I have to say that our weekend in Toronto didn’t begin too auspiciously. Mark and I stood in the train station at 6:30 a.m. waiting for the boarding call, a teenaged boy and his mom stood a few seats away. He had an impish grin, tousled hair and a twinkle in his eye that one doesn’t usually associate with a teenager, especially in the pre-dawn hours.
“HEY, THERE GOES BALDY” he yelled, using a volume of speech that is normally associated with football games, flagging taxis in New York City and yelling at people who are scuba diving 15 ft under the surface.
His mom shushed him. He didn’t care. All of a sudden I understood.
“HEY, THAT GUY HAS A BEARD AND HE NEEDS A TRIM!” Bearded guy laughed. Other people moved away, or tried not to look to see how the mother was handling it.
In every other case, if there’s a strange person in a crowd, on a bus, in a restaurant, they always sit right next to me. I exude some kind of magnetic charm. Thankfully, we did not share a car with the boy and his overworked mother. The train ride to Toronto was quiet and uneventful.
Our hotel, The Grand, was gorgeous, although it was situated in a slightly run down area of town. We got a fantastic rate, probably because we booked during a slow season. I could go on and on about the 4000 thread-count sheets, the feather pillows and duvet, the two televisions and mini-kitchen… but I won’t. But the highlight of the hotel is worth describing: the pool.
Mark went to visit a client on Saturday afternoon. I was alone, and figured I’d explore the swimming pool.
I climbed in tentatively, unsure of what temperature water was going to greet me, and was mildly miffed that the photo on the hotel website had made it appear decidedly larger.
Temperature was good. We had liftoff. I dove in. After about half a lap I realized something was not quite right. Ah yes. The amber light in my brain turned green. It dawned on me – this was the kind of pool I had only read about. It was a saltwater pool. No chlorine! It was a dream. My lips tasted only slightly salty, but not in a fishy Atlantic way. I swam lap after lap, marveling at how sting-free my eyes were feeling. My eyes didn’t feel as if someone was poking them with slices of jalapeno! And the water felt softer. Was it my imagination or was I more buoyant? I did my Dead Girl Floating In Water pose to try it out. On second thought, all the shortbread and chocolate fudge I consumed over the holidays probably caused the increased buoyancy. Perhaps this is a good thing. I could never drown! I can see it now: GIRL SURVIVES BOATING ACCIDENT THANKS TO HER INCREDIBLY BUOYANT REAR END.
Anyway, yes, the pool. It was wondrous, and I had it all to myself.
The hot tub was next. Again, I approached it with some hesitation. Hot tubs are seldom hot enough for me. But as I dipped my foot into the water I realized opposite was true. The water was scalding hot. As I sat on the sides, half in, half out, I wondered if I had made a mistake in trying to conquer the hot tub. I imagined the hotel chefs were probably using this as a huge (already salted) lobster pot. I didn’t care if the hotel staff were peeing their pants with laughter as they watched me on the kitchen cam: “THE – GIRL – IS – SWIMMING – IN – OUR BWAH HA HA LOBSTER P-P-POT.” I was going to do it REGARDLESS OF WHETHER LOBSTERS WERE BEING BOILED HERE OR NOT.
It took me no less than five minutes to acclimatize. After another five I was ready to get out. I was red all over and feeling slightly limp and overcooked. Al dente Andrea was gone.
Other highlights of our weekend:
On Sunday morning I snapped awake at 10:30. It was my internal alarm clock telling me that the breakfast buffet was going to close in 30 minutes. We rose, pulled on clothing and went downstairs to an amazing spread. My weakness for croissants and breakfast sausage prevailed (see headline above about my butt that floats) and I drank three cups of coffee, only one of which was decaf. We ate and drank and read the paper in a heated outdoor veranda – which would have been perfect except for the syrupy strains of Kenny G melodies pouring from the speakers and the overhead heaters that made us feel like we were dining under the noonday sun directly on a beach in Miami.
And of course there was shopping. I convinced Mark to break a long-standing tradition of brown nubuck shoes. I scoped out Sephora. My experience at this store will have to make up an entirely separate post about lip gloss, pinkeye and manicured eybrows (not mine.)
We lunched with a good friend at the Jamie Kennedy’s Wine Bar. Meh. The wine was wonderful, as were the fries, but I wouldn’t go back.
And then it was time to go. The train ride home was uneventful. The only screaming individual was a wee baby, and we made sure we sat on the opposite end of the train. And thus ended a perfect, perfect weekend away from home.
