My First Grown-Up Vacation (part eight in a series)
Let’s start this part of the epic with some foreshadowing. (I love being obvious.) I was nervous about running out of Canadian money, so I stopped at the friendly ATM machine just outside the subway station to get another $20. This would turn out to be a very, very good idea. We bought our last two tokens, and boarded the train. The first trip was quick, and the switch to the east/west line was simple. This would be the last time that day that something could be described as both quick and simple, or even one of the two.
When we finally arrived at the end of the Bloore line, we were already tired of traveling. The train was rather full, and we were forced to stand for the majority of the trip. At the station, we spent a fair amount of time looking at bus maps because I’d stupidly thrown away the nice map that the tourist assistant booth people had given us, since we were no longer going to wander the streets of Toronto. Unfortunately, it was where the bus number was written.
The bus maps on the wall of the station were confusing, and just as we were getting frustrated we saw a sign for the express bus to the airport. It had a number as well, but that didn’t matter. We went out to join the bunches of other luggage-lugging folks out on the sidewalk.
Not our bus. Not our bus. Our bus! Drives by without stopping? Not our bus. Our bus!
We did manage to board the bus when it came back around. Ever have the pleasure of standing on a bus while it drives on the highway? I didn’t think so. Allow me to assure you that it’s terrifying.
We got off at our terminal – the flights to the USA terminal – and spent a fair amount of time searching for the American Eagle desk. There wasn’t one. But the American Airlines desk also had American Eagle written on the sign in little letters. We got our boarding passes, had our luggage weighed, tagged, and handed back to us (huhwha?). We were then handed forms and directed to customs.
There were no pens on the tables in the customs room (which looked like a high school gymnasium with posts and tape keeping people in orderly lines), so I dug into the luggage and pulled out the pen I’d bought at the CN Tower. Name. Address. Reason for visiting Canada. Value of items purchased. Boring. Boring. Boring.
We waited in line, and when my turn came, I told the “friendly” customs officer that the purpose of our visit was baseball. Move on to another line, at the end of which my checked luggage went through an X-ray dohicky. I moved my luggage, as they told me to, over to the belt. Now for human security. Another line. Off with the shoes. X-ray for the carryons.
Walk, walk, walk. Grab some food at the primary terminal, wait for the shuttle. I find this entertaining, as it is basically waiting for the opportunity to wait. The shuttle comes, we go over to the satellite terminal (which is apparently temporary in Toronto – they’re building something better – Boston should try that).
After sitting down and starting to eat our snacks, I started to notice that everyone in our terminal seemed kind of upset. I overheard people on phones saying they’d be home late. I saw franticly gesturing people at the desk in the terminal. Then I heard the tragic word “delay.” So I brought my boarding pass over to the desk and asked about our 5:00 flight. She said it probably wasn’t going to be wheels-up until 8:45, if not later. In shock, I asked if there was anything I could do about that, and she told me, “No.”
So we started the waiting game. We watched as one trio of business people spoke quickly and firmly to their secretaries on cell phone earpieces, trying to schedule a different flight. We saw an anxiety ridden father continually bother the people at the desk while his twenty-something daughter rolled her eyes. We heard one lady say she would be home on time because she got to the airport very early and rescheduled (if only I’d thought of that!). We learned that the delays were due to major flooding in Boston, NYC, and Phili. And hours slowly passed.
I realized that I’d better call Foxwoods and let the Two Trees Inn know that we were coming and please, please don’t give up our room. Of course, I don’t have a phone number. After trying some less intelligent ways, a friendly nearby passenger suggested 555-1212. Duh. After discussing new and interesting ways to spell Ledyard, we got a hold of the desk at the hotel, and they said they’d leave a note and not give up the room.
We ended up chatting with the father-daughter team bound for Maine and with an exhausted looking girl hoping to get home to Australia. This, along with various bits and pieces of food, purchased with my last remaining Canadian dollars and cents (I was left with precisely seven Canadian cents), carried us until 7:30, when a plane pulled up to the gate that was “our plane.” We could not be guaranteed that we’d get on early, since the pilots would have to be asked begged to get right back into the air after having just landed.
We did get on the plane “early” at about 8:00, and the first good thing in hours happened. They bumped up our wheels-up time, and we were in the air at 8:15 or so. The flight was uneventful in itself, with a good amount of turbulence, and we landed at… well… I didn’t look, but it was late.
Luggage, where’s our luggage? Oh, right, back downstairs where we came in. There’s the bag. Now where the hell do we go to catch the shuttle back to our car? Ah, it says it on the ticket they gave us when we arrived.
Another waiting game. We watched as bus after bus for different rental companies passed by. And everyone we saw getting onto these busses looked as exhausted as we felt. Finally the shuttle came, and we went back to our car.
Pay the “cheap” $60 fee to leave. Miss the turn to get out of Chelsea. Spot a sign for I-93. Take a tunnel. Take a bridge (the pretty Tobin – this made up for getting lost). Realize I’m low on gas. Commence freaking out…