someone a LOT younger than me. So I said to him, “Sorry, honey—I’m Carol Burnett and you’re Lady Gaga. It will NEVER work.”

Worst elevator conversation of the week:

Guy in Elevator: Ungghh—I could sure use a big cup of coffee!
Me: Um…ok.
Guy: Wow! Look at all your rings! I really like the big one you have on!!
Me: I got that one in Spain—oh look, here’s my floor. Bye.

Best conversations with street people this week:

Me: I’m going into Loblaws. Can I get you anything?
Homeless Guy: Can I get some smoked oysters?
Me: Uh….ok…
Homeless Guy: And a Coke? Thanks.

Me: I’m going into Loblaws. Can I get you anything? Maybe some juice?
Dan: Oh…could I have a jar of Cheez Whiz? I love Cheez Whiz but I can never afford to buy it.
Me: Sure thing.
Dan: Thanks, dear.

My Week 39: I Am A Daredevil (kind of), and How To Get Out Of Setting Yourself On Fire

Monday: I may or may not be a daredevil

On Sunday night, K and I left for a mini-vacation to Blue Mountain Resort. Ken couldn’t come, because he’s a big baby, and way too honest to take sick days off work when he’s not actually sick. I didn’t have to do that of course; I took two days off in exchange for working two other days the next week that I didn’t have to, being technically off for the summer. Another reason why I love my new job. Anyway, we arrived Sunday night, then got up nice and early on Monday morning (bearing in mind that 10 am is “early” for K), and planned our day. I was all gung ho to try a lot of the different activities and prove that I was adventurous. Yep, that was the plan. But here’s how it went down:

The Ridgerunner: This is a roller coaster type ride. You get strapped into a car which is attached to a mono-rail type thing, and then you get pulled on a 75 degree angle up the mountain. When you get to the top, you go back down in a series of dips and gyres at around 45 km. per hour. That might not seem very fast, but believe me, it is, when it’s just you and blind faith that your car is NOT going to break off the track and smash into the mountain. I had done this one already last year, and knew what I was in for. K and I made a “no brake pact” in honour of our uncle/brother-in-law who passed away recently, and by the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I was a little hoarse from the involuntary screaming. But it’s all very safe, and the people who run it make you watch a video first, then check your seatbelt and the car to make sure everything is functioning the way it should. Which just shows you how times have changed. When I was a kid, Blue Mountain had something called the Slide Ride. This was a concrete chute that went down the mountain, and the cars ran freely in the track, kind of like a crazy-ass bobsled run. You had a hand brake that, in theory, would slow you down by grinding on the concrete, but it was a theory in the same vein as Fred Flintsone’s feet being able to stop his dino-car. There was no age or height limit, and kids would fly out of the cars or off the track all the time. I don’t even remember being told to wear the seatbelt. The attitude back then was less “safety first” and more “you probably shouldn’t smoke on this ride—you’ll need both hands to brace yourself against impact when you hit the curve and launch into the air”. Anyway, the Ridgerunner was a blast, and I got off laughing.

I stopped laughing when K convinced me to try something called the “Apex Bag Jump”. While this may sound kind of like a fun, bouncy castle-ish thing, it’s actually a set-up where you jump off a high platform onto something akin to a stuntman’s gigantic airbag. From the ground, this didn’t look so bad. Then we got up on the platform, and the very enthusiastic attendant told us we had a qualifying jump first before we could jump from the higher towers, and explained that the proper way to do it was to take a running leap off the platform from something that looked like the plank on a pirate ship, then cross your arms in midair and land in a seated position. Are you f*cking kidding me? I am NOT a multi-tasker. Plus, it was WAY higher than it looked from the ground, probably 30 feet up at least, with each tower higher than the previous one. K went first though, and after a couple of false starts, she leapt off the platform and landed perfectly. The attendant gave her a thumbs up. Then it was my turn. I stood at the edge, looked out over the bag, and knew how people felt when pirates made them “walk the plank”, only the metaphorical sword poking me in the back was my pride. So I swallowed my terror, ran and leaped into the air. When I landed on the bag, the attendant called out, very cheerfully, “Oh, almost! You’ll have to do it again!” K was like “you can do it, Mom!”, so I gave her a grim smile and trudged back up the tower. When I got there, I said to the attendant, “I need you to do me a favour. No matter what happens, I want you to tell me I DIDN’T qualify. If I have to do this from higher up than I already am, I will have a heart attack. Please. I’m begging you.” He looked momentarily confused, but agreed to say that I couldn’t qualify. After several false starts, and with K shouting encouragement, I jumped again. As I landed, I heard the attendant call out, “Oh too bad! You didn’t qualify. But your daughter can have all your tickets, so she gets extra jumps!” So in the end, it worked out OK, except that K overheard the attendant say to me, “Actually, your form was fine—you would have qualified for the next level”, and she was like, “What?!”, but she forgave me for being a big wussy. And I was able to take a picture of her in midair, jumping off the highest tower, which was pretty cool.

But then we came to the next activity on the list—the Timberland Treetop Challenge. This is an activity for crazy people. It involves helmets, harnesses, carabiners, hooks, and other assorted mountain climbing type gear. You put it all on and then you climb a 40 foot tower, and traverse a course that includes rope bridges, tight ropes, 2 by 4 swings that dangle in midair that you have to step on to get to the next platform, balance beams, ziplines with angled landing pads, and other insane sh*t. And you do all this while you’re attached to a thin wire over 50 feet in the air. I managed to climb up the tower, and when I dragged myself up over the edge, my fear of heights came back full force. Well, let me clarify—I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling FROM THEM. I looked at what was ahead of me—planks of wood that were swaying back and forth, leading to a platform 30 feet away—then I looked behind and considered the likelihood that I would be able to climb DOWN the tower. I had no choice but to go forward. By the time I reached the first platform, my legs felt like rubber, but I soldiered on. At one point, I was hanging off a 20 foot wide cargo net, my upper body and shoulders burning with the exertion and my feet scrabbling for purchase, when it occurred to me that this probably wasn’t the best activity for a woman in her late 40s who never works out. When we got to the end of the first course, another enthusiastic attendant named “Josh” said, “See? Wasn’t that great? Now you can do the second course.” Surprisingly, by that time, I was so desensitized to the fear that I said, “Yeah, all right.” So K and I did course 2 and 3. When we were finished, Josh was like “Wasn’t that fun??!!” K and I both agreed that No, it wasn’t fun. But we felt a great sense of accomplishment, and I have the bruises to show for it. And as K pointed out, if we were ever in a burning building, we knew that we were capable of shimmying out onto a ledge high above the ground and leaping into a firefighter’s net. Another worst case scenario taken care of. Huzzah!

Ironically, the scariest part of the whole trip was when I was accosted by a deaf panhandler in Booster Juice. He handed me a card that instructed the reader to “purchase it for whatever amount you think is fair”. Well, I didn’t WANT to purchase it, so I put it down on the counter and shook my head. At which point, he started looming over me in a very unfriendly fashion, and yelling at me in sign language. I know he was yelling because he was mouthing some pretty inappropriate language. I panicked and ran out without my drink, looking for K, who was waiting for poutine up the street. The bizarre thing is that I deal with panhandlers all the time in Toronto, and they’re pretty much always really pleasant, even if you don’t want to give them anything. They know how to market themselves for a big city clientele, unlike these entitled resort hobos.

Overall, it was a great trip though—K and I spent a lot of time just people-watching, inventing names and occupations for strangers. My favourite is still “Guido and The Smoke”, two Jersey Shore-looking guys, one of whom (The Smoke) we decided worked in a bar. The other, Guido, was a professional mini-golfer who was going through a career crisis because he had just been beaten on the Blue Mountain mini-putt course by The Smoke’s 5 year-old son, who was now celebrating his victory by dancing around in the fountain in front of Wild Wing. Guido was shoeless, sitting on the steps of the fountain, and wiping his eyes, while The Smoke, who was shamelessly smoking in defiance of the No Smoking sign directly in front of him, kept coming over to pat him on the shoulder in a gesture of manly comfort. Or maybe he didn’t “qualify” for the bag jump—it happens.

Saturday: How to get out of setting yourself on fire.

So yesterday, the Supreme Court of the United States, which is affectionately known as SCOTUS, which, I’m sorry, is a little too close to “scrotum” for my taste, legalized gay marriage. So no more sombre marriages, y’all! No, I kid. Anyway, apparently there is an evangelical pastor down in the States who declared a couple of weeks ago that he would SET HIMSELF ON FIRE if the ban on gay marriage was overturned. And guess what? It was! Now, I haven’t heard what his plan is yet, but I’m pretty sure he was just bluffing, having that typical evangelical arrogance that the Supreme Court justices were all dicks like him. But wait—what do you do when you say you’re going to do something, and now you’re having second thoughts? Especially if it involves self-immolation? Cuz that is definitely not the same as missing a party because you’re tired. So here are a few ideas for how to NOT set yourself on fire when you said you were going to.

1) Set myself on fire if GAY MARRIAGE was legalized? What? I thought they said NEIGH Marriage. People should NOT be allowed to marry horses—it’s just wrong.

2) This humidity! All my matches are so damp—I couldn’t light a fire to save my life!

3) Last night an angel came to me and said, “Don’t set yourself on fire over this. Hold out for marriage between humans and aliens from other planets. (whispers) It’s coming.”

4) I was speaking metaphorically. And now I will burn this headshot of myself. It was taken during my early figure skating career, when I was definitely NOT gay.

5) I was only kidding! Did you take me seriously? Dude, I am SO sorry.

6) I can’t set myself on fire because I recently learned that I am also gay. And now I will be marrying my long-time friend and companion, Larry.

7) Apparently, there are bylaws in this city against burning trash. So sorry.

8) F*ck you, I’m moving to Canada. Wait, what?