Saturday, 2 p.m. Dear readers, the pace and length of these posts will now diminish. But here’s one last long one.
Yesterday, Friday, was extraordinary. As soon as I got up — early, jet-lagged — I wrote a furious op-ed article about the superb public transit and bike infrastructure in forward-looking Paris and the ways our stupid provincial government is moving in exactly the wrong direction. I sent it with no expectations to the Star, which has rejected far more of my op-eds than it has accepted, and then gave a Zoom webinar about memoir to a group of palliative care volunteers. What immensely valuable work; I was honoured to speak to them. By the time the webinar was over, I had word from the Star — they were buying the piece to run on Sunday. And by the way, the editor is a former writing student of mine. Thrilling.
I opened a small parcel; it was a copy of my student Merrijoy Kelner’s memoir A Zest for Life, with an inscription: “To Beth – Without you, this book would never have happened.” Merrijoy is 98, and the title is correct; she has a fierce zest for life and a fascinating story. Brava.
To complete my happiness, I went to the Y, where people kept saying, Welcome back! to me, and the midday class was taught, unusually, by Daniel, not a volunteer but a superstar young Y employee who’s very good at his job and handsome to boot. After the class, a long hot shower, hot tub, sauna. Truly clean at last. Cycled home. Really really home.
And then my son called. “Mum, the house next to mine is on fire and the wind is spreading it fast!” He was shouting to his housemates, “Get out! Get out!” Terrifying. His sister rushed over. He, Bandit, all the others, and the house itself survived, but the one next door is a burned-out wreck. Sam has fought the crackhead tenants there for years, for their noise and abuse of their dogs, who died in the fire. Now they’ll be gone.
Unfortunately, Sam’s windows broke with heat or the force of the firehoses, so his flat is a huge mess of broken glass, water, ash, and the smell of smoke. He spent the night at Anna’s. But he’s resilient and philosophical. The clean-up begins.
Home, with its ups and downs. This came in this morning with the caption “Proof of life.” Love is.
Trip recap, written yesterday.
It is 6.30 a.m. Friday April 24, and I’m once more sitting where I spend most days, in my chair in the kitchen facing the garden, Tiggy tucked in beside me. Although woozy, managed to stay up until 10 last night — four in the morning for me — took a sleeping pill, and got seven solid hours of sleep. I’ve just made my own breakfast. The house survived. The cat survived. Even my very thirsty plants survived. And so did I.
None of the things I feared so frantically came to pass. Year ago, I was in a museum in Milan with Bruce when my cellphone rang; the sump pump had stopped working, the basement was flooded, the tenant wanted to sue me. I sat on a bench and cried. That did not happen this time. I did not leave my handbag anywhere, although even just yesterday, on the plane home, I stood up to get my backpack out of the overhead bin and could not find it. I opened several bins— no backpack. Heart hammering, face white, I thought, Did I put it down and forget it at the airport? My computer and cords, Canadian money and key, jewelry, meds … But no, it was there but lying on its face with a black bottom facing me that I did not recognize. A last panic.
Beyond an upset stomach, I did not get sick, as I did two years ago for nearly the entire trip. I did not make a mistake in timing, a special concern because I was visiting Anita whom I’d not seen in 20 years, and would be alone in Madrid. In fact, the timing — four and a half days with Lynn in Paris, three with Anita in Malaga, three in Madrid, one and a half back in Paris — was perfect. Anita and I had a wonderful time, and there were two lovely encounters with friends in Madrid. The only part I’d gladly have extended was the time with Lynn in that beautiful Airbnb, even though Paris then was mostly chilly and damp.
Nothing got stolen, and my phone didn’t break. One problem was that I should have checked with my provider Rogers before leaving; usually their Roam Like Home kicks in immediately on landing, and this time did not. I didn’t have internet for hours, which could have been a huge problem as I was What’sApping the son of our landlady who was to let us in to the apartment, and he wasn’t receiving any messages. But Lynn arrived and got in touch with him, and from the flat I dealt, at some length, with Rogers. The special deal they offered, $70 for limitless internet for two weeks, worked wonderfully from then on; I was connected all the way. Even so, walking anywhere, I kept checking to see that my phone had not decided to fly out of my bag; you’re lost without one, including of course the essential Google Maps. So many tourists, wandering around, faces glued to their phones. Lesson: always check with your provider before departing.
I brought more or less the right clothes — not quite enough for warmth and too much for hot weather, but the piled-on layers for chilly days were fine. Did get too hot in Madrid, where it was an unusual 25 degrees last Sunday; the weekend before had been really cold. I had my small backpack with me and just took off and stuffed in what was too much.
Taking a carry-on is simply essential, especially with more than one plane trip. Though flights are a problem, in that travel by plane takes so much time. I mean, it saves time to fly, of course, but you have to get to the airport so early. Each of my small flights — to Malaga, from Madrid to Paris — took more than half a valuable day. I would definitely always do as much as possible in Europe by train, like my trip from Malaga to Madrid; you don’t have to get there early, have room to move, can read and work. Much nicer. (But as you know, the trains weren’t running that route, although no one informed me, and half the trip was by bus. But still, far less hassle than flying.)
Best of all, when we landed in Toronto, I was seated near the front of the plane. I moved so fast with my carry-on to get off and through the extremely streamlined customs and immigration section — thanks, Canada! — desperate to breathe real air, that I’m sure I was in a taxi while those at the back of the plane were still stumbling off. I feel guilty about taking a taxi as opposed to the UP Express, but I needed to get my face in the sun and breathe. And then confronted the reality of Toronto, the most disgustingly snarled up traffic of anywhere on earth except perhaps New Delhi.
The best moment, always — inserting my own key into my own door and walking into my own house. Still standing. Forsythia exploding. Spring is coming, and I am here to celebrate it.
