Then there's the whole getting packed a day or two earlier, so you can go around being all packeder-than-thou. [Hey, when you have a spouse with as many excellencies as my Marty, any chance to be superior is to be seized upon as avidly as chocolate or listie gatherings.] And that's not even mentioning the hours of research Marty did on the internet, finding out about possible restaurants and attractions. [I find the cons; he finds fun things to do at them. That's a fair division of labor, isn't it? ;)]
Marty's other pre-trip preparation entailed sawing up the tree-sized branch our neighbor on the back had graciously contributed to adorn our yard and breaking out in a rash therefrom, just in time for the trip. The Austin Lounge Lizards, with whom Andrew may hang out on occasion, have a song called "Rock and Roll Lawyer." Marty came on the trip disguised as a living rewrite thereof called "Leprosy Lawyer."
There's getting to the airport all flustered, dealing with the crowds on the train, hiking down the concourse [have you ever noticed, no matter what gate you're at, it's always a long hike down the concourse?], somehow disconcerted that everything's so much like every other trip, when it's your first international trip as an adult. It seems like the world should've changed, or something. There's the whole document jitters, wasted when they turn out to be a) where Marty put them and b) valid.
And don't forget the disastrous we'll-eat-at-the-airport-to-save-time decision, which involved getting ripped off even more egregiously than usual. I expect to pay extortionate prices in the airport, but to receive superlatively skimpy [and shriveled] portions for the privelege was adding injury to the initial insult. Even Marty was mildly outraged. I like to get icecream immediately pre-flight, to settle the tum for the trip. That was extra-skimpy too. Two scoops indeed!; I'd not even call it one.
The flight up on the puddle-hopper plane was short and pleasant. [With only two seats on the side, at least one knows with whom one is being squished. Like Ekaterin, Marty squishes very pleasantly.] At the customs area, there were ten counters, all with clerks, all with nobody to wait on. Over every other counter was a red neon sign saying "Welcome Torcon." With that auspicious introduction, I thought, "I'm going to like this place."
This is probably about the best place to say that the weather in Toronto started great and remained that way. It's been relatively cool in Georgia this summer [i.e., it hasn't gotten up into the 90s yet, when it's usually the thermo-meter and the baro-meter duking it out, with both well in the upper 90s], but Toronto was much cooler and very refreshing. The air was so dry, your hair was dry practically the minute you got out of the shower [well, it was for those of us not so follically favored as Robert Parks].
After a lot of hiking about [hard to do in an airport that small] and waiting for a commissionaire who insisted on calling us a cab, we eventually got to the Royal York, where we were staying. During the long, slow-moving check-in line, we had lots of time to gawp, which was a good thing; there's a lot there to gawp at. The Royal York was built in the 1920s, with all that implies: marble, intricately wood everywhere, lots of groupings of comfy chairs you just knew you'd never have any time to sit in, a mezzanine level with more of the same visible from the lobby, and a very intricate ceiling, in a chamber the size of a largish shuttlebay that made one want to try acoustical experiments. We saw lots of people in the line and lobby areas, most of them filkers.
Our flight had gotten in a bit after 2; by the time we got there and checked-in, we only had time to put our feet up for a bit [Having read our Heinlein and other mil sf, we know well the worth of resting when one can.], before the advent of Mr. Bernardi.
A couple of years ago, at MilPhil, we had arrived a day early and spent the day sightseeing with Mr. Bernardi, much to our mutual enjoyment. [At MilPhil, when Mike found out all the attractions we went to were free, it really wagged his tail; that boy could give me lessons in being cheap, which is really saying something.] We would've liked to do something similar this year, but, what with Marty being in the middle of negotiations to buy the law firm and spending lots of his time drawing up articles of incorporation and some such, it wasn't to be--or, not exactly.
Instead, Michael showed up at our room, did disgusting things to his feet and whimpered about getting blisters from going all over the Exposition and vowing to never wear sandals again. [I was glad to see he was comfortable enough with us to be able to do that], after which we hiked all around Toronto, only without actual attractions being involved. We picked up Robert somewhere en route; the wit and repartee made up for it somewhat, especially since Robert had dropped off the translations [more woo-hoo!]. I have little idea whereall we hiked, except that the convention center was involved, then the hostel [I remember wondering where in the world we were going to put everybody for curry night], then lots and lots of streets. My feet began to hurt.
Robert left us, in gleeful anticipation of his dinner with Kristine Smith. We hiked some more, and my feet began to hurt commensurately. Michael mentioned a pub [Peel Pub] that was allegedly nearby. He was still somewhat miffed that they hadn't been open when he wanted breakfast at 8 in the morning [puh-leeze! even deities aren't up at such an ungodly hour; just ask Kiri ;)]. We eventually found it. When we saw their specials, Michael forgave their prior dereliction; they had several interesting things at very cheap prices. We got the lasagna; I think Mike got the shepherd's pie, but don't quote me. The portions were large, and pretty good. Marty and Mike were surprised when their soda arrived in a 20+ ounce carafe-looking mug. It was a good thing because, to put it politely, the service was a bit on the slow side [and that with not much of a crowd].
Afterwards we traipsed down some more enigmatic alleys, until we came to the branch of Mike's bank, upon which he pounced, with chortling glee. We eventually made it back to the hotel where, since it was before the convention, Marty was able to do the room parties with us. There were quite a few, including the Charlotte party, for which I had made sure Marty dressed, in one of their Worldcon bid shirts. Charlotte never can put together a decent bid, but they have nice parties. A couple of people were thrilled to see Marty in their shirt. [So was I; it's the same blue-and-white so favored by Robert, that makes Marty's silver hair even more resplendent.] The crowds were still small; I suspect even Robert would've enjoyed them. Also at the Charlotte party was a seaweed cookie and a crumbly, Chinese, fish-paste cookie-object that Marty was able to warn several people away from, after learning from disgusting experience; he's a public benefactor that way. Much chocolate was consumed, both to remove the bad taste[s] and otherwise. We were all gratified to see both WorldCon bids quoting low hotel prices. Marty thinks it was elevenish when we went back to the room to put up our feet and make final plans for Thursday.
We were on the way out when, passing by the elevators, "what to my wondering eyes should appear" but listie Ruth Bitz, checking in. [You'd think I'd be used to this sort of thing by now, especially after the way Marty and I first got together, when I was at State and he was at law school. The one day of the year when I had to ride the train {instead of with my mom}, we wound up, not only on the same train {when they leave every three minutes}, but on the same car of the same train. Still, it's an agreeable surprise every time it happens.] We were in a bit of a hurry, but I was able to tell her about Diane's party that night and James' curry "on the Friday." [How's my Brit? ;)] Ruth said she couldn't make either one, but we made plans to hook up Friday night after the curry to do room parties.
We started out for the pub, eventually arriving after an even more "scenic route" than usual. Once again, the food was cheap and adequate, and the service could charitably be described as mediocre. Usually, I'm all over the cheap grub, but that place was just too far to consider henceforth.
Among other things [along with about half the city, it seemed like], on the way to the pub we had passed St. Andrews Church, a beautiful old building. There was a large sign in front of it advertising a Highlander Museum. We thought it might be attached to the church and went in. It was beautiful on the inside too, with the upper, mezzanine-looking level and stained glass all around, on both levels. Intricately carved wood pillars were all over the place, which was very open and spacious. I found the design very similar to the Provo Tabernacle, albeit much more ornately executed. Since nobody was around, Marty and I went in, and he took some pictures.
Since we were already there, we took the subway from King Street. [What's up with those subway tokens? They're smaller and lighter than dimes, and easier to lose than national elections.] The subway was rather plain, but gratifyingly prompt. We got off at Spadina and walked north for several blocks, en route to Casa Loma, a castle built in the 1920s by a no-longer-rich-but-still-dead white guy.
After those several blocks, we came to the bottom of a vertical hill, up which ascended [according to the flyer] 110 concrete steps. Blithely disregarding the ominous omen, we did likewise. Following some further hiking, we finally arrived.
From up [relatively] close, the house is rather overpowering, and I know from overpowering. [I heard that, Mr. Bernardi! Beware; retribution awaiteth thee. Further, deponent sayeth not--on that subject, at any rate.]
At larger attractions like this, Marty and I like to start from the top and work our way down. Accordingly, after examining several rooms on the ground floor, we started upstairs--and kept going, for a very long time. On something like the fourth floor, there are two towers, each of which goes up an additional five floors, of spiralling, dizzying, claustrophobic, wrought-iron staircase. There're the enclosed tower and the open tower; we did both. Then we did the other floors, on the way down.
Particularly memorable was "his" suite, in the [carefully using the correct word here] washroom of which was a shower with six shower heads, for the full sensurround experience. It's a cool idea; the baffling part is, it seemed to be designed with room for only one. What's up with that? We all know the Amoeba'd never go for it. And what's with the small tubs in both "his" and "hers" that had hot and cold running water and looked like footbaths? By the way, "her" room had lots of wedgwood blue and was charming. I suspect the girl guide museum thereunto appertaining was added on later, as were the other museums on the upper floors: Kiwanis and four or five rooms of "his" regiment. Those go fast; how many funny hats can one look at, after all? Although I did notice that the uniforms looked as if they might fit real people, rather than midgets.
The conservatory on the ground floor was beautiful, and put us in the mood for gardens. You guessed it, across more lawn, down more stairs, etc. We sipped sodas in the shade and savored the breeze, before exploring the trails and fountains. A trip to the washroom [I like that word; it's so much prettier than what we use] necessitated going up the stairs, across the lawn, through the ground floor, down the stairs, and along a corridor. While we were underground, we went down long, winding, dank tunnels, past the boiler room, eventually arriving at the [admittedly, tiled] stables, only to turn around and retrace the whole weary way.
Although pretty well done-up by all this, we had some extra time, so we went next door to Spadina House. We didn't have enough time to do the house itself [not to mention, being kind of housed-out at that point], so we walked all around the grounds. They had huge, mutant cabbages in that garden, as large as some pumpkins I've seen. Marty saw something we'd never seen before, a solid black squirrel with an extra-bushy tail. I was just relieved it didn't climb or jump up on me [I've had troubles that way before].
We caught the train back and wound up having dinner at the Lone Star Cafe, on the way to Diane's party. [I know that sounds a bit odd, but a) it didn't start until 8, and I didn't want to wait around hungry, and b) she was expecting a large crowd, and we didn't want her to run out of grub for the late-comers.] Large crowd, slow service, the usual con thing. Then we got to hike to Diane's, a jaunt made all the more enjoyable by me clunking the recording equipment and Marty [the man with the map] missing the pedestrian cross-walk and adding several blocks to the trip.
I was clunking the recording equipment because of Spider Robinson's concert, for which I planned to leave Diane's early. Nothing less could've dragged me away, and I hated to leave, because it was a fun and lively crew.
We buzzed Diane from the lobby and got "mugged" by her at the door, "Paladin of Souls" mugs, a lovely surprise she and Robert had arranged. [Listies are just like that.] We saw the formidable array Diane had assembled, mentally said, "Food, ugh" , and talked to listies instead. Marty got to meet the hitherto-apocryphal James Bryant [and developed a raging case of larynx envy of his "booming voice", as Marty calls it. Marty's the sweetest man in the world, but his mother has a deeper voice than he does. Of course, she's New York Italian and an ex-smoker, but still--]. I spent a few minutes telling Carol how wonderful we all think James is, with specific examples: how Father Frost treated almost three dozen listies to dinner at ChiCon in 2000, postcards from Russia, and acts of generosity to various other listies, most of whom were still unmet. Carol's a charming brunette lady, who kept her composure commendably well, in a clamorous crowd of folks she didn't know.
I pointed Marty towards Cat and Scott [Hoffman], with instructions to arrange their pre-baseball game meeting-place. They settled on the big clock in the Royal York lobby at noon, but more of that anon.
Cat was regal in the costume Diane had mentioned on-list before the con. Although she denied having changed her hair color explicitly to match the gown, with Cat, one never knows. Later on, she wound up on a chair by drapes that coordinated with both hair and gown, to no one's surprise. In a flattering pose, on comfy furniture, against a flattering background? As all listies know, Cats are like that. ;)
Much to my delight, I got to talk to the learned Mr. Burbidge. He looks obscenely young for one so knowledgeable. He lamented the absence of Pouncer, saying, if Pouncer were only here, he [James] wouldn't be the tallest one in the room. I regaled him with the tale of Pouncer on Jeopardy!, which provoked laughter in the immediate area. Mr. Burbidge [we have far too many fun listies with too few names to split between them] is a delightful conversationalist, but he and Scott started speaking technese, so I drifted elsewhere.
Franz Tomasek showed up, and was a suitable target for some vigorous
persecution.
All too soon, and right when Andrew [he of the cool music recommendations]
and company were coming in, we had to leave, Marty to retire for some
baseball and well-deserved rest, Mike Bernardi and I to go to the Spider
Robinson concert. When we got there [early, so as to get a good seat], I
went right down front, a) because I'm like that and b) for better
taping. Mr. Bernardi bailed, basely deserting me, to lurk in the back of
the room, because he's like that.
The concert was excellent, and I hope the recording turns out [I haven't
had time to check yet]. I chatted with some people in the room for a while
afterwards, then retired for my own well-deserved rest.
We ended up at a place called "Over Easy" because Marty has a theory that,
if the restaurant has an egg reference in the name, it'll be good. He was
right in Phoenix, but wrong in Toronto. The waiter was chatty with
everyone who wasn't us; even Marty [the kindest and most non-judgmental of
men] noticed the service was bad. With what we paid for that overpriced,
undersized breakfast, I could've bought a CD, even in Canadian money [and
that's not even counting the subway tokens, tip, etc.]
The destination may have sucked, but the trip thereto was cool. Union
Station is impressive: large, open spaces, carvings, marble, etc. I'm glad
to have seen it.
When we got back, Marty went off to have adventures on his own. Knowing he
had to be back in time to hike hostel-ward for the curry, he couldn't go
too far afield. Amusing himself locally, Marty went to the Stock Market,
which was boring, because it was all computerized and had no trading
floor. The Hockey Hall of Fame was also something of a letdown; it too was
much smaller than expected, especially for one of the national
obsessions. Having lots of unanticipated extra time on his hands, Marty
walked all around Toronto, got a hotdog, and got tired.
Great minds were thinking alike. I made it to the noon concert in good
time: Ingrid de Buda and Phil Allcock, concerts at which Mike Bernardi was
notoriously absent. Is this any way to support your fellow Brits? Since I
had heard the one o'clock concert before, I went to the dealers' room, for
a preliminary reconnaissance. Given that it was for a WorldCon, the
dealers' room was incredibly small, more what I'd expect to see at a con a
[small] fraction the size. Still, there were two filk dealers, which was
good enough for me. While I was chatting up Glenn Simser, the Canadian
filk dealer [who had given a keister-kicking workshop on recording at the
first GaFilk, lo these many years ago], a filker named Harold Stein came up
and joined the conversation. It turns out he has lots of tapes I don't and
vice-versa, so some swapping may ensue. Negotiations are presently underway.
What was supposed to be a one hour event with authors and the filkers who
filk them turned into a two hour event. After all, you can't do Connie
Willis, Tanya Huff, Jack Chalker, both Suttons, Joey Shoji, and some other
people in less time. The author read the particular passage that inspired
the song, the song was sung, and then discussion thereof ensued. Despite
health problems, Jack Chalker was thrilled to know he was filked; Connie
Willis and Tanya Huff weren't exactly crying in their Kool-Aid either. I
missed the Pratchett, Hodgell, and Robinson readings [all at the same
time--!! What drugs was that scheduler on? I want some!], but it was a
fun panel anyway, if a bit long.
After that the tushie was tired, and the appetite[s] whetted, so I went
towards the convention center, meeting Marty en route with an exciting hot
dog. He went to the room to rest, while I visited my own vendor and
subsequently the dealers' room. Listies were met, including Ruth Bitz [to
whom I gave one of the Paladin mugs; thanks again, Diane and Robert!]; chat
and fun were had; and people were pointed to the other filk dealer, Tales
From the White Hart, who is from Baltimore, and hence local to the DC
Delegation of the list [and who also has really nice costuming stuff at
incredible prices].
I staggered back to the room with a second load of filk [we haven't even
looked at books yet!], collecting Marty in time to head curry-ward. We
got there around 7:30 p.m.; a goodly crowd was already gathered. The
basement was sweltering like a southern gothic, and the joint was
rocking. Sarah Chodrow was by the stove, stirring up mischief
thereon. James [Bryant] was flitting all over the places giving mysterious
orders to mysterious personages; we stayed out of the way. While staving
off hunger pangs of many raven-ing/-ous beasts with the M&Ms we brought,
Marty and I had conversations with everyone there, some of whose names I
don't remember without their badges, but who will hopefully show up on-list.
We adjourned to the patio pretty soon, in hopes of a breeze. Five-space
math was demonstrated; I know we got more listies in there than there was
actually room for, and more just kept on a-comin'. As Joy's picture
shows, at one point Marty and I were between Scott and Robert. That's when
I began to suspect the fraud that Scott had been perpetrating, acting like
one of those dull guys that stand around holding up the walls at
parties. Such men are dangerous; I married one. Come to find out, Scott
does ballroom dancing and engages in drunken debauchery with the DC
Delegation on a semi-regular basis.
About then, Robert undulated under the table to get some grub [and also, I
suspect, to show us he could]. Janet's outer shirt came off, but nothing
else [to much audible disappointment], providing me the opportunity to brag
on her Glorious Butterbug costume from ChiCon 2000 and art show exhibits to
Marty. Scott went in pursuit of provender and found other conversations;
after a while his seat was taken by Eric Oppen, who told a dolorous tale of
getting lost in Toronto and other parking woes. Apparently Eric, who is
both a) braver and b) crazier than we are, had actually driven up from
Iowa. Gunga Din, and all that.
Marty and I eventually got up for food, to find upon our return that our
seats had been stolen by some Canadians. After retrieving my pop, we found
other seats behind the curry [after we had moved things around to make
room] and discovered that Paul Stratton is a good man to have in a corner,
especially if you want beer or some other beverage. Joy and Aaron showed
up and took pictures. As the crowd got bigger, we made room for Paula
Lieberman [who actually wanted table space for her food, of all
things--what a concept! Yankees are so decadent. ;)] and then for Lois
Fundis. Then it was my turn to slither under the table [although
doubtless less gracefully than Robert] to get out.
Marna and co. were very much en passant, but at least Marty got to see
her, sort of like Sara Teasdale's "Falling Star":
I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by:
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold;
Good only to make wishes on,
And then forever to be gone.
James had said the curry was supposed to run until 9, so, around 9:30,
Marty and I headed out. Besides which, it was time to meet Ruth to make
the rounds of room parties, which we did for a couple of hours and got
re-acquainted. Ruth, Dr. Natalie, and I had had lots of fun together at
MilPhil, watching the Hugos and Masquerade in very civilized fashion, i.e.,
in their room with our feet up. Sadly, that wasn't possible at TorCon
[although, for what we were paying, they should've thrown in the tv as well
as the closed-circuit], because the events were in a different
building. Since MilPhil, the law firm Ruth works for had hired more
lawyers, without hiring more support staff, so she's stuck doing several
people's work. Add in computer connection problems, and you will readily
understand why she hasn't been around the list too much lately.
After all that, filking was just Right Out. Shockingly enough, I actually
got to bed at something approximating a reasonable hour, by midnight.
After all that, we had to get going early, because concerts started at 11
a.m. Ruth Bitz joined us for breakfast, and we discovered the Marche
Movenpick [or was it Movenpick Marche?]. Either way, it was good. It's a
large, open room, with lots of stations, set up to look like a market. You
go from station to station and get whatever you want. They stamp your
card, and you pay on your way out. It was a bit pricy [what wasn't?], but
it was pretty close and very good, as was the conversation.
The concerts were Mary Crowell, one of our local filkers from Alabama,
nominated for a Pegasus for best performer after only a couple of years in
filking and Rosemary Kirstein, whom Ruth knew as an author and was
interested to hear. I knew the noon concert people, so I chatted with
folks on the mezzanine and hung out in the filk lounge, where I got copies
of "The Scar'ed Harp".
I went to the concerts at 1 and 2, to save a seat for the Urban Tapestry
concert at 3, which Ruth made it back for. All the concerts were lots of
fun. The concert room was miked to death [like I'd say we felt after a
visit from Mr. Bernardi, only a) it wouldn't be true and b) I'm not that
mean--I heard that!], so it was a great set-up for taping.
Fun is fun, but by 4 p.m., I was ready for some new adventures, so Ruth and
I headed over to the convention center. She stood in a signing line, and I
explored. Now I found the book dealers! I also saw Eric and possibly
Mike and some other listies. Conversation and hanging-out
ensued. Eventually Ruth, Scott and I converged, with dinner thoughts in
mind. Ruth declined to walk far, so we wound up in the Planet Hollywood,
which was loud, but not as crowded as we had thought it might be. The
prices were more reasonable than I had expected, which was a
relief. Still, I don't mind paying a higher price, when good listie
socializing is to be had. The thing was, Ruth and Scott had ordered
burgers, which were fairly fast to eat. I had ordered a chicken, broccoli
pasta dish, which was actually pretty good, but took forever to
eat. Scott, who wound up with that receipt? Whoever it was, can probably
get a tax refund on it, so I hope someone did.
Scott eventually abandoned us to join younger folks set on Hugos revelry
[and lines]. Ruth and I wanted to go to Tanya Huff's reading at 9 p.m.,
but didn't want to go back to the hotel in the interim. So we found some
chairs and lurked in the convention center lobby, enjoying the parade. We
saw the line of folks streaming into the Hugos, including Neil Gaiman and
his entourage. We saw Pilot Padget, swashingly garbed, being frustrated by
not being able to get to Neil Gaiman in time for a brief chat. Pilot had
to console himself with us, then with Benet, Amy, and Lorayne, as well as
the steady stream of people [mostly of the feminine persuasion, as I
recall] asking him to pose for them.
What idiot scheduled Tanya Huff for a 9 p.m. reading, opposite the
Hugos? Tanya put a good face on it, saying it was yet another way of
saying "you're not nominated again this year" and being glad she got the
whole hour for the reading. We certainly were, and there was a
considerable crowd of us, too. In addition to upcoming books, there was
lots of chat and fun. Ruth and I did room parties for a couple of hours
afterwards; she drank several strange alcoholic beverages, and I ate
several strange chocolate products, so there was something for everyone.
And Marty? This was the one night the whole con we didn't have dinner
together, becasue Marty went to the Exposition, which was like a huge
fair. The highlights for him were: the dog show, seeing a pig busy eating
and pooping at the same time [adding to the collection of pooping animals
has seen, including the rhino from our honeymoon and the elephant from the
zoo at last year's MarCon], the BeeGees cover band, which was allegedly
very good [Marty and Mike both missed the Abba cover band, one of them
voluntarily, the other in-], and the air show, which was four hours long
every day, and which one could see/hear everywhere, all over town. Once
a plane sounded like it flew right in front of the convention center.
Once again, Marty having eschewed the fireworks in favor of Haagen Dasz
[without me--how rude!], we both got to bed at a reasonable hour, which for
a WorldCon is almost scandalous.
I made the concerts at 12 and 1, the latter being by another Brit [Rhodri
James, who was incredibly talented, nice, and shaggy] and for which Mr.
Bernardi was once again notorious by his absence. Since Tanya's
Kaffeeklatsch was at 2:30, that meant I had to miss the concerts at both 2
and at 3 p.m. It was lots of fun, though. She told us all about her
wedding to Fiona Patton the previous Wednesday. They were the second
couple in their small town to get married under the new law. The town
clerk was all embarrassed because the only form he had was the old one
saying "bride and groom" rather than "partners". She talked about bringing
home new bookshelves, very carefully so the over-loaded truck wouldn't
blow a tire, always a topic of interest to the list. She's clever and very
funny; I had never gotten to meet her before.
The Spider Robinson Kaffeeklatsch was next--in the same room, in
fact. Spider told lots of stories, including the time he was the celebrity
judge for the marijuana contest [apparently the best comes from British
Columbia]. He and his wife were both there, glowing at each
other. They've been married thirty years; their daughter just got married
last week. When you throw in Marty and me, with twelve years, and Joy and
Aaron, being newlywedder-than-thou all over, we make up a good continuum of
Vorkosigan Vashnoi-style radioactive glow. I had to missed a couple of
Pratchett panels and the concert by Dandelion Wine [whom I just adore], but
it was well worth it.
I had a while to rest, up in the room, because Marty was nearly an hour
late meeting me for dinner, having had his own adventures. After our late
breakfast, he had headed up to the hostel, for the tour of tall ships lots
of listies were supposed to be taking. When Marty got up there, he and
Scott discovered that everyone else had bailed, so they bailed too. Marty
went to the CN tower and stood in lots of long, slow-moving lines. Then he
took a ferry out to Centre Island, where he rented a bike and had to
re-learn how to ride one [after a couple of decades] by dodging far too
many people with hordes of kids. It was a nice island, but he says his
tush is still sore from the bike. The crowds of kids made him late getting
back.
We went to a place called East Side Mario's, because I was in the mood for
Italian. [When Marty's around, I'm always in the mood for Italian; funny,
that.] The line was long, and the service infamously slow. When the
waiter finally came, he gave us a speech about how the kitchen was all
backed up. When the food finally came [an interminable time later], I
thought mine was adequate, but Marty wasn't at all happy. He thought they
had done his veal parmigian the Egyptian style--to death and beyond. Let's
just say, it was more fried than a whole room of filkers singing in the
dawn. Marty said he wanted to write them, demanding that they quit using
his name. [Marty's legal name is Mario Lee Adkins. If we lived up in
Yankee country, he'd probably be using the Mario, but down south, Marty Lee
sounds just fine.]
By the time we got back to the room, I was tired and reluctant to leave
pleasant company, even to go to the Spider Robinson singalong, but I'm glad
I did. While waiting for Marty, I had packed up all the books, tapes, and
CDs, along with the recording equipment, and felt incredibly smug about
having gotten them all in the suitcase [Clothes were optional]. I wasn't
about to unpack to try to record Spider; besides, I figured there'd be such
a crowd, the taping wouldn't be too good anyway.
There was a sizable crowd, including several listies. I saw Alayne
McGregor, slinky in a black sheath with a glittery scarf. Joy was in a
tiara, and Aaron was in love. Paul Stratton and the Other Lois were both
there too, but neither stayed after to chat. Joy and Aaron fared forth to
filk; Alayne and I fared forth to party. We found some really good
conversations and some mediocre chocolate and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly
until after 1 a.m., which was the latest I was up the whole WorldCon.
On the way to the convention center I met up with Robert and arranged to
meet upstairs at 1, after my panels were over. Meanwhile, I got to the 11
a.m. panel over half an hour early and got a very good seat. Hey--that
panel was my one chance the whole con to see Terry Pratchett. That Tanya
Huff and Elizabeth Moon were there just made it that much better. Once the
moderator finally shut up, they got down to talking about writing "ethical"
fantasy. It was a good discussion; all the authors were clever, funny, and
insightful. The only thing missing was Lois.
The next panel was about longevity; in addition to Elizabeth Moon [and some
other people], Franz was there for that one. Lots of concerns, both long-
and short-term were raised and addressed. The discussion was really
good. I told Franz about meeting Robert, and he headed thence. Upstairs,
I picked up Mike Bernardi in the dealers' room area and gave him a couple
of "small [subway] tokens of our esteem" we had left over, since he was
staying some extra days.
Everyone was pretty much in a mood for lunch, so we headed underground,
seeking what we might devour. Actually, some of us wanted ice cream, but
nothing much was open, so we settled for lunch. Paul Stratton found us
underground, so I was surrounded by him, Mike Bernardi, Robert Parks, and
Franz, a veritable collection of tall, skinny, guys in beards and glasses.
After lunch we hung out in the dealers' room some more, where I exercised
willpower [and lack of suitcase space] and didn't buy anything else. I
did, however, get a bit packeder-than-thou, just because I could.
Since we had no way of knowing when the baseball game would be over, I had
told everyone to rendezvous in our room at 5, as a good base time. It
turns out the game only took a couple of hours [doesn't it figure, the one
game I avoid is actually short?]. Paul Stratton couldn't stay, but a bunch
of us eventually made it to our room, including Diane, which was a nice
surprise. Diane, Scott, Mike, Robert, Franz, Marty, and I eventually went
out to dinner.
Marty had wanted to try a place close by which had great cheesecake [which
he had gotten without me the night before], but it turned out to be a deli,
so we hiked some more, up to and all out along King Street, trying to find
a place everyone could agree on. Someone eventually suggested the Duke of
Argyle, a pub allegedly recommended by Marna, so we went there. The
washroom was up a steep, winding stair [it got so, whenever lots of steps
and/or a broken escalator were involved, you knew you were going in the
right direction], but the food was great. The service was pretty good too,
but Marty and I were amazed at the fish, me because it was enormous, and
him because the batter was as smooth as the purely proverbial progeny's
posterior.
We went back to the Royal York, where Marty went back to our room to start
packing. We were going to do some room parties, but they were massively
crowded. Franz bailed immediately [although I understand the South African
party got as many as 600 people; what's up with that? I guess it's just
one of those international-man-of mysteries]. Robert hung in, but
suggested trying a quieter room. The fan lounge wasn't much quieter, but
we found Cat and Lorayne there, so it was a worthwhile detour. Diane
suggested hanging out in the downstairs bar, called "The Library"; how
could we pass that up?
It was much quieter, the chairs were certainly comfier, and, considering
the crowd, the service was pretty good. People who were not me combined to
consume a couple of bottles of things alcoholic over a couple of
hours. Lorayne, Diane, and Robert were high-fiving each other in
congratulations over their mutual "strongmindedness", for lack of a less
polite word. Lots of superlative conversation ensued, but I faded after a
couple of hours. I understand the others stayed quite late. I'm not sure
how poor Diane made it back to her hotel; that was a lot of walking!
Since we were leaving about the same time, we wanted to ride to the airport
together, but Scott had to hasten to the hostel to get his stuff. Scott
was late, but the bus was later, by nearly half an hour. No complaints
here--it gave us extra time with Mike and Franz, who wandered by and got
hugged, whether he wanted to or not [I make it a policy to risk cutting
myself on a protruding Tomasek rib at least once every five years or
so]. Mike could now begin anticipating impending persecution, come GaFilk
in January.
The bus eventually came, and Scott rode to the airport with us. I say
again, "such men are dangerous." We departed from different terminals and
had to separate then, but BaltiCon looms menacingly.
Going back through on what was presumably US customs, the lines were long
and confusing. Our plane had been changed twice, and they didn't want to
find our flight, let alone give us boarding passes for it. I was thinking,
so we'll just stay in Canada, right? [As part of our cultural preparation
for the trip north, I read Tanya Huff's Summoning series, in which the
main gal analyzes the hidden meaning behind each time her boyfriend says
"Sure." Apparently that's the male word in Canada; we heard several women
saying "Right."]
On our small stretch of terminal there was only one store. I wanted a
pre-flight ice cream, and they had a cooler by their counter advertising
same, but it taunted me with its emptiness. Then I thought of a sandwich,
but no, they're out of those too. The lady in front of me was disappointed
[but not overly surprised] to find they were out of cappuccino. I wound up
with foreign soda in a funny-shaped bottle and an odd-tasting muffin. [I
got one for Marty too, but he completely flattened it in his bag.]
Eventually it was back onto the puddle-hopper and "home again, home again,
jiggety jig," dragging the luggage [so heavy even Marty noticed] out
through the crowds to properly humid air, where my mom picked us up and
brought us home, where the cat greeted us with lots of chat.
Marty is finally flaking like a whole box of cereal, so he's well on the
road to recovery too. We're already looking forward to BaltiCon, and
whatever else the DC Delegation [and other powers that be] decrees will be
the 10th anniversary List Blowout.
Excelsior!
Jerrie, who has spent almost as much time writing this as living it
© 2003 by Jerrie Adkins jerrie@dendarii.com
Current version by Michael Bernardi, mike@dendarii.co.uk
All comments or queries about this Web page to: webmaster@dendarii.co.uk
Last updated: September 24th 2003
Friday
Marty decided he wanted to be adventurous for breakfast. What was I going
to do, go to the 10 a.m. filking? As if. I naturally went along, because
I'm such a "whither thou" kind of gal, especially where Marty is concerned
[the more so if food is involved]. We rode the subway to Museum and hiked
around the Royal Ontario Museum [without, of course, actually going in],
passing the Faculty of Law [like will to like, after all]. We also passed
a man wearing a placard front and back, protesting slavery and
discrimination under the current government. The man just stood there,
back off the sidewalk, letting his message speak for itself, or not. Trust
Toronto to have polite protesters; Marna and some of her experiences were
naturally mentioned.
Saturday
Marty was supposed to wake me up at 8:30 a.m., to be in line to sign up for
Sunday's Kaffeeklatsches well before 9. Instead, after being awake from
4-7 a.m., I heard a gruff, "It's 8:53." There's nothing like adrenaline to
induce efficiency; I was dressed and in line in the convention center by
9:02. The problem was, so were lots of other people, most of whom took
their sweet time [and mine too], presumably flipping through the whole
notebook and signing up for all the Kaffeeklatsches I wanted. The person
two people in front of me took great glee in telling us that the Pratchett
Klatsch was full; I was the last person on the Spider list. Still, getting
two of the three I wanted [the other being Tanya Huff] wasn't bad.
Sunday
We went back to the Marche for breakfast, where I managed to snag some of
Marty's chocolate chip muffin that time.
Monday
I had panels early on Monday, so, after breakfast, Marty went for a walk
down by the harbor, before going to meet Scott and Cat for the baseball
game. When they still hadn't shown after 40-something minutes, Marty
headed up to the game. They had misunderstood where to meet, but found him
in line, so it worked out. They made Marty, still in full "leprosy" mode,
sit on the outside, to minimize contamination.
Tuesday
Right after getting back from breakfast, we got a message from Mike and
Scott, who had come for breakfast and missed us. Since we were all packed
up and ready to go, we hung out with them for a while, which was fun, but
Scott was hungry. We went underground to find him some sustenance and met
a nice British couple, whose concert I'd had to blow off Thursday for
Marty. We chatted with them, and Scott grubbed down.
Post-Con Update
A WorldCon with no night filking at all opens up a whole world of
possibilities. Adequate rest and sleep, benefits of the extra insulation
from being in an old hotel where we hardly heard anything, ensure a speedy
recovery from convention exertions. [This is in direct contrast with
ChiCon, where we heard everything, every plate rattle and
conversation. ChiCon was fun, but hardly restful.]