It’s summertime and everyone is going somewhere, or so it seems. But me, not so much. Travel feels more like work these days, all that packing and ‘travelling’, sitting in one place for too long to get wherever you’re going, those endless lineups, and all those unexpected surprises, whether good or bad. And people! So many of them! Everywhere! (Yep, I’m an introvert!)
But once upon a time in my early days as a kidlit writer (when I was younger and far more energetic) school visits were the bread-and-butter of children’s book writers because they paid so well. Travel was a part of my job description, visiting schools near and far to promote books and the joys of reading.
I did several week-long reading tours in Sudbury, and a stint on Manitoulin Island once; a Young Author’s Conference in Montreal, and one in the Eastern Townships. The travel was never the fun part, but once I got there I totally got into the spirit with all those enthusiastic, animated faces gazing up at me. In the children’s naïve eyes you’re truly a god of words! My two favourite Q & A questions: ‘Did you come here in a limo?’ (hah, good one) and ‘Do you know JK Rowling?’ Now I actually did see her do a reading once in a gigantic venue in Toronto, so at least I could tell them that.
Every so often I can’t help but reminisce about November 2003, when I experienced the trip of a lifetime to the Labrador Creative Arts festival in Happy Valley / Goose Bay. It was one of those trips when you have to weigh the good points against the bad, and the good parts always wind up winning. Sometimes even the bad points turn into good ones in retrospect. Which is exactly what happened to me.
It was an eight-day trip, with a busy work schedule, school visits from Wednesday until Friday, drama workshops with students on Saturday and Sunday; for that first part of the trip I was billeted with a lovely lady whose home-cooked dinners included arctic char and caribou stew. Every evening her elderly mother entertained us on the accordion. On Monday I departed on a trip via Twin Otter to two northerly coastal villages, Hopedale and Postville, from Monday until Tuesday, followed by my return trip to T.O. on Wednesday. Oh, and there were soirees every evening that first week, my deah, with plenty of wine and food and partying with the other guest artists. Exhausting to say the least, but on one of those evenings I was treated to a dazzling display of the Aurora Borealis in all their multi-hued glory.
Flying to the coastal villages on Monday in what amounted to a bus with wings, was nerve wracking at first—we were on a milk run, and stopped at every town. But once my stomach adapted to the elevator flips with each new take-off and landing, I enjoyed the stark subarctic panorama not that far below the plane. And eventually, after my Monday presentation in Hopedale, I was flown to Postville where I’d be presenting Tuesday morning before being flown back to Happy Valley / Goose Bay. Which meant I had to spend the night there.
When I was dropped off at the airline ‘terminal’, a garage in the middle of nowhere, nobody was there to greet me. Finally, after the staff of one made a phone call for me, a van came crunching up the ice-encrusted road to pick me up. Never get into a car with a stranger, my mom always taught me, but I was doing this right now. Thankfully he delivered me to the local school (the only school) where I’d be presenting the next day. There they broke the news to me that since nobody had offered to billet me, I’d have to stay at the local boarding house. Huh? A boarding house in a town of 200 people? I started to feel uneasy. For good reason.
The teacher who ran the boarding house led me there—right up the hill from the school. A clapboard four bedroom bungalow with two bathrooms. Then she announced I’d be staying there with two other boarders, a couple of men who were working in town.
“Oh,” I said, stomach beginning to churn. “Will you be spending the night too?”
“Oh no,” my ‘hostess’ announced. “I’m going home after I make your supper.”
So there I was, ‘trapped’ for the night in a boarding house with two strange men I’d never laid eyes on in my life. Hmmmm.
I checked the lock on my bedroom door, one of those press-in buttons. At least it worked. I checked the window, to make sure that if someone were trying to break in through my door, I could jump out and flee into the subarctic night, screaming for help clad only in my nightgown and likely not be heard by anyone. I was trapped there, and had to make the best of it. Because there is no escape from Postville. You can only get out by boat, plane or snowmobile.
I took every medication I had in my kit, which wasn’t much. Tylenol, stomach antacid, and an Ativan. It worked. I went to bed early so I wouldn’t have to sit in the ‘common room’ with the two strange men. I actually slept, and did a great presentation on Tuesday. Then, while I was awaiting the plane, I had the good fortune to meet an elderly Innu man, the oldest man in Canada with a working dog sled team. He proudly displayed his Queen’s Jubilee medal. I met his dogs, and saw their food, a crateful of seal entrails. I took photos. It was amazing.
What a great trip—and almost worth every bit of angst!
Interesting post. Glad you were able tosleep.
ReplyDeleteHoly Cow! Now that's a story waiting to be recast...A terrific adventure. Thanks for sharing.
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