Ordinarily it takes us an hour to get to the airport on the other side of Austin, but this morning it takes two and a half hours. We find out when we get to the airport that a transformer blew a couple of hours ago, knocking out the power to the computer systems, terminals, and control tower. How this translates into gruelingly standstill traffic is unclear. The problem is corrected quickly, but because of the difficulties we expect our flight to be delayed, but it leaves on time while we are late, late, late, so we must race through the airport like OJ (except we’re not murderers) to catch it. Also, it turns out that one of my drive-flat tires is indeed driving flat, and we have no choice but to hope it will still be driving flat when we return at midnight in twelve days. If not, well, what a pain that will be.
So, not an auspicious start to our Great Lakes Cruise. In Toronto our touring company, Tauck, has arranged for us to be picked up at the airport and delivered to The Fairmont, which is the same chain we stayed in last spring when we took a train through the Canadian Rockies. Fairmont Hotels are known for their luxurious dignity, but when we enter the lobby we are confronted by a wall of loud music with a harsh redundant beat that I suspect was composed with zero human input. Exaggeratedly well-dressed people stand in clusters with drinks in their hands, pretending they can hear one another. We are told that a fashion show is taking place. I scan the crowd, hoping for a new trend or color; but no—same ole derivative stuff.
We find our room and then go back out immediately in search of dinner. We end up at a crowded tavern, King’s Tap, with the same sort of deafening percussive music. It’s our turn to pretend we can hear one another. After the day of travel, I enjoy a Guinness. To our dismay, we’re unable to name the Great Lakes. Shouting at one another, we name Huron and Eerie, but can’t think of the other three. It’s ludicrous that we’ve come on this GL trip and can’t even name them. But not to worry; Siri helps us out. And then we feel stupid because of course we knew them; we just couldn’t remember them, which is what happens when you’re in your sixties.
After a great night’s sleep we take a ferry out to Toronto Island, where we walk five kilometers, from one end to the other. It’s the loveliest walk we’ve had in years. The sky is the clearest blue, it’s seventy-three degrees, the paved walking path is in good condition, and oddly, we have the whole island to ourselves. If you’re ever seeking tranquility in Toronto, I highly suggest a trip to the island.
On the way back to the hotel we stop for lunch at Impact Kitchen—one of those places where kale and cabbage figure highly into every meal. Considering the simplicity of our orders—a sandwich for David and soup for me—the plethora of cooks and servers, and the dearth of diners, it takes us way too long to get our meal. On the upside, the wait gives us a chance to observe the many passers-by outside the broad front window. So, having been here less than eighteen hours, I’m prepared to offer a few baseless generalizations: there’s a high population of well-dressed millennials buzzing around with ideas in their heads—foolish dreams or high ambitions, I do not know; a large number of them smoke or vape, which is puzzling; and, for some reason, a major percentage of the male population walks around with one hand in a front pants pocket. What’s that about?
The next morning, Niagara Falls. There’s a reason why people come here in droves—the falls are magnificent. Also, the town of Niagara Falls is charming, with hotels overlooking the roaring water, lovely parks, and colorful flower gardens everywhere. We’ve heard that the Canadian side offers the better view, and standing here, we can see how that would be in that the American side looks on to the falls from the top, back, and side, while we have face-on exposure. We are offered ponchos and herded on to a boat, then delivered right below the falls where we are attacked by water and wind. I huddle miserably, getting soaked as I battle the whipping plastic of the useless poncho. We were told the boat ride lasts twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour. What I gain from the experience is an appreciation for a mighty and fearsome force that possesses the ability to create a storm on a quiet day.
In the evening we decide on a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner, and, as serendipity arranges, we end up on an upper floor by a window overlooking the Toronto International Film Festival and all the flamboyantly dressed theatrical types as they drift between promos and performances. And at the table behind us, a writer pitches his script with a pride so desperate that he makes me feel embarrassed, not only for him, but for all us writers who are so consumed by the brilliance of our own works that we’re unable to comprehend the disinterest of others or the notion that our latest project is not the most fascinating ever to have been conceived.
Tomorrow we get on the boat.
One of the falls. From where I stand there are three of these in view—roaring, mighty.
A view of Toronto from the island. It’s a lovely city, though there are traffic issues—like last night it took us forty minutes to arrive at a venue when we could have walked in ten.
Sometimes, just walking around a city, we come upon unexpected and fun events.
