Finding my inner Sybarite

Coming home from Toronto on Via Rail last Friday, I waited too late to get one of the cheaper seats to London. I discovered, for only $4 more than a now-costly economy class fare, I could up-grade to business.  A spirit of adventure overtook me: I booked my first business class passage to London (Ontario, that is).

The adventure begins

One of my favourite spaces is the concourse at Union Station.

The ticket agent directed me across Union Station to the refurbished Panorama Lounge where a rather snooty clerk curtly directed me to sit “over there.”  Instead, with spa-like music wafting into my ears,  I wandered around to take a look. The space is much loftier than the old Panorama Lounge, which used to be on the departures floor with no panorama of anything. After the restoration of Union Station, when the dust settles and the hoardings come down, there will be a panoramic view of Front St., harried pedestrians, and the Royal York Hotel.



Mmmmm good, but still in the fridge at home ...

 

 

I helped myself to an apple — from the Okanagan Valley, if the boxes stored by the beverage machines were any indication. I also tucked a small complimentary container of tomato juice into my purse, in case I became thirsty later.

During the 90 minutes until train time, I answered all my e-mails. But before I knew it, my train was called. It was quite a walk from the lounge to Track 20 and then I had the dubious pleasure of walking the entire length of the train to the car right behind the engine. As the conductor at the top of the escalator joked, “Go right to the front … you might just as well drive to London.” 

Some initial deflations

When I boarded, I was a bit let down. The seats were just like the ones in economy class except they were dark green. However, I settled into a window seat — actually by the partition between the windows, which, unlike the lower class accommodation, were curtained, thereby obscuring what remained of the view.

No sooner had I arranged myself when a couple of stripling lads came by, paused where I was, and suggested I was in their seat. Apparently the 11B on my ticket referred to where I was to sit. I collected myself, my coat and my bags and moved three seats back, soaking up the condescension of my fellow passengers.

 



Too many numbers. ...where was the usher, I mean, conductor when I needed him/her!



But things quickly improve

I resolved to become both non-descript and observant (which for me is not hard). I pored over the Globe and Mail crossword puzzle. A lot of clinking behind me suggested bottles. Bottles suggested booze. It was the arrival of the refreshment cart. I ordered a white wine but only after noticing no money changed hands between the bored young woman across the aisle and the server — I wasn’t in coach class anymore!

No sooner had I sipped a nice, though not altogether chilled, white wine than someone appeared with a choice of snacks. I chose the mix; my seatmate, the pretzels. He was enjoying the first of several glasses of red wine. I was quite content with my one glass, as a little alcohol goes a long way with me, and the armrest table didn’t lend itself to my falling under it in boozy disarray.

Then someone arrived bearing a menu offering at least four entrée possibilities. Cautious, I chose chicken; my seat-mate, the last serving of a shrimp concoction. He also had another glass of wine.

I awaited developments, but not for long. The snooty girl across the aisle spilled her wine and asked if she could have my serviette; only she called it a napkin. I gave it to her, and she inquired as to the availability of my seat-mate’s. He handed his over, and she dabbed at her shirt and changed seats.

Delectables float down from above

Suddenly a rectangular plastic package was deposited on my little table; I thought at first it was a very thin chocolate bar, but no, it was a lemon-scented, heated, moistened, terry cloth hand towel.

I wiped the newsprint off my fingers. Before I knew it, a plastic container, holding sushi and what looked like coconut cream pie, came from above. I demurred, “I thought I ordered chicken,” but my travelling companion saved me from embarrassment by saying the chicken would come later.

He told me to beware of the ginger: it was hot. I navigated around and through the ginger and enjoyed the sushi. My seat mate had another red wine and took a bite of his coconut cream pie. I didn’t embarrass him by suggesting it was likely dessert, but served prematurely.

Our entrées arrived. The server took them from the cart with an instrument that clipped onto the side of the heated plate; it reminded me of the handle for Corning ware dishes that enabled them to become pans rather than casseroles. I have had one in a drawer for over 40 years because I don’t trust it. However, the Via Rail clip-on handle worked like a charm, and dinner was served. Tasty!

Did I want tea or coffee?  I chose tea and handed my china cup to the server, so the lurching train did not result in hot liquid being accidentally poured into my lap. Very acceptable tea.

Conversation ensues

It seemed churlish to be rescuing a young wine drinker, eating a nice meal and drinking tea from a china cup and not engaging my seat-mate in conversation. He had of course long since put away his Globe and Mail as well. He was originally from Quebec and had moved to London to marry —just like Greg with me.

Anyhow, we chatted about various things I can’t remember too much about. I do remember he had fetching chestnut brown eyes. That is what only one glass of wine does to me. It probably also caused me to explain in excruciating detail how the sleeping berths in trains going to the West Coast are positioned differently from those going to the East Coast and how that affects sleep. I also expatiated on how long you are given to have a pay-as-you go shower on the B. C. inland ferry.

He said something about how much he had enjoyed going to Amsterdam and Paris.

I enjoyed my coconut cream pie.

What a grand meal, and no, I hadn’t yet seen Django Unchained? Had he seen Life of Pi?

Then from over the back of the seat in front, someone appeared bearing a tray on which were small glasses half full of an amber liquid. Ah, would I like cognac? Well, yes, that would be very ice, thank you. My seat-mate said he didn’t usually mix drinks and continued with his next glass of red wine.

My goodness, cognac reminds me of a cold night skating on an outdoors rink and then coming in to get warm by a large fire.

No sooner had I shared this thought, than what should appear but a large tray with two kinds of chocolates; likely they were truffles. I chose one and savoured it.

Yes, I wanted to see Lincoln too.

My goodness, time flies

I also looked out of the window, as we seemed to have arrived at a rather garishly painted station, which turned out to be called Woodstock. I remembered I had intended to phone Greg around Kitchener, so he could leave in time to arrive in London when the train did. No answer, but I noticed a message: he’d phoned 10 minutes before and was already on his way.

Well, that was nice too.

I sipped my cognac slowly all the way into London. Then I joined the other business class passengers saying buoyant farewells to the young Via Rail conductors, who smiled — somewhat over indulgently, I thought.    Never mind, I can’t recommend business-class travel highly enough. 

Why, despite everything, I like being in Toronto

Every year I read the horoscope for my birthday in the Globe and Mail. This year the offering for the 17^th of October suggested I must become very flexible around new ideas and, what is more, that my world is going to turn upside down in the coming year. Oh joy.
 

I read that prediction while I was in Toronto looking after my mother, who had been hospitalized with pneumonia. This unexpected event did change my plans, but I can’t say my world was turning cartwheels. However, I did experience several opportunities, during those 10 or 11 days, to roll with some figurative punches.

***

I am not a person who enjoys public displays, but sometimes one can’t avoid them. Even bad hospital food is better than none (and to give credit where credit is due, after the first ghastly offering in emerge, the other meals were not too bad even though the yellow beans were always underdone, according to Mum).  Anyway, when Mum was moved (the sixth of eight moves in the fortnight she spent in hospital) to a new floor just at lunchtime, I made sure her lunch would not be forgotten. It was successfully transferred to the new floor.

However, just as it was being delivered, a porter arrived and announced it was time for a CT scan. Fearing lunch would disappear if we left it in the new room, I took it with us on the gurney. I steadied the hot food on the flannelette sheets to warm up Mum’s cold legs and in my other hand I carried a carton of frozen dessert.

Soon we were nine floors down, outside the Imaging Unit, waiting for the previous patient to finish.  So in the very public hallway, I served up what I nostalgically call “yuck slosh” — the name my daughter gave to good old hamburger casserole and prefaced by the words “not eating that.” Mum, however, did eat it; after, she continued on to what had once been lime sherbet, but was now garish green foam. And not one of the many passersby gave us a second glance.

***

The next day at Toronto-Western, it was wait for the eye doctor all morning in a room decorated with only a cross -section of the glaucoma-afflicted eye, and then after lunch, undertake a surprise visit to the x-ray department. While there, a gurney, occupied by a comatose individual and accompanied by two policemen, arrived and was parked against the wall near Mum. It was busy in x-ray that afternoon. The men in blue (well, black, actually) looked out of place amongst the gurneys; no one else was fully clothed or standing (except for me) or carrying a gun.  

Noticing her age, the x-ray tech had asked for her secret for a long life, and she said, “Oatmeal porridge every morning.”  When one of the policemen heard she was almost 94, he said she reminded him of his grandmother who was about to turn 95. Then the two of them chatted about the merits of hot porridge — with milk and brown sugar — which he enjoyed for breakfast too.

Then the talk turned to haircuts. Mum’s shortish hair had been pushed up to the top of her head and looked like a Mohawk do. The policeman said his hair was a lot like hers and took off his hat to reveal a very short cut with a bit of a fringe on top. Mum looked at it, didn’t miss a beat and said, “Well you certainly got your money’s worth.”

***

I decided to stop spending a fortune on cab fares and to take the TTC to the hospital. I hesitated before asking for my senior’s fare on the 18^th of October, as I did not have my birth certificate with me as proof. However without a moment’s hesitation, the attendant in the booth gave me my five senior’s tickets for $8.75. Emboldened, I asked what if I had to use them where there was no attendant, and he said I’d have to use regular tokens. This seems so typical of the poor old TTC.

I was slightly put out by that and by the fact that he did not ask me for ID. How times change yet stay the same. I recall being asked for ID in drinking establishments long after I turned 21 and being miffed by that too.

***

Travelling by subway is cheap but crowded. I eschew stairs now that I am a senior, and since the elevator at the Bathurst station was closer than the escalator, I opted to take it. So did a choleric elderly individual in a red Roots bomber jacket and red running shoes. Muttering loudly to himself, he punched the up-button furiously while a small older (than me? maybe not) woman, dressed in black from head to toe, joined us. I glanced at her and raised my eyebrows slightly, and she gently reached over and patted my arm.

An older man approached, hesitated, then apparently decided valour was more important than discretion, since two members of the weaker sex had stayed put (for I have an annoying conviction that even those with mental difficulties ought to be polite and share space), and he got on too. We three huddled at the rear of the car, while Mr. Hot Head ranted incoherently in the front. Too late, I realized he had a cane. I suggested not making too much in the way of eye contact, and he must have overheard me because he raised the volume, though not his cane. I began to re-think some of my stupider convictions.

The elevator door closed with majestic slowness, and we rose like a vertical Anglican procession to the next floor. Mr. Hot Head scurried out to take his place (unchallenged) at the head of the line for the Bathurst streetcar. Then the woman, again wordlessly, gave me another comforting pat on the arm and we parted with a smile. And that is why I enjoy being in Toronto.

***

After a few days, I had to leave Mum to go home for a while. At Union Station, I was listening to the Agnus Dei from Bach’s B-minor Mass, as I sat in pre-boarding for the train to St. Mary’s. There was an overlay of voices other than the alto: “Last call for Train 66”;  “Do you want the elevator”; I depended entirely on the kindness of strangers to carry this TV here”; I’m going to wait until I have my two days off to do that”; “The train for Ottawa is now boarding at 5:45, not 5:30.”

It was a bit like that wonderful Simon and Garfunkel tune where Silent Night is in the back ground — only less grave. The wonderful music was a surreal juxtaposition to the bustle of the station, especially when the next cut on my random play list was the 20-minute Lamentations of Jeremiah. I am beginning to like travelling with my computer — the Zen state of waiting is entirely different from that provided by a book.

***

Then a minor embarrassment — or too much of a Zen thing.  Once I was on the train, I plugged in the electric cord for the Wi-Fi, got my mouse attached, then decided to listen to my music, so I got out my ear phones and put them on. Soon I was hearing Dream a Little dream of me, but it seemed rather distant.

I noticed the passengers in the seats in front of me were suddenly restless and shifting in their seats. Even I could sense irritation in the air. Then I realized I had neglected to plug the ear phones into the computer. No wonder the music sounded so far way. Ouch.

After what seemed like an eternity, I found the right port and plugged in the ear phones. All was right with the world again. I listened to Philip Glass, Healey Willan and 50s faves, and the woman in front of me contentedly resumed reading Scoop.