Erin's Journals

*A ticket update: I heard from Blue Heron Books that the folks at Wooden Sticks have squeezed in two more tables. This means there are a handful of tickets to Saturday and Sunday’s events for those who were wishing they could have joined us in Uxbridge! Please call the store after 10 am today at 905-852-4282 with your credit card ready and Shelley and her amazing staff will do what they can to help you.
 
Journal readers are getting first dibs (I will post to FB and Twitter at 11 am) as my thanks for your loyalty here for all of these years. Hope to see and say hello to you this weekend in person! Now, to today’s journal. Get ready…
 
Okay, with regards to the quote from Ellen, this time you’re gonna laugh. You have to. I sure did.
 
Well, here we are: wheels up to Toronto on the 6:15 am flight out of Victoria. Of course, as I write this, we haven’t yet gone to bed on Wednesday and I am hoping for the best: that we get up on time (we will), that Sidney Taxi with its tiny fleet of five comes to get us at 4:45 am and that all goes well getting off the island.
 
You see, last Friday when my journal said I was safe at home, well, that was inadvertently a lie. I’d said farewell to Rob on Thursday and had left with him a journal that was to be posted that evening. Leaving California and not heading into, say, Calgary or Montreal, I couldn’t imagine anything that would throw a monkey wrench into my travels. What could go wrong with getting the journal (like today’s) set to publish in advance?
 
The short answer: everything.
 
My flight out of Palm Springs was delayed, but it still meant that once I got to Vancouver, I’d have well over an hour to catch the small plane to take me home to Victoria.
 
About two hours into the three hour flight, I got a message through my WestJet app that my 8:20 pm plane was cancelled. The next 15 minute flight to Victoria was set for about 12:10 am. Ugh. Great.
 
When I arrived at Vancouver International, carry-on in tow, I went straight to the WestJet desk. I asked them, if they were betting folks, whether they thought the midnight flight was going to go. After all, what would be worse than sitting for 4 1/2 hours only to learn your plane wasn’t going to be there for you? 
 
They both looked at me and shook their heads. A major dumping of snow had occurred in Victoria and the airport was struggling to get flights in and out. I took that as the clear sign it was that I should just rebook. I got a new boarding pass for the 10:30 am flight Friday and went off to find a place to spend the night. Here’s where things really go sideways.
 
There’s a Fairmont Hotel in the Vancouver Airport. I went to the airport information desk and asked the lady there how to get to the hotel; she offered me the phone to call first to see if they had rooms. After being transferred from a central 1-800 line to what I thought was the hotel just above us (it was loud in the terminal and there were folks next to me talking to the info officer) I heard that there was one room. It was going to be $550.
 
I gulped and asked if there was a “stranded traveller” rate, but I knew the answer. Besides, it was Valentine’s Day. You can bet they’d be busy with all of the snowbound (and lovesick) visitors and had no reason to offer a discount. I gave her my name and when she asked if I wanted to reserve the room and I said no, other people needed the phone and I’d be there in 10 minutes. I hung up and off I went through some doors and up an escalator.
 
I arrived at a busy front desk and waited my turn. Then the two women there said they never take “holds” by phone and looked through the system for any sign of me. There was none. The woman helping me disappeared behind a door, obviously to ask someone what to do in this case because there were no rooms at the rate I had stated. BUT! There was the Presidential Suite. It was a cool $1000 for the night.
 
Now let’s just stop for a second. $1000 a night for a suite the likes of which I’ve never stayed in (except in the Bill Clinton Suite one night at Sandals, but that was a one-off and it was really kinda creepy, if you know what I mean). $1000 a night on Valentine’s Day. Alone. For $1000 a night, I want company, dammit. And at that price, Rob would understand! 
 
I guess they were pretty sure some poor mook was going to step up and pay that for a night, or else they might have offered it to me at the previously promised rate. But that didn’t happen. I had no proof and they had no interest. So I said no and, visibly shaken, went to collect myself in a lobby chair.
 
I called Rob, who was just trying to have a beer and watch the hockey game between the Leafs and Knights, poor guy, and told him my situation. He said to just call a local hotel, take a cab and get a good night’s sleep. I hung up, promised to keep him posted and did better than that: I found a hotel, the Pacific Coast Gateway, and booked a room. Free shuttle, too. My luck was changing. Or so I thought.
 
I gathered my stuff once again and went down to the pickup area and called the shuttle. The lady who answered asked if my hotel was the Pacific Coast “something” and I repeated what she said, saying yes. The shuttle arrived in 6 minutes.
 
A nice gentleman came and got my bag and it was just the two of us for a ride that I thought seemed fairly lengthy for an airport-area hotel. But when we arrived, he kindly guided me through the ice and slush and brought my carry-on into the lobby. I gratefully gave him $5 (which he initially tried to refuse) and made my way to the desk. That’s where things went sideways again. Diagonally downward, if you will. 
 
The two pretty ladies at the desk looked at me like I’d come from another planet when I gave them my name. Not only did they not have a reservation from me, but they didn’t have any rooms available. (At this point, a broom closet was starting to look attractive.) One of them asked, “Which hotel did you book at, ma’am?” and I said Pacific Coast. Then she asked if it was downtown or Gateway? And I said I just didn’t know…Gateway?
 
I opened my computer to the page at which I’d found the hotel I’d booked into. And then we all saw clearly what had happened: I’d reserved a room in their sister property, but taken the shuttle to this one. I was laughing – clearly in a state. Luckily, the man who had driven me a few short minutes earlier was still in the lobby awaiting his next call. He said he could take me there. Now, he might well have offered anyway, but I’m sure that tip helped ensure that he felt more compassion for me than he had to – and I am grateful. Here’s to paying it forward – always. You never know….
 
As we loaded up into his small van, I felt pretty dumb. Some things that day were beyond my control, but getting the hotel and shuttle right are tasks that I think are within my limited travel skill set. And I blew it. As we drove, I said, “Two Coast hotels – this must happen all the time, right?”
 
I laughed when he said, “No, ma’am, you’re the first.”
 
“Wow!” I replied, “So I’m a SPECIAL kind of stupid!” and laughed again. You see? THIS IS WHY I NEED MY ROB.
 
Ten minutes later we were at the proper hotel. I offered him another tip and this time he vehemently refused. I think he was just a good, good man seeing a woman at the end of her rope. I stood in line behind a man who’d been travelling 30 hours from the Philippines and could barely string a sentence together, but couldn’t wait to have a Caesar in the bar. I felt about the same way, even after my relatively short and partially self-induced trials.
 
Instead, I grabbed some take out chowder from the bar and, grateful for the toiletries I’d brought along (since Rob was packing all of our clothes etc.), got into bed with my soup and CNN. What goes with chowder? D. Lemon! That’s what.
 
The next day went much more smoothly – except for the fact that upon landing, the friends’ car I was supposed to have use of couldn’t be dug out. I got in line for the bus to Sidney, but realized I wouldn’t make my 1:30 appointment so…reluctantly…went to the cab stand.
 
After getting another of the famous Victoria Yellow Taxis (I call them the Crabby Cabbies because they’ve waited so long in the queue, hoping for the long, expensive ride down into the city, that they take it out on the customer when they just have the $14 ride into nearby Sidney) I made my 1:30 appointment in the nearby town, schlepped the carry-on through the snow and slush and puddles, got a flu shot and a prescription filled, grabbed a few groceries and caught a FRIENDLY Sidney cab home.
 
I could have kissed the WELCOME mat.
 
Have a lovely day – we’re having dinner with sweet Mike Cooper tonight (after coffee with Lauren’s surrogate grandmother Helen) – that is, of course, unless things go sideways. As you know, there’s always that chance! You have to laugh or you’d lose it. 
 
Tomorrow I hope to have for you times for TV broadcasts and interviews and a few more notes as this great new adventure of a book tour truly begins. Thank you for understanding if I don’t answer emails etc. right away; things are about to launch, baby. And Thank GOD Rob and Melissa from HarperCollins are there to get me where I need to be, every single time. As for our anniversary, we spent it packing, doing about 742 errands and staying out of each other’s way, except for leftover pizza for dinner and bed at 9. Romance dead? NEVER!
 
Oh – before I go – there’s a new Walmart article that I’ve written for you to read and, in this one, I actually chose the right seats! You’ll enjoy it, and here’s the link. 
 

Welcome to Wednesday – and here we are on the eve of our trip tomorrow to Ontario. I still can’t really believe that this is all happening, but the flight itinerary in my iPhone tells me it is. Let’s just hope things are a little less bumpy than they were last Thursday when I flew home. Or, let’s say, than I inadvertently made them.
 
I got to PSP in plenty of time and sat in a gate area that felt overcrowded. The reason had to do with weather: while many travellers take advantage of the lovely open air areas of the terminal to wait out their departures, teeming rain of Biblical proportions prevented anyone from enjoying the outdoors. The second reason for a full terminal was a flight that was supposed to come in and whisk Canadians back home to Calgary was diverted from PSP because of thick, low cloud. So it was sent on to Phoenix and returned to take Calgarians home some six hours later!
 
About 45 minutes prior to departure, I heard a reminder that if passengers hadn’t checked in upon arrival downstairs (an open-air escalator away) they were asked to please do so with the gate agent. I made my way to Gate 6 and a man ahead of me inquired as to whether there were Plus seats available. There were, at a cost of $122.50 US. Then the man was told no one was in the middle seat in the row he was already assigned, so he said, “pass” on Plus.
 
When I showed the gate agent my information – seat 5F – I was told that I was the only person in my row. So I said “no thanks” to the Plus seat, too. Besides, we’d already paid an extra $35 or so upon check in the previous day to get moved up in the plane from 25th row or something. I anticipated wanting to get off the plane quickly, since I had to catch a puddle-jumper to Victoria 90 minutes later. (Delayed departure cut that time to 60 minutes and Vancouver’s a big airport, especially when you’re transitioning from international to domestic. But I could make it if I motored. My Fitbit loves airports!)
 
Well, that plan went sideways in TWO ways. First of all, I get to row 5 and I see these seat covers. 
 

 
I laughed to the folks behind the row “this never happens – I feel like I won the lottery!” so I sit in my window seat (which is what I’d booked) and settled in: my Michelle Obama book next to me, lumbar pillow perfectly placed, computer and phone plugged in and charging – everything was everything!
 
(NARRATOR – preferably Keith Morrison: But everything was not “everything.” Oh no, it was not.)
 
The chuckling people behind had settled in, we’d gotten our “safety dance” announcements in both languages, and the plane was slowly moving out towards the runway. That’s when an elegant flight attendant named Autumn came over and asked, “What was your original seat number?” 
 
Uh-oh. Right away you know there’s been a mistake and you’ve made it.
 
I looked up at the aisle numbers opposite me and sure enough, there it was: seats 5D 5E and 5F. I sheepishly told her as much, and that I’d made a wrong assumption.
 
She said, “You can’t sit here.” Pointing to the napkin covering an orange stain that I’d already explored cursorily and judged to be regurgitated Cheetos (or something like that; I didn’t examine) she explained the obvious: someone had thrown up there.
 
I’ll be honest: that news came as no surprise. In fact, when I finished using a napkin soaked in hand sanitizer to wipe down my personal area (um, around the seat, not on me), I made a point of putting it on the floor and stamping it over the napkin that was already there. I was trying to be a force for good! Instead, it seems that they only had two “Do Not Occupy” headrest covers, when there should have been three. As if to hammer the truth down even further, Autumn added “that area’s contaminated.” Great.

 
I could see the headlines now. But what area, exactly? Palm Springs? Victoria? Toronto? Damn, this story gets complicated. Please ask Jann Arden to sing at my funeral.
 
Well, Airborne Airhead Erin was gonna have to move. Fortunately, the young man who was alone in 5C in the aisle seat didn’t mind me climbing over him – charger cords and headphone wires snaking behind, a coat in one arm, laptop, Obama book and hand-written journal in the other – as I red-facedly and hurriedly took my seat on a moving flight.
 
I was mortified at having gotten something as simple as a seat number wrong, but it was so easy to do: I’d been told I had a solo seat, saw two blocked off, put two and two together and came up with 5F! I felt like someone who’d taken the best seats at a play, thrilled to be front and centre in the fifth row, only to find out my ticket said 25th row. Talk about the walk of shame! (Excuse me, pardon me, sorry, pardon me, was that your foot? Excuse me….)
 
At least with tomorrow’s YYZ-bound flight (which takes off in the 6am hour – we hope!) I know that Rob is with me to make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. It really is what he admits is his “job description”: he’s always said it’s to make sure I can “show up and shine.” Or at least not make an ass of myself; I’d add that in, too, if his job evaluation ever comes up.
 
So thank you, Robbie. For 31 years (as of today) of doing exactly that. Mostly. Sometimes I get out on my own just to prove how much I really, truly, madly and deeply love and need you. We’ll recite our memorized wedding vows to each other and then get back to packing.
 
See you tomorrow, Toronto. And if confession is good for the soul, I have more to the travel stories about something ELSE that went hugely, horribly sideways in the style that only I can pull off. It was incredibly stupid and frustrating – and it turns out, because of it, I inadvertently lied here in Friday’s journal. More to come….
 

Welcome back. I hope that the past few days have treated you gently and that there was plenty of family in your Family Day – or Riel Day, or Islander Day or whatever you might call it – Weekend!
 
Rob arrived home safely yesterday after a partly rainy and snowy trip from California up to Washington State, then across on the ferry to home sweet home. I think he’s trying to get some hockey lined up this week in North Saanich; he truly missed playing. Luckily, at least we were  able to watch the Leafs from down south. His lucky Leafs PJs got quite a workout this winter.
 
He stayed at pet-friendly La Quinta motels along the way and there were no horror stories like the one we encountered in a four-star hotel in Whistler a couple of years back. I think so often about this experience that I thought, if you don’t mind, I’d share the experience with you here today. Now, thank goodness, we laugh about this story…hope you will too. Here it is, from May 2017. 

We were having a wonderful getaway – leaving Victoria Saturday morning, spending the day driving, taking pictures and then bunking down on Saturday night in a Whistler hotel – until we weren’t. As they say in a ski resort, it was all downhill from there.
 
A 20% discount was a nice surprise when we checked into the Hilton in Whistler. My #1 request was for a fireplace and this hotel provided eco-friendly logs to burn softly through the night. Little did we know that before the first one would be out, we’d be wide awake listening to weekend warriors of a whole different kind.
 
We awoke with a start. In a hotel filled with tweens and teens taking part in some kind of school band festival, we assumed that the incessant banging from the room next door (or was it above?) was kids being kids – hitting a ball against the wall, rough housing, doing whatever they shouldn’t be doing at 11:30 pm. So we banged back. And that was greeted by what sounded like someone on their back kicking the wall repeatedly. Okay…not kids.
 
Having been subjected to rambuctious hotel neighbours before, we knew not to call front desk. For one thing, it wasn’t that late; for another, complaining can only get you subjected to more noise as you’re “punished” for pooping their party. We put in earplugs and went back to sleep.
 
Until 3:00 am. I can only describe the sounds of what we were subjected to as someone trying out for So You Think You’re a Porn Star and giving it all she had. A woman – and at least two men – were producing such volume that we were awakened, not only by a shaking wall, but by her loud (and over-the-top) cries of “Ohwo! Ohwo! Ohwo!” It went on and on and on and on….and we got angrier and angrier at the sheer volume of it all.
 
I had an idea: I’d wail along with her, in case she could hear us as well as we could hear them and realize how ridiculous it all sounded. That didn’t work; maybe they thought they started something. Finally, as we were about to call down to front desk, I just stood at our adjoining door and – like the crazy woman I had become in that half hour – yelled at the top of my lungs: “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!!!”
 
There was laughter. (No wonder). I hope somebody’s Viagra expired in that mother-in-law moment; some door slamming indicated maybe their loud “menage à who-knows-how-many” moved to another room. Or, in what I’m guessing is the most likely scenario, given the Meg Ryan calibre performance, somebody had earned their money and headed home for the night. I have no idea.
 
Jean-Paul Sartre once said that “Hell is other people.” I will add to that the words “…having sex.” It was. Like the ubiquitous careless door slamming that happens in hotels, people just completely forget – or don’t care – that other people don’t want to hear it. It’s not just boisterous boinking that’s at the heart of this. It’s the fact that we’re all in each other’s spaces.
 
Why is it so hard to remember that? Why is it so hard to think of anyone but yourself? Luckily, the next day we were out driving through mountains and blue skies. Away from other people, just as nature intended.
 
Gentler thoughts here tomorrow.
 

Ah, the long weekend has arrived after what, for many, felt like one of the longest weeks of the year! Thousands upon thousands of flight cancellations across Canada and the US, havoc on the roads, school cancellations and more. What a nightmare! And while I settle in at home and try to get used to all of this snow (which has far surpassed the February record in Victoria, set back when World War II was still raging), I’ve got a fireplace, my own bed and a bathtub that I plan to spend lots of time in. 
 
There’s plenty to reflect upon and look forward to in the quiet of home today. The old saying “Don’t be sorry it’s over, be glad it happened” couldn’t be more true. Even saying good-bye to Palm Springs yesterday, as I took off from one of the sweetest partially open-air terminals anywhere, was not accompanied by a sense of loss or sadness. That’s because our next adventure is just about to begin!
 
This is the first year that British Columbia has lined up with other provinces marking Family Day weekend; we were one week earlier until 2019. So I won’t be providing a journal here on Monday, also because Rob is on the road tomorrow with Molly, heading north through snow and rain to get back home to me. He thanks you for understanding.
 
I was fortunate last night to be met at my flight by a couple who have kept the home fires burning (quite literally) as well as the driveway shovelled during our absence. Melanie and Fred live in Calgary and Mel is the niece of good friends on the island. When the opportunity arose for them to escape the frigid temperatures and daunting snow accumulations in Alberta, they happily agreed to stay at our place, collecting mail, keeping it in order and eliminating any worries we had about leaving our house empty for three months.
 
What they didn’t count on was the record amount of snow. Good thing they’re not paying or someone might be demanding a refund!
 
Today, they’re heading home while I run some errands and get my act together for the road trip that begins next week in Ontario. The house will be eerily quiet, I’m sure, but I’ll take that time to do some more writing, and start piling clothes and things I’ll need (including winter wear) for our journey. There is just so much to look forward to, and right at the top of the list is a three-day visit with our son-in-law, his wife and little Colin. We can’t wait!
 
So, a few reflections on having guests visiting us in the south over the past three months. We were so excited to be able to invite people to a place where they could enjoy a respite from winter, while also reconnecting with us. Kind of a two-for-one deal, wouldn’t you say?
 
Our friends were all flexible and understanding when work beckoned; the past couple of weeks, Rob has been unusually anti-social (or so you would think, if you didn’t get us) as he sat, headphones on, toiling on our audio book. I’ll fill you in on some of the challenges involved there, perhaps next week. He sent off the finished product on Wednesday, barely two weeks after getting word that HarperCollins was indeed interested in the audio book. (I’m not sure how or when the book is going to be sold in that form, but I’ll keep you posted here, I promise.)
 
Because we were hosting, we had to immerse ourselves a little more deeply, a little more quickly, in life in our area. We got to visit the famous Aerial Tramway, tried out a few restaurants and chose some fast favourites, took a few scenic drives, got caught in rains of monsoon strength that tore off a protective shield under our car, and even did a bit of cycling and hiking.
 
We swam, we laughed, we ate fruit from citrus trees in the neighbourhood, we sat out by a fire pit and we made use of the hot tub. Keeping the pool at a bath-like 86F cost us more than almost any other expense (other than rent) this winter, but it was totally worth it. Otherwise, it just would have sat there; I know myself that well.
 
I wish I could say I was coming back fitter and thinner than when I left, but having company makes you eat more meals (and dine out more often) than you would at home. But that’s why my yoga pants have been such comfy go-to this winter. Now, I’m switching them out for pantyhose and tights for cooler temps, but my goodness, how am I ever going to get back in heels after Skechers, slippers and flip flops? I guess there will be some clomping around the empty house in tighter shoes in the week ahead….
 
Our guests were generous and brought gifts, treated us to meals, bought groceries and pitched in with laundry and cleaning. We couldn’t have asked for more. Our friends Lisa and Derek even brought a massive package of toilet paper (the GOOD STUFF ) when they drove down in our MINI! If that isn’t friendship, well, I don’t know what is. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of them whenever I used it, although that may really be TMI!
 
Here’s to friends that are like family – the ones you love to see arrive and hate to see leave. I wish you a weekend that is cozy and filled with the love that everyone was extolling on Thursday. Because the love of good friends who are there for you truly is priceless. Take good care and I’ll be back with you on Tuesday.
 

Ah, Valentine’s Day. A day that engenders as much antipathy and cynicism as it does excitement and genuine affection. I was always of the mindset that any day that inspires people to even think about love and to express it is good in my books. I’m sure I’ve told you that Rob and I don’t mark V-Day, as our anniversary comes just six days later. But still, it’s always a good opportunity to take inventory of how lucky we are to love and be loved. 
 
When a heart has been broken, as ours (like so many others’) have been, you wonder if you can ever truly love again. I felt that way when Rob and I broke up just a few weeks after our first engagement.
 
We had fallen for each other hard and fast, which came as a surprise to us both: I dated stock traders, lawyers and cops, but here’s this guy with a beard and a motorcycle with whom I thought I had little in common, except our abundance of love for and knowledge about the Beatles. We went out to dinner on what most decidedly was not a date (I had a free meal because I did a restaurant’s ads, and then off to Second City – another freebie – to do a review).
 
But there we were, having discovered chemistry that almost literally produced sparks when our hands accidentally touched. It was that fast, that obvious. Or at least we thought it was; Rob soon realized that he should honour a commitment he had made to another woman, a dear friend who had left the country to travel and consider whether marriage to Rob was the right next step.
 
While he worked that out in his head and his heart, eventually coming to the decision that he needed to do what was right for himself and to believe that he deserved happiness after a 10-year first marriage that had ended in divorce, I held onto hope. I gave him back the engagement ring, sure, but I never gave up the belief that this was the man with whom I would live out my life.
 
We couldn’t have known in those early, heady days of romance and reconciliation that the strength of our love would be tested in such an enormous way nearly thirty years later. But when our hearts were broken in 2015, we held fast, buoying each other, sinking together and gathering strength to stand up again.
 
Now, the reward for that resilience is a four-year-old boy that we could not possibly love more than we do. Every week, our spirits are lifted and we laugh constantly when we video chat with sweet Colin as he eats his lunch. He sings and he giggles, he mugs for the camera and laughs at our jokes. A sense of sadness that used to overcome Rob after those chats has been replaced by joy. Colin is a boy who’s full of beans and they are magic ones to be sure: he’s found a way to mend two broken people in a way we could not have envisioned.
 

 
So today, our Valentine is this message from the heart: to remind us all that as long as there is love – whether it’s a child, a grandchild, a partner or a parent, a dog or cat or someone you just hold in your heart in the form of a precious memory – then there is life.
 
My mom used to say, when she gave us advice on choosing a partner, “You can’t live on love.” Some sound prairie wisdom to be sure; love doesn’t pay the bills, but it makes a twin or double bed a lot more comfortable! Indeed, love may not be all you need (sorry, John and Paul) but it’s pretty damned close. And someone to hold your hand and pull you onward when you can’t find your way alone. When you have love, you have the strength to figure out the rest. 
 
I wish you love and loving memories, as well as the hope for love and the blessings it brings.
 
And I love that you’re here with me each day, willing to share the stories and the ride. Happy Valentine’s Day – whatever it means to you. (And just for fun, here’s the link to my second Walmart article titled Better Ways to Start Your Days.)