We are in Toronto, city on a lake, city of gleaming buildings, city of multi-national immigrants. We have driven out of peace and quiet and a white population, into a rainbow of humanity and a cacophony of sound, numerous dialects and varied cuisines. While I always prefer country life, it’s good to feel the exuberance of a city on occasion, get charged and, on a trip, get pampered.
Arriving at a city hotel is not like arriving at a motel or b and b. A doorman awaits, along with a valet to park your car. All thoughts of schlepping your bags—as we did yesterday, up a flight of steps to a second story motel room—vanish as a cart is wheeled out and our bags collected. The slight kafuffle at check-in because our room was not ready was soon forgotten with an apologetic offer of free breakfasts for our stay. And then there’s the magical opening of the door to the room, discovering an expanse of space in which all our luggage gets dispersed and we collapse after the day’s drive. While some of the accouterments are generic—the coffee machine, the robes, the safe—I spot some new ones like spray starch for ironing. The bathroom has all the old toiletries of yore, now often reduced as hotels follow airlines in the nickel and dime business. But this, in our sixth week of travel, is heaven.