Cagey Times on the Stagecoach

Sitting on the Greyhound.[1] Across from me is one of those people who seems to think it’s a good idea to max the volume on his iPod and chill out, cheap earbuds definitely not blocking the sound from reaching the entire bus. Somehow these people always seem to have pretty bad music taste (in my humble opinion), like it’s not crashy and bashy and yelly enough so they have to crank it up and subject everyone around  them to their 16-year-old-pants-half-covering-their-asses-jacket-5-sizes-too-big “music.”

Typical of Greyhound, the bus smells of old pee, either from the small toilet in the back (I will use many a public bathroom, but I draw the line at Greyhound), to the sort of passengers the bus line tends to attract. My seat isn’t properly attached and jolts whenever the bus stops, starts or makes any sudden changes in speed. The window is dirty, giving what is normally a beautiful view of Lake Ontario a bird-poop-like filter.

I am riding back to Toronto after visiting a friend in city a few hours away. I’ve been in Canada only about 10 days and already the thick grey of concrete skies and the soft falling of snow have become normal to me. One of the worst cold snaps in decades, temperatures eeked down to -30 a few days ago, almost -40 with the wind chill (this winter appears to be one of extremes, but then Canada always seems to be going through some worst snow, ice, wind, rain, flood, cold or combination of those). Icicles extend from roofs, like strands of scraggly, grey beard, frozen in place – some nearly reaching the peaks of snow piled high above the ground.

The guy’s music is REALLY loud now; this would NEVER fly in Switzerland.

About an hour later, we stop in the town of Niagara Falls to pick up more passengers. I warn a man not to sit in the seat across the aisle; the boy with the music got off a while back and without his weight holding the seat in place it has been careening back and forth with every change in speed. The man is pretty darn chipper and decides to take the seat anyway. I turn my music back on and start casually picking off little hairs from my coat that have accumulated from a woolly white hat I’ve been wearing.

“Ya got cats?” The man is leaning across the aisle.
I realize he is talking to me, “Sorry?” I say, taking out my earbuds.
“Ya got cats?” he repeats in a rather high voice and substantially loud enough for half the bus to hear. He is about 40 and his teeth have seen better days.
I tell him no, make some polite joke about my hat and resume my music.

The man develops a little friendship with another man sitting behind him who has agreed to stabilize the sliding seat by pushing his feet against it. When this doesn’t work out so well, the man with the not very good teeth moves to the seat behind to continue chatting with his new friend in more comfort (you’d think also in softer voices, but that doesn’t seem to occur to them).

They begin a very manly conversation.

I drift in and out. They start with work (45 min) – “…yeah, so I did the entire fiberglass exterior, and then they wanned me ta construct the interior frame…blah, blah, blah…..board…bleh bleh blaa….insulation….…roofing…….concrete…. but to use the 3 inch nail or the 2 was kinna tough ta figure, cos we dinent know ………” the husky intonations continue on, lulling me into a half sleep. I distinguish them by the sound of their voices: the one with the highish, excited voice and the overly loud laugh who asked me about my cat ownership and the other one who is bearded with a low sultry voice. The topic switches to gun types, then stories of broken bones, and then a brief touch on a “difficult sort of girlfriend” (“she just kinna disappeared on me” (High Voice)). They really start to bond when Sultry says to High Voice, “Ya ever been in prison?” “Yeah,” High Voice responds. I start listening in a little more closely.

I think back to a conversation I had two days ago on another Greyhound. I was sitting next to a very Chatty Cathy and we really got into the intimate details of life, well of her life at least. Topics of conversation included her angel children, her husband’s recent conversion to Orthodox Judaism, his snoring problems, her birthing experiences and so on. Guess that was a pretty womanly conversation.

The men are still on about experiences with the police, alternating with thoughts on the Vietnam War. I notice they have beers in their hands, a definite “no no” in Canada. High Voice’s voice is getting a little higher and his laugh a little louder.

The whole experience is really topped off when we get to Toronto and High Voice stops on his way off the bus to ask if I’m single. He’s staring at me; I stare back like a deer in the headlights; I notice how bad his teeth really are. Long pause. “Nope,” I say. I don’t like to lie, but sometimes it’s the best idea. “It’s a shame,” he says in his nasally voice, pulling into the section of seats in front of me, “because you’re about as cute as they get.” The other passengers are jammed up around us, waiting for the line to move off the bus; High Voice’s attempted pick-up is inconveniently audible, “Ya know, ya got those glasses….kinna makes you look like…..[he pauses as if searching for something really original]…..a librarian! But I know for sure, you’re a real nasty librarian!!” He cackles too loudly. I get off the bus a little quicker than usual and disappear into the crowd.

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[1] Greyhound is the largest long distance bus company operating in Canada and the US. If you have ever ridden it, you will know its fine service and outstanding clientele make it truly a pleasure.

Shakes on a Plane

“Please remember the emergency booklet in the seat pocket in front of you,” came the pilot’s voice through the intercom, the last message in his fourth warning of the strong turbulence that was expected during our descent into Montreal. Flight attendants were also asked to be seated for the duration of the descent, seat belts were to be “tightly fastened,” and we were to refrain from eating and drinking. By about the third announcement, people began to cross themselves and take deep breaths. We were flying from Geneva (almost T-shirt weather on the day I left) to Montreal (and then on to Toronto) currently in the throes of the worst ice storm it had seen in over a decade.

“Those on the left side of the plane can see the storm front from their windows,” said the captain, as if this might be some fun little amusement for those of us getting bored. I was on the left side. We floated blissfully in the blue sun drenched skies, below us cavernous rolls of cloud creating a misleadingly beautiful backdrop, like waves of a lunging sea suspended and frozen in the air. I closed the blind and began to think of a little soothing chant I could say when we entered the hellish storm and our bodies were thrown recklessly about the plane. There was a lurch; Armageddon was approaching and we could do nothing to stop it (except land in a different airport, but the pilot didn’t seem to want to do that – I wondered if maybe he was suicidal).

We landed with almost no turbulence at all, after sitting, tightly buckled, in that plane for an hour preparing for the worst. Everyone clapped, although if no announcement had been made we would have taken the safe landing for granted.

Maybe the pilot just wanted some recognition, but in any case, I think we were all pretty damn happy with the outcome.

Getting to the arrival bay took about an hour. Cause? 5 to 6 feet of snow blocking the gate. “Welcome to Canada,” I thought. 

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“I’m at a payphone trying to call home”

Due to a strong headwind that made the normally 7 to 8 hour flight into a 9 hour one, plus the snow mountain blocking the arrival gate, we got into Montreal about 3 hours later than expected and I had missed my connection to Toronto. I needed to make a call to let my family know arrival time in Barrie (about 1.5 hours outside of Toronto) could be any time within the next 2 days.

Without a functioning cell phone in North America, I was left with the services of Bell Canada, whose little payphone booths were scattered between the thousands of people squishing about in lines and collapsed on seats.

I went to buy a drink (I was incredibly parched and, earlier, had barely restrained myself from picking up a discarded half-full bottle of water at the entrance to Security (had to go through it again in Canada before going to connecting flight)). I asked for quarters (our 25 cent coin) in change.

Went to the payphone, dialed the number (long distance), and waited for Bell to tell me what I owed.

“$5.30 one minute,” the automated female said in flat voice through the receiver. I probably said something nasty out loud because you just stop caring when you haven’t slept in who knows how long and have been lugging bags around through stressy airport lines for hours.

Went to another phone in case my automated female was just a crazy one. She wasn’t, or they all were.

I went to a convenience store to get a $5 bill as I only had $20s.

Back to the payphone. Nope, does not take bills.

Back to the convenience store. 5 minute wait in line as people buy Tylenol and mentos.

Back to the payphone with my coins. Discovered the thing doesn’t take toonies (our $2 coin, introduced about 15 years ago). By this time, I am clearly a bit annoyed, but being Canadian, I patiently wait in line again at the convenience store to get smaller coins.

I make the call, feeding in each coin with a sense of being greatly wronged. Get the answering machine. In the middle of leaving some message of distress, I hear through the intercom that my flight has been cancelled (under my outward scowl, I’m secretly glad of this; I don’t particularly relish the idea of flying through massive ice pellets and landing at the tiny city airport on an island in Lake Ontario when the city is experiencing extreme flooding). Leave some garbled sense in my message of my likely sleepover in the Montreal airport before accidentally hanging up the phone due to a rash arm movement made in annoyance that hits the little hang up thingy. I still had 20 seconds. Turned out that my flight was the only one out of about 6 that was still flying; appeared I had come across another rashly confident pilot.

Sometimes you can’t help but wonder why people live in this strikingly inhospitable territory.