Jarkko Lehmus Diary

Walking In Toronto

All the way up until the day before we left nobody in the Company knew next to nothing about the trip. Where are we going and why and who do we talk to once there? Will we get deported if we slip out that we're on a business trip without visas? So how did it all turn out? Our trusty old company manager, John Aitken, managed to pull together a schedule for the trip with a bunch of useful addresses and phone numbers and a stack of Canuck money attached. So into the abyss we jumped in the Tuesday dawn. Flights were booked as cheap as possible so after four hours in the tender loving care of KLM stewardesses we were flying back over Glasgow towards Toronto. A refreshing half-an-hour jog at the Schiphol airport in Holland was definitelly worth that extra time on the plane.

Once we'd landed it all started rolling a bit smoother; there was a person waiting for us at the airport with a van on call and we got whisked off to a rather lovely hotel in downtown Toronto. The hotel itself is so brand spanking new that it's actually only half built. The same could actually be said for most of Toronto. So no restaurant, bar or a spa (and I carried my swimming trunks all this way for nothing!) plus a few other little teething problems here and there, but it all was more than compensated for by the quality of the rooms and the service. I take this opportunity to thank Willem, Martin and David for pointing me in the right direction.

Vertigo is the new black. ©

After a very satifying dinner I felt the call of the wild and lifted my muzzle into the wind and took my customary first night walkies (aimed solely to orientate myself for those nights that I might be slightly disorientated) up the street and down the other one in the safe, clean, clearly laid out and shiny downtown Toronto. Because it was Tuesday and near enough midnight the choices of watering my by this time raspingly-dry throat were limited. There was still a flicker of light on at Hooters, not that I'd ever have gone there otherwise, but a place that is so proud of it's motto: "Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined", can't be entirelly bad. Surely not? Well actually... I sat down, had a pint, gringed, blocked the toilet, courtesy of tightly packed airplane food, and made my way back to the hotel. End of round one.

Round two pitched me and Paul Liburd against a 4'1" Cuban ballet monster in the mens class. Sophie, who was desperately looking for her brain apparently left in the overhead locker on the plane, and Diana were thrown into the forest of legs pointy booties. After the ordeal we felt suitably suicidal to find our way to the top of the nearest tall building. As it happens we got pretty lucky with that: the NC Tower, the world's tallest building (allegedly), just happened to be around the corner. Up to the top we went, enjoyed the view, had a lunch and lurched back to work all the better for it. A run and a bit of spit and polish and we were running loose again. Another dinner, another good-nights at the elevators, but this time I had a direction: the club was called Fluid. The DJs spinning hot tunes, hot barmaids serving cold drinks and the dance floor feeling hot under my cold feet. A couple of in-depth conversations with Mr Daniels and my socks were spinning in my boots. Time to head for the dance floor, slide past the man-mountain that looks like... that is Lennox Lewis and... Hello.

I'm walking in the air... ©

Round three. Another Cuban whipping. At least I could have a bit of a laugh with the guys in the company to dispel some of the suicidal thoughts creeping in again. Since I hadn't slept much during the three nights before I thought that a little nap might just hot the spot before the show time. So I get to the hotel, read a book for a little while, set the alarm, turn the lights off, close my eyes and enjoy the ear-grating sounds of a bagpipe being forcibly violated next door. It takes far less to drive a man to drink... The show itself was your regular corporate event where nobody knows anything about anything and the whole thing is like playing poker with a bunch of sharks and hoping that your mother remembered to pack the aces in your sleeve. It all turned out ok in the end although Sophie bounced off the slippy lino a couple of times. Luckily she wasn't physically hurt beyond repair. After the show I was sharpish downstairs lining my battered liver when I felt a nudge on my arm, turned around, shook hands and was immediatelly talking rubbish to a middle-aged geezer that really liked the show. Turned out to be Jack McConnell MSP and the First Minister of Scotland. Nice.

The morning of the last day we decided to pop down to Niagara to watch water fall down the cliff, so off to Budget we went to rent a middle sized family car. What was waiting for us was a Chrysler 300C Hemi. In laymans terms a huge lump of American metal that blows out 340bhp through the fire breathing 5.7 litre V8 under the hood. And awesome car to go to see and awesome sight and then pay the awesome fuel bill while Scotland was having the hottest autumn day in the history thanks to global warming. A great day out all in all and what better to get one ready for half a day on the plane than sitting a few hours in a car?

The Big Flush. ©

Saturday morning dawned for Glasgow but I was headed straight to bed. The alarm went off at 7.30pm and it was time to put on the make-up and the weird and wonderful clothes and head out for the Halloween. Still recovering as we speak.

Tomorrow, or this evenig actually, sees the inaugural bash of Scottish National Theatre in Tramway. Apparently it's much more of a production agency than a theatre company. Time to put the three-piece and the boogie-boots on again and go for an undercover investigation. Full report to follow.

Posted by Jarkko at November 1, 2005 04:14 AM