The first thing I learned on the street that day was that maps of Toronto could be deceiving. I knew maps were done in scale (I’m not stupid) and I knew things weren’t going to be as close together on the map as they really were. But this was ridiculous. The hotel that practically touched the picture of the Royal York on my map was, in fact, three kilometres from where I stood. I walked the whole way assuming I would arrive at the hotel at any second.

I was carrying everything I needed to live full-time in Toronto. I lugged three suitcases, a garment bag and two gym bags the three kilometres to my hotel. I did this in a temperature that, when you factored in the humidity, felt like over 46 degrees. I also swore every step of the way. The few people who saw me, those who weren’t so disillusioned by it all and actually noticed me, must have thought I was a homicidal maniac. I swore and expressed desires to murder in very painful and inventive ways, the people who had made the maps; the federal and Newfoundland governments, who I felt were responsible for my being there; the shuttle driver for making me get off the bus; my friend for having plans so she was not able to pick me up; and every person who didn’t get out of my way as I walked along. Everyone looked down and walked forward, oblivious to anything happening around them.

To be sure, there were things I could understand people not wanting to see. I found myself looking away from the homeless people on the street. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to acknowledge their existence; it was more that I felt guilty. I felt bad for not having any extra money to give them, but mostly for complaining about having to walk three kilometres with my big pile of belongings so I could get to my air-conditioned hotel. There’s something about seeing the hardships of others that always makes your own seem so inconsequential. There’s always someone else worse off than you, I’d always heard. I’d often wondered if there wasn’t someone in the world to whom that would not be true. I whispered a quiet prayer that I would never find out.

Finally, my sweaty carcass, hauling my bags, fell into the lobby of the Hotel Suiteness. I collapsed against the front counter, manned by a seemingly friendly person. She smiled in the instant before she saw me; then, a look of horror came across her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I booked a room,” I said, ignoring her stupid question. I was hyperventilating, soaked in sweat, had no doubt lost 12 pounds (not that that would be a bad thing), was hung over and was having difficulty standing. ‘Okay’ would not be the first word that would spring to mind to describe me.

“Your name?”

“Lisa Simms.”

“Oh yes, we have your reservation,” she smiled again. “Would you like to store your bags until 2:00?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to store your bags until 2:00?” She obviously saw my look of complete stupidity. “Check in time is not until 2:00.”Again she smiled.

It is very difficult for me to describe exactly what happened at that moment. It remains a blur. I know that to say I was angry would require a new definition for anger and to say I was furious would be an understatement. I know I let forth several expletives I felt summed up my feelings at the time and burst into tears. The girl behind the desk—no doubt having seen numerous Newfoundlanders react the same way—just stood there, looking at me with a placid expression on her face.

“I’ll give you a key to the storage room on the second floor. You can put your bags there and come back at 2:00,” she said, seemingly unfazed by my reaction.

As she passed me the key, I hoped the storage room was air-conditioned. It wasn’t.

I spent the two hours before 2:00 at a corner coffee shop. I drank three Diet Cokes and two lemonades. I read a local paper, but mostly I sat there, staring out the window and watching people move around the streets. There would be fifty people at a traffic light, all gathered around waiting for the sign to tell them they could cross the street. By the time half of them had gotten across, the sign changed to Don’t Walk. They didn’t mind. They all kept going. The cars also didn’t mind when the light turned green. If people were still crossing, they had to move butt because these drivers didn’t seem to care if the people were there or not. The cars came so close to hitting some of the people that for the first few minutes, I watched with my heart in my throat certain I would be chief witness in a vehicular manslaughter case. It was a strange dance of cars and pedestrians and I watched, waiting to see who would lose. No one did. Back home, I had seen people stop halfway across the street and turn around if the light changed to Don’t Walk before they could make it across. That was with two people waiting to cross and no cars around. Welcome to the real world, Lisa.