Sleepless in Seattle?

By: Lawrence Sherwin Deputy Director of Communications

Actually, “trapped in Toronto” is more like it (love the alliteration). Trapped in room 412 of the Marriott on the heels of a youth conference, the G20 (Y), that brought hordes of bright young people from Russia, China, France and all the G20 countries to discuss the issues of the day. And discuss they did, though I was completely preoccupied with an Icelandic volcano that erupted hours after I arrived.

The volcano was symbolic perhaps, reflecting my mental state, since the height of the eruption occurred in parallel with April 15th, a key day in the calendar of Americans around the globe, the last day to file US income taxes. Volcanos, taxes, whatever, there is some kind of poetic justice here. As the impact of both became clearer, my sleep became more and more fitful. I woke up every morning at three to watch live photos of billowing smoke. No information was to be had online or by phone from Air Canada (nor, for that matter, from the Internal Revenue Service) and my departure date came and went as the realisation sunk in that I might be in here for the long haul.

How long? That was what was (actually still is) the issue, though it now appears that I am booked (THANK YOU, EBRD TRAVEL OFFICE) on tonight’s 6.15pm flight to Heathrow. The past few days have been strange as I began to make extensive use of the hotel’s laundry services and shop for undergarments at that North American paragon of value, Sears, a stone’s throw from my room. Barriers imposed by the hotel’s business centre sent me to “Best Buy” to buy a laptop (we needed one anyway) and set up shop.

I have now adjusted to life in 412 on day 3 after my planned departure and day 7 of life in Canada. The representatives from the IMF and World who also attended the conference are long gone (Washington!), and I have started sussing out the pros and cons of the three food courts and shopping malls which surround my hotel, planning the logistics of a longer, even indefinite stay.

Who knows if I’ll actually leave? Another plume, another cloud of ash might change everything. I anticipate utter chaos at Lester B. Pearson International Airport, where I will stock up on maple syrup, baseball caps and relentless Canadian friendliness and optimism while praying that I actually take off. In any case, I consider myself lucky. I might have gone on mission to Zagreb with our colleagues from the Bank. After days of waiting, they apparently spent 26 hours on a bus and, I hear, are in the UK as I type these lines. They no doubt hated that bus by the end; I, on the contrary, have come to love 412.

Wednesday 21st April update: A Room with a View

Funny how crisis drives one to literary allusions. Anyway, though the reservation was confirmed and the BBC announced that UK airspace would re-open, I arrived at the Toronto airport to find any flight to London inexplicably cancelled. (I immediately regretted joking with the taxi driver about seeing him again soon.) And there I was again at the mercy of the Marriott lady, whose voice I know so well and who took me back at the same preferential rate, this in spite of a meeting of the Funeral Service Association of Canada (Association Funeraire du Canada) — meaning that the entire hotel is now inhabited by undertakers, many of whom wear black suits even when “off duty”, and all of whom seem quite jolly, in the lifts and especially at the bar. Needless to say, philosophical, even existential thoughts have begun to intrude onto what has become a surreal routine, with surreal encounters punctuated by live shots of billowing smoke wherever I go.

In the film version of E. M. Forster’s 1908 novel “A Room with a View”, the rooms have lovely views of Brunelleschi’s masterful cathedral in Florence and of idyllic English countryside. I too asked the endlessly accomodating Canadian staff of the Marriott for a room with a view. I was assigned room 1506, eleven stories above the fabled 412 (see yesterday’s entry), which paradoxically has exactly the same view as 412, i.e., of the parking structure next door from a much higher angle (no hint of Lake Ontario). I have set up shop again and am happily working via a remote connection (THANK YOU, EBRD IT HELPDESK), and have had words of encouragement from across the Bank, including sage words from the IT director on how to penetrate the anti-Citrix barriers in business centres around the world: “Download the Java client,” he writes. No need to do this now, since all is well, but in my now perverted mind, I associate “Java” with Krakatoa and am superstitious enough to not dare to tempt the gods by even trying something like this at this point in my life.

I return to my parting lines of yesterday: “Who knows if I’ll actually leave? Another plume, another cloud of ash …” Will I? Find out tomorrow. I am though much more relaxed, for at least now I have solid routine: arise at 6.38, drink coffee in Eaton shopping centre, work via EBRDremote, check BBC, check out, cab to airport, note flight cancellation, call Marriott, return to hotel, consider fast food options, avoid undertakers, ponder meaning of life. Repeat.

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