<monday december 8, 2003 - 2:30 p.m.>

Warning: this is a long-winded post. You know what I can be like when I get going, right?

This past weekend was all about being on the road, at least for me. The family was home-bound while I took the car Saturday night and went to my mom's place. She had to catch a flight from Toronto the next day, and I was the appointed driver.

My mom lives in what can truly be described as a cabin. Her place has electric heating, but because it's so expensive nowadays (and she's on a fixed income) she chooses to heat the place with an industrial-sized woodstove instead. The back bedrooms don't get much of the woody/smokey radiant heat that emanates from the glowing maw of the woodstove. The living room, yes. The kitchen, sort of, but then again there's the heat from the stove or the kettle. The bathroom, uh, no. The bedrooms, forget it. The bathroom and bedrooms are around a corner. Heat here is a very precious thing.

Before I went to bed on Saturday night it was 12 °C in my room. I know this for sure. There is a thermometer in the bedroom. This was with the door having been open for lord knows how long before I got there. Once the door is closed, the only way heat can get in there is (a) through the walls and (b) underneath the crack in the door. Once closed, it got even colder around me.

I slept with my hat on and sandwiched myself between electric blankets. I was a human fajita. I remained hot and toasty in my electric cocoon.

Saturday night my mom and I had a BLT, fries and wings at a pizza place that appeared to be frequented by bikers. One of them took a liking to me, shooting me the occasional look. It still cracks me up to think that my mom and I ate chicken wings there. Ordinarily it would be unlike her to be in a place like that.

Funny thing, I had a distinct feeling of what it was like to not be part of a societal majority. My mom is Czech. I was born here in Canada. When we're together we speak Czech. In public places, especially the likes of the rural pizza place we went to Saturday night, there is no limit to the stares we get. They aren't mean stares, but they aren't necessarily friendly either.

The drive to Toronto was otherwise uneventful.

We found the airport (there is only one big one) and the terminal (there are three, constantly under construction), and we followed the signage and made it to the parking lot without incident.

We scoped out where the baggage check in was going to be, I parked her in a coffee shop that had a smoking area (these are slowly being phased out) and went on my merry way. I was mildly nervous about making it back out the parking lot, and then to the highway, but there were no problems.

At least not until I was far up the 401 and trying to make it to Yorkdale Mall to meet a friend. I overshot the exit (didn't it used to be Allen Rd?) and found myself behind the mall, at another mall, with no clear idea how to get back.

I am navigationally challenged, the worst offender I know. East, West, North, South, I never know which way I'm going.

I had to get gas anyway, so I gassed up and went inside to ask for directions. The fellow behind the bullet-proof glass tried to be helpful, but English wasn't his strong point. I interpreted his body language to mean that if I went back and followed Allen Road north than it would lead to "Pickering Road." I asked him to repeat that last part twice to make sure I understood. As it turns out I think he was trying to say "Yorkdale Road."

As usual I am getting way off topic here.

When I was a teenager living in suburban hell my friends and I used to take the Go-bus to Yorkdale. This was an upscale mall, even back then. The pickings at Yorkdale were much better than they were in our neck of the woods. As an added bonus, Yorkdale is on a subway line. Just hop on and you're right downtown.

I haven't been to Yorkdale in over 10 years. In fact, I don't even remember when I was there last. The reason I was there was because I was hooking up with my friend G, who had recently moved from Ottawa to the Big Smoke. (G wouldn't want me using his real name here. The reason will become clear later.)

While I was waiting for G I browsed through a few shoe stores. This turned out to be a tragic error. It was a beauteous scene. There was something downright poetic about all those lovely boots and shoes. It wasn't until I started looking at individual items that I realized that I'm not nearly as cosmopolitan as I thought. Ottawa wasn't ready for this kind of thing, and neither was my wallet.

The point was hit even further home when I browsed the goods at the Guess store. I felt inner stirrings of pleasure as I caressed the teeny cotton-candy coloured velvet "lounge suit." Where could I possibly wear this and not look like a total freak?

I felt remorseful as I left the store.

I met up with G and we wandered around looking for a bite to eat. Michel's Baguette was our original destination, but it was packed. Left with few other choices we made our way around to the side of the mall where my car was parked. For the sake of convenience, (and our tummy's) we went to the Rainforest Café. I am embarrassed to admit this. He swore me to secrecy. I am never to reveal his identity and link it to the Rainforest Café (RC).

Before Sunday I was unfamiliar with the R.C. concept. This is a theme-restaurant. Every last detail is in a jungle theme. A warning, if you are in Toronto and considering paying a visit. If you go you will encounter any (possibly all) of the following:

1) A hostess sitting in a big purple elephant.
2) A waitress Jungle Guide dressed in Khakis who appears at your table to tell you all you needed to know about the RC.
3) A themed menu with an ordinary selection of food. Nothing looked that good. Mongoose Mai-Tai anyone?
4) Seating underneath a jungle canopy, populated with gigantic fake parrots (if they were this large in real like they'd eat baby warthogs instead of fruit and seeds) trumpeting, ear-flapping elephants, gorillas, and butterflies larger than a wing-back chair. Oh, did I mention the giant bronze statue of Atlas, complete with the world on his shoulders and a waterfall in the background?
5) Did you know that it rains in the jungle? And that the rains (along with thunder and lightening) come every twenty minutes to the RC? Drowning out any conversation you may be having? Sending terrified children to cower underneath the tabletops?
6) Barstools that are fashioned to resemble the hindquarters of various animals … zebras etc. They come complete with long tails, so it kinda looks like you're the one with the long tail. Har Har. Imagine the pick up lines.
7) Upon entry and exit, a gift shop festooned with more RC memorabilia than you can imagine.

The only redeeming point of interest was these massive fish tanks filled with countless tropical specimens. That was cool.

Anyway, I had a terrible salad. G shared his turkey wrap with me. I shared my cold bruschetta. It was all I had to give.

We chatted for an hour, and regardless of the tackiness of the surroundings, the break provided me with much-needed diversion and rest for the drive ahead. As much as I disliked this place, all I could think of was how much the girls would have liked it.

All too soon it was time to pack up and continue the long journey home. Along the way I listened to a Stuart McLean CD. He is a fantastic story-teller. If you're a fan of the Vinyl Cafe you will know what I'm talking about. I heartily recommend it, it makes great listening for this kind of road trip.

a