Driving Miss Daisy

Driving Miss Daisy

When Miss Daisy came north for a holiday to the just slightly sub-Arctic paradise of Canada, I'm not sure she knew what to expect.

For most people who live in the southern palisades of the mighty USA, Canada seems about as remote as Tibet, and maybe a little more so, since we don't have a Dali Lama trapsing around the world on a meal ticket paid for by the unsuspecting hordes who believe that the said Mr Lama has something to offer, when in fact the Dali Lama is about as significant as the Dolly Parton, and far less interesting to look at.

Most folks below the 49^th parallel either have no idea where Canada is or think of Canada as a land of ice and snow, Eskimos and dog sleds, beavers and white seal pups with mournful eyes, and heapings of bacon drowning in maple syrup with a side order of beer.

OK, much of that is true. Much of Canada really is a land of ice and snow, Eskimos and dog sleds, beavers and white seal pups with mournful eyes, bacon and beer, but at this time of year, the most you will be able to find while visiting where I live is the bacon and the beer. Both are quite tasty, I assure you.

When Miss Daisy landed in Toronto, she found herself in the fourth largest city in all of North America, a city of over 2.5 million people, many of them without turbans, living in a vast and towering modern megalopolis of brick and steel.

Of course, I'm not sure any but one of those over 2.5 million people mattered to her when Miss Daisy's feet first stumbled onto Canadian asphalt and concrete. What she was apparently looking for was a good driver, and who better than me, although I must confess that my skin is a tad paler than that of Morgan Freeman, the actor who played Hoke Colburn, the driver in the movie, Driving Miss Daisy, the title I have unabashedly shoplifted for this blog entry.

In Toronto, you drive or you perish. The city is a labyrinth of freeways and noways, and unless one wants to remain sequestered for an entire vacation in a luxurious third-floor suite at the Hilton, well, a tourist like Miss Daisy needs transportation. Although I may not drive an air-conditioned stretch limousine, hey, I get around.

So, for a free meal or two and for a kind word or three, I drove Miss Daisy hither and yon. We managed to see the underbelly of this huge city, skipped out of town to Niagara Falls, lost 20 Canadian dollars at a casino, dropped a few more Canadian dollars on the ponies at the racetrack, had fabulous seats at a Blue Jays baseball game in Toronto's famous Skydome (now advertised as the Rogers Centre), shopped at three different mega-malls, learned all about the merchandise in Target department stores (new to Canadian culture), spent a morning watching the boats by the serene, aquamarine waters of Lake Ontario, looked up (way, way up) to see people hanging off the CN Tower, and we even got thrown out of a McDonald's drive-thru for being indecisive about what to order. I know, I know ... like, who doesn't know what to order when they hit the McDonald's drive-thru, eh?

Yes, we got lost once. My fault, entirely. At some point, while trying to listen to Miss Daisy drift on about this or that, and on definitely the hottest days of Miss Daisy's stay, I zigged when I should have zagged, and we ended up in the cargo pick-up area of the airport. Gruesome looking custom agents watched us zoom around shipping containers full of Columbian coffee and hashish, and at any moment, I half-expected to be stopped by Homeland Security officers, strip-searched and made to feel less than human. Past experience has taught me that such is the Armerican way. Fortunately, we were in Canada, so no Homeland Security, just our "Home and Native Land" Security comprised of two attack Cocker Spaniels being walked on a leash by a wisp of a red-headed girl with freckles.

In between the hurly-burly of driving this way and that, there were quieter moments as well — time spent dining in the luxurious Hilton restaurant, evening cribbage matches, hours of interesting conversation, intervals of pure escape while watching a movie or two — all punctuated by the ease of sharing another person's company. Being together never felt quite so together.

All good things come to an end, I guess, and before we knew it, it was time to pack Miss Daisy back on an aeroplane and ship her home with a suitcase of souvenirs and hopefully some wonderful memories.

As for me, well life seems a bit quieter now. It's funny how a visitor from another place can elevate your attention to how great it is to be alive. Let's face it. A life alone is a life alone. Sure, you can surround yourself with friends, kids, and grandkids, but sometimes that special someone makes the hours of every day more special.

Sharing all the twists and turns, through all the streets and back alleys, of my life reminded me that there is still so much more to see and do, so much more to experience and yet somehow less and less time in which to do it.

How we sometimes waste or postpone life drives me crazy, but I won't soon forget the all the great adventures that I had while Driving Miss Daisy.




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