...to travel. I am sitting in the Priority Pass Lounge at Pearson International, after a gruelling trip here from the other side of town. Why was it gruelling? Because I have absolutely no sense of direction. None. And don't bother with google-maps. Useless. Highways and ramps and feeder lanes and construction effectively mean that any directions you print today are "n/a" tomorrow.
Having lived here -- albeit 40 years ago -- I thought I knew where the bloody airport was, but no. Heck, it's right there, isn't it?! The upside was that being clueless meant I had a great tour of western T.O. (or as it is now called, The GTA, greater Toronto authority), Woodbine Racetrack -- where the great Northern Dancer of Windfields Farm won so many races -- and various dead ends and bizarre neighbourhoods. I finally arrived at the airport, but do you think I could possibly find the rental dropoff location? Not on your life! So small and cute, the directional signs were definitely designed by a smarty pants just out of the Ontario College of Art. I actually went into a parking lot, had to get a ticket and scoot out the other end in milli-seconds. Happily, I was not charged. Some airports I am sure would have levied a $50 charge for three seconds.
Finally found the rental. Dropped off the car. Handed over $1 million for three days. Then trudged over to.........the wrong terminal. I kinda' suspected I was in the wrong place when I encountered not one other caucasian. (Oh, forgot to mention that turn signals on Toronto freeways mean nothing. You activate one and are immediately aggressively horned by a 12-year-old male in a muscle car going 800 km/hr.) But back to the terminal terminal. Finally found "3", out of which 'WestJet' flies and checked in.
Wasn't I thrilled to be the delirious lottery winner standing just behind the roadie from some rock band, checking in a thousand amps and guitars and this-and-that-and-this-and-that. He was about 50, skinny, with dyed blonde hair, greasy and balding. I am sure he thought he was a complete dreamboat, but quasimodo, I have news for you. After smoothing the way, he waved the rest of the band over who ducked under the rope that keeps the great unwashed and untouchables at bay. (Bulletin: the band members were the unwashed and the untouchable.) They were so old, "ducking" was a bit of a challenge. Why has-been rock stars have to dye their hair and try and cover up the inevitable is beyond me. But on the upsdie, I have a few dyed blonde women they can meet!
The band leader was pathetically trying to put the moves on the check-in chick -- who was about 12 -- and kept asking her age and when did she get her break and why not meet them in the lounge for a cocktail. Leaning on the counter with his big gut hanging out, he was beyond help.
Next step was security. I absolutely refuse to take off my jewellry (some of which I cannot remove, such as a bracelet that has been on since I was a size 0), so I always "go off". "Madame, would you mind removing your jewellry." "Yes I would and no I won't." So I always get the pat down. Curiously, at Pearson they don't have the full body scan? No clue why? Got through that and finally...........
.......checked into The Priority Lounge. Everything changed. Soothing music played, food was laid out, wine was chilled, reading material was everywhere...........it was perfect. So, here I am blogging about the ordeal I endured getting here.
But nevermind. Cheers!
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You have a friend who has suffered the drivers here for the past 16yrs and offered to go to the Airport and fetch you. Also could have had a friend take you back to terminal 3. No one in their right mind over 30 should try to drive to the Airport. Can you imagine if you were visiting form Rome or Paris and tried to rent a car and find your way in. No bi-lingual signs even though this is the largest Italian Speaking City outside of Italy.!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need your help I cannot get onto my blog. Please email me.
ReplyDeleteHugs, B.A.M.F.