Sleeping on the floor.....

.....in a $6 K mink coat.  Not something I recommend, but when you're shuttled off to Regina, instead of directly to Toronto, landing at 2 a.m. and awaiting a 9 a.m. flight, that's what you do in an abandoned airport.  

Yep, Merry Christmas via Canada's dysfunctional airport and airline systems.  I thought I was in a version of 'Close Encounters'.  Now, I run neither an airline nor an airport, but if I did, I'd probably figure in a couple of givens:  This is Canada, expect winter.  This is Canada, expect a bunch of cold Canadians to fly south over Christmas.  Wouldn't you plan for this stuff?  

Googling the airport authority, I learn that Trish Martynook is the chair (dyed blonde) and she has 11 colleagues, five of which are women -- the latter comprising the usual token array of visible minorities, etc.  So, that's the problem, in my view:  Affirmative action tripping up competence.  By the way, funny thing, but I didn't see Trish at the airport helping stranded travelers when we were schlepping around the premises.  Wonder what that gig pays her?

However, eventually boarding the Toronto-bound plane at 10 a.m., we sat on the tarmac until noon, while the lone de-icing vehicle unfroze a few flights in line before us.  Frankly, this (wanna-be) tough cookie was verging on tears as the hours ticked by.  As an aside, my misery was compounded by the fact that, instead of the expensive priority seats we had paid for up front, we were shuffled off and jammed into the cattle rows.  No clue why our seats had been given away, but I'm not going to fight for a refund.  That'd be another time-waster of a disasterous ordeal.

I wasn't sleeping on the baggage carousel, but close.  

(Note:  When I watch coverage of Ukraine, I am heartily ashamed of my whining self.  Nevertheless, I bitch on.)

Eventually we landed in Toronto -- a day late.  But our son was there to greet us with hugs and love.  We stayed at the Park Hyatt, previously the Park Plaza, smack, dab in the Centre of the Universe at Avenue Road and Bloor.  A word about the Park Hyatt:  The old Park Plaza was the place journalists and writers used to hang after a hard day of slogging type.  At the time, I worked for Maclean Hunter as a journalist with the likes of Margaret Wente and Christie Blatchford -- both of whom went on to forge illustrious careers, while I somehow ended up slogging tax returns at Revenue Canada.  Go figure!?  I like to dream that I could have risen to greater heights, but that's what I got for following "love".

In homage to Canadian writers, there is a rooftop bar called 'The Writers Room', festooned with cartoon likenesses of Atwood, Richler and other usual suspects.  B went to bed right after dinner.  Me?  Of course I took the elevator to the top floor to re-live my glory days.  Judging by the "in" crowd there, Toronto really is the Centre of the Universe -- and I'm not being facetious, it just is.  I loved the ambiance and sat there on my own, observing the action and antics of the gathered patrons.  

Of course, it is ludicrous that a bar dedicated to "writers" spells it incorrectly.  As I didn't hesitate to point out, "Writers" needs an apostrophe -- otherwise it reads, "Writers Room....at hotels in downtown."  "Room" becomes a verb without the possessive.  Duh!?  It really is absurd in the extreme that a bar dedicated to writers can't get its name right.  Unless it was meant as a joke (which I am sure it wasn't), it's a very, bad look.  Naturally, I pointed it out to all-and-sundry -- including the assistant manager.

One couple fixated me:  A man desperately trying to firm up an evening of intimacy with his date -- OK, he was trying to get laid.  You could tell they didn't know each other well because they were so engrossed in each other; after many, married years, this feature fades.  Anyhow, he was gazing into her eyes and touching her shoulder as they chatted; she was coyly swinging her crossed leg and laughing sweetly at his every bon mot.  As their drinks dwindled, he became more emboldened -- eventually upping the ante to caressing her leg.  After taking a selfie on the balcony, with the dazzling CN Tower in the background, they left, presumably to complete his mission.  

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We also had a lovely visit with B's ex-brother-in-law, J, one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet.  He and B have remained friends -- in spite of the hideous, money-draped divorce the former's sister insisted upon all those years ago.  How those two were put together with the same genes, I'll never know?!  Chalk and cheese spring to mind.  But I digress.  Did I mention J is a charmer and the best-dressed man I know?  He arrived clad in a magnificent cashmere coat, wool pants, stylish loafers, a crisp white shirt and a beautiful, beige cashmere sweater.  GQ anyone?  Thankfully, I had put on makeup and a stylish outfit I knew he would admire.  Here we are:

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Leaving Toronto, our airport experience was perfect.  Westjet hadn't given away our seats, so we enjoyed stretching our legs and partaking of the wine and goodies proferred (B does not drink alcohol, so I enjoyed the wine all by my lonesome).

Our flight was a tad delayed, so I messaged our Uber driver several times to apprise him of new details as they arose.  Naturally, when we arrived, he was nowhere to be found.  "I'll be there in half-an-hour," he texted.  Really?!  So much for Uber.  We took a taxi and were unsurprisingly ripped off, as the driver drove us through Calgary to get to Cochrane.  "Where the hell are you going?" I kept asking.  "I'm the taxi driver; I know where I'm going," he kept replying.  Instead of $70, it cost us $100.  I was pissed and let him know but I guess when a taxi driver picks up a couple of old people, he just automatically screws them.

All in all, however, it was a great visit!  And yes, the Hyatt served turkey, as per the fuss I kicked up.  (See "Almost Outrageous", Oct. 17, 2022)  I miss my sweet son already.