So either Tyche or the Erinye have decided that I should really learn more about the great flatness just west of Toronto.
This afternoon started out as an optimistic jaunt down Keele to the Ministry of Transport, the same place where I'd just gotten my driver's license, to register my car.
I didn't get lost this time, since I'm so brilliant that I remembered the way perfectly, and also had the timesaving instinct to print a damned map.
Arriving, I limped pathetically from my car on my nine working toes and wandered into building A of the MOT complex and got a great big grin from the uberlady who recognized me from last time.
Before I got to the end of the tiny three-person line to harass her some more, though, the crochetty old man from the front desk came by to make sure I was in the right line.
Since uberlady from last time had told me to come RIGHT BACK HERE for my registration, I figured I was and didn't bother stopping at the desk on my way in.
Turns out she was wrong and I was wronger and the Downsview MOT centre no longer handles car registration.
Fifteen minutes later the crochetty old man is telling me how glad he got to help this "damselle in distress" from "charming Montreal", is arguing the "Maple Leafs" versus the "Canadians" (Montreal's auspiciously anti-separatist named hockey team) and is giving me eighteen sets of directions to go to four different registration offices, based on the directions that I mentioned about having to go to the OHIP office on the corner of Bloor and Islington afterwards.
I eventually chose the one on Wilby Crescent because I figured it was closest and hardest to get lost on the way to what with it being just a jaunt down back the way I came.
Getting there only took one stop for directions, and only one short burst-of-laughter scolding from an Indian gentleman at a mom-and-pop gas station later, I was giggling along with the greatest lady at the bureau.
When she started having computer trouble and I petted her monitor and coaxed it to behave she announced that she was glad that she's not the only nutcase around and would I like a toffee?
A wonderfully chewy toffee and a hundred dollars later I trundled off with my vanity license plates in hand, not vain enough for them to read "monstre" -- they simply have a pretty picture of a loon on them to warn other drivers of the oncoming loony.
Five minutes later I was right back inside and there was a white-haired congregation of giggles as I asked what I was supposed to do with the OTHER license plate.
"Put it on the FRONT of the car, silly goose!"
"I don't have a bracket!"
We decided that I ought to try Canadian tire or maybe a Nissan dealership and off I went to the OHIP office for my health insurance.
THree stops for directions, and three laughter-infused scoldings later "how are you, lady?" - "lost!" - "oh no now what did you doooooo?" (with much comical pursing of lips) I had left Downsview behind for Etobicoke and made pretty good time even in the midst of a terrifying three-laned rush hour.
Arriving at the OHIP building, I only got lost INSIDE the building once, found the place, filled out the form, and just as I was reaching for my wallet to find my old Medicare number...
...realized that I'd left my wallet at the registration centre, and hopefully not somewhere in between.
Racing outside much to the amusement of the crochetty old man at THAT help desk, I found a payphone, called the bureau, and was greeted with very familiar old lady giggles.
They said they'd wait outside for me even though they were already closed.
I only got turned around on the way back, didn't get lost, really.
They gave me my wallet and a quick hair ruffle and sent me off with more toffee and a "you take care of yourself dear" and I headed BACK to the OHIP office and found my way on the first try, despite the serpentine combobulations of Laurence, Black Creek and Islington.
I had plenty of time to recognize all of Rob's golf courses and Kitty's rivers and dentist offices on the way back, their guided tour of Sunday afternoon suddenly turning into practical lab experience as I drove it for the the third time in two days, twice with me at the wheel.
Turning down the generous offer of the man at the OHIP desk to marry me and take me home to Guyana where we can live a degree south of the equator and try to give me a healthier tan, I signed off my organs to medical research if I die in Ontario and in recognizable pieces, signed on too many other dotless lines, got a horrible make-up-less picture taken and declined my would-be fianc�'s offer to have them published in Guyana's "marry a blonde" sweepstakes.
Only because his cubicle-mate warned me off, of course, assuring me that I was better off going home with him to meet his family in Hong Kong...
I think that despite the half tank of gasoline and hundred turnarounds I spent most of this afternoon giggling at the sheer good nature of the people that I had the fortune to encounter.
From the OHIP place I stopped across the street to grab a few hamachi handrolls for my dinner, congratulated the restaurant owner on his soon to be seven years of sucessful life on Bloor street West, shared a tea with a harried business lady who was waiting to take her order back up to the offices in the building I'd just vacated WITHOUT getting lost on the way out.
At Canadian tire I learned that they do not install license plate brackets, and Tony the Mechanic offered to screw the plates right into my front bumper if I REALLY wanted him to, and then gave me directions to the nearest Nissan dealership, advising me to go there during daylight hours.
By this point everyone I knew was already climbing walls on purpose as opposed to the metaphorical scaling I was in the midst of executing. It occurred to me with a laugh that I was taking Mr. Pyke's advice to not try to squeeze my injured foot into a climbing shoe after all.
At the Business Depot I got the four photocopies that I needed done in order to cancel my Quebec paperwork, and fourteen other photocopies entirely by mistake.
More giggling ensued at the hands of a young computer science student who's paying her way through York U by manning the photocopiers and poking fun at village idiots who don't notice when the copier is set for "20" and who take a few seconds too many to hit the "cancel" button.
It didn't help the noise levels any when I told her that I worked with machines for a living too...
Now I'm home and my arms don't hurt enough but that coloratura is starting to sound like something and the bathroom is a little cleaner and I'm going to take out the garbage and throw myself at the leaves for a while and work off a bit of this tizzy that I quite literally drove myself into this evening.
Tomorrow, Seb and Sophie and Annik should arrive from Montreal. On Monday, they return to Paris.
At least I'm not the only one who has a hard time explaining where I'm coming from. ;)
Two hours later, I'm done with the leaves, and I'm gritting my teeth against today's heavier lessons.
For the first hour I was thrilled to be outside and sending the scents of heavy earth wafting through the air as I rearranged piles of leaves from the ground, the driveway, the everywhere, and spread them lovingly and as carefully as I could given that the porch light still leaves the front yard in relative darkness.
For the first hour I was listening to my arm muscles, hoping that I was giving them some work at least to make up for not having been able to go climbing tonight.
Then these two men came stumbling up the road, asking for directions with more alcohol than I could drink in a week steaming off their breath.
An argument or two later they were insisting on coming inside the house, and the rake in my hands was my only friend.
After they stumbled away spitting insults, I finished the leaves, trying very hard not to let myself hate the evening, trying very hard not to be suddenly furious that Dave was late coming home from climbing, furious that I hadn't gone despite having gotten home an hour after they'd started, despite the large piece of my fourth toe being rather MIA at the moment.
I stood there for a while breathing air and laughing sardonically about how bipolar my day had gone without influence of my own hormones, and then realized -- this is a lesson that I'm learning.
Not to let the nasty metallic taste of hurt on the back of my throat override the fact that I'm finally learning to see the wonder in the world.
Yeah, I had a nasty fucking time in a neighbourhood that I was just starting to trust. But that was TWO guys in comparison to the gaggle of charming old ladies, my bouquet of crochetty old men just waiting for someone to smile at them, my horde of would-be fianc�s who were all the sort of people who lavish affection on random strangers just for the sheer fun of it.
So I'm fighting upset. I'm fighting the pent-up I haven't gone climbing in a week energy. I'm fighting what feels just a bit like betrayal. I'm fighting back tears.
But I don't have to fight all that hard, now. I'm learning.