2.30am. I'm sitting in the bus station in Toronto staring into space, feeling numb, feeling a long way from home, afraid to close my eyes and lose my rucksack. I'm not enjoying this. Traveling in a daze, dozing in stations or on buses at night, trudging round the sights during the day eating cheaply, squeezing out another day on the road. I'm not enjoying myself one bit but then I never enjoy traveling with myself to talk to, always end up very slightly paranoid, very slightly off centre. I need to pee. Pick up my sack, only eight kilos - got to travel light, bare minimum, and lock myself in a cubicle and sit peeing. An eye is looking at me through a hole, unblinking, waiting. "This cubicle is occupied." I explain ridiculously. The eye blinks once and disappears. It's nice to be loved at 2.30am in Toronto bus station, nice to feel wanted when you're a long way from reality. I return to my seat in the large cold waiting area. There are few others around and in a few seconds I discover why: "This station closes in 15 minutes, please vacate the building by 3am." a helpful, metallic voice informs me. Shit. I hurry to the ticket booth. "Any buses leaving before it closes?" I ask hopefully. "One going to London at 2.55." Good news. "I have a Greyhound Pass, one return, please."
I watch my rucksack placed below. I wait there until the driver closes the compartment, never want to lose my sack: sentimental value, lifetime guarantee - my lifetime. I wonder how long that is and how Karrimor know. I board the bus. It's almost empty and should be safe enough as it's mid-week on the last bus out of town. I realize I have no idea where London, Ontario is, how far? How long? Could be 30 minutes and I'll be standing on some street corner waiting to be mugged. I check my cash. I have twenty-seven Canadian dollars remaining and one week before my flight leaves Newark, New Jersey and returns me to my country of origin. I'm going be hungry in a few days. Could be worse, could be snowing.
Some hours later and I'm on the bus back to Toronto from London, Ontario. It contains the driver, myself, and exactly nine single females dotted about. Should be safe enough mid-week, middle of the night, single women, only one stop on route. I take off the money belt that I keep under my shirt. I carefully wrap it in my Berghaus Polarfleece jacket and lay it on the seat. That feels better. I squeeze my body into a fetal position on the two seats, my head on my jacket, my left hand under my jacket, my eyes heavy, my mind wandering in happy places. I immediately open my eyes, it is now very light, almost nine a.m. We are crawling into the centre of Toronto. Looks much better in the day. I unfold my jacket. Didn't I put my money belt under it? No, must have put it back on. No, it's not round my waist. Slipped onto the floor? No, it's not there. The bus stops, eight girls disembark. I check my jacket by shaking it. I check the floor again. I can't accept the obvious, can't accept I've fucked up in Canada. What a dangerous country! I want to laugh, but this is serious this time. The driver doesn't have my money belt. Only one stop, only one girl got off. Only she took with her my links to civilization, my links to who I am: My passport, my twenty-seven dollars, my Visa card kept for emergencies. This is an emergency, but no card. No flight ticket either. In fact. no ID whatsoever. Who am I now? Who do I turn to? Who do I turn into? I check my pocket. I have exactly five Cents. Rush hour in Toronto rushes past me.
The Police officer dutifully records the heinous crime and my abject stupidity. He seriously expects me to explain why I took off my money-belt and didn't keep it about my person. He helpfully suggests that I keep my money-belt on my person at all times in the future. I thank him for his kind words of wisdom. He enquires as to what I'm going to do, but I'm not quite sure at this point. I feel like asking him to take me to the Police station and make everything all right, but I realize that his duties are of an official nature. He does know the address of a shelter for the homeless, but isn't sure whether they take foreigners. This is definitely a challenging experience. I imagine I'll laugh about it when I get back to England. I imagine my mates will give me a serious ribbing, even more than when I almost died and ended up in a mental hospital in France. Yes, this will be a great memory. Except now it's reality and reality, as the man said, bites. Talking of bites, I haven't eaten since yesterday early evening and my stomach is not amused. There's nothing remotely amusing about standing in a busy city in a foreign country with no money and no friends.
I have my guidebook and my guidebook has a map, and the map has the street where the homeless shelter is. I arrive without remembering the walk but I'm immediately told to come back at 8pm. I state my case and I find myself in a small office with a large man. He's in a great mood, he's happy-go-lucky, he's used to people like me. It's his job, he's all easy smiles and confidence and I start to feel secure. Only I'm twenty-five and way over the age limit. This is a place for Canadian teenagers at risk, not foreign adults who have lost their wallets. "Sorry, you can't stay here." A few seconds silence. "But, what the heck! Rules are there to be broken." He smiles, I smile, I'm in. "Unfortunately the hostel is closed 8am to 8pm, so you'll have to wander the streets till then." I don't mind, I don't mind at all. I ask him about food, he says an evening meal is provided. I ask him about making a telephone call to England, he tells me it'll be no problem later. I feel genuinely lucky.
A day is long when you have no money, no food, no friends. Like dying of thirst on a raft at sea, I am surrounded by everything I need, but can't have. I wander, trying to see the sights like I would have done if I hadn't taken off my money-belt, if I hadn't been so stupid, if I hadn't fallen asleep. Self-pity chills more than the mid-October air. The streets feel menacing and paranoia grips me, people are staring, why do they stare? The streets merge and blur as I lose myself in dark thoughts. Suddenly it is 8pm and I join thirty young homeless teenagers for our evening meal. I can't talk to anyone, but then no one is talking, we eat in silence. The smell from thirty homeless teenagers is rank. It's worse in the dormitory, I want to gag. I decide to risk leaving my rucksack under my bunk and take a shower. I notice there is a general feeling of hostility between the guys, some bickering, some insults. These guys know each from the streets and I hope I go un-noticed, anonymous, un-harmed.
Hot water streams down my face and body, reconnecting me with reality as I lean against the tiled-wall of the shower cubicle. This will work out just fine. In a few days I'll be back in England with a pint in my hand and a tale to tell. I make a plan of action: Go to the British Consulate in the morning and get some help with my lost passport; Get a new flight ticket from Continental; leave Canada tomorrow night and head to New Jersey for my flight. Maybe I'll need to borrow a few dollars from this place but everything will fall into place, they'll trust me, everyone will trust me. I return to my bunk, the smell is worse now that I am clean and with all the noise sleep is impossible until dawn. Tomorrow will be fine.
We awake at seven and file down for breakfast. It's good to eat and I feel positive. I don't want to try to phone my dad before I leave this morning as I want to get things organized before I worry him and Mum, but with the time difference I think I'll have to. The cheerful guy in the office happily lets me make a call. For the first time in my life, I am the maker of an international collect call. "Hello Dad, it's me. Listen, I've run into a problem and I need you to do me a favour. I need some money cabled over to the American Express office in Toronto. You can go into London and do it at the office there. It's not a big problem, but just in case, but don't worry. But you'll have to tell them that I'll be collecting it without identification. I'll tell you exactly what clothes I'll be wearing instead." Dad is full of questions but I tell him he's paying top dollar for the call. He says he'll ring me back direct. I explain everything and reassure him all will be well. Of course it will.
The British Consulate in Toronto, there to promote trade, not help British citizens in distress. I am shocked, truly shocked. I get angry, "What the fuck is your job, if not to help British citizens? I have no money, no passport, I need help!" I am told that swearing will get me ejected, and that they have no obligation to assist me. I am given a sheet of A4 paper to record details of my lost passport on. I am to hand this piece of paper to passport control back in England, should I return. But unfortunately I won't be able to get back into the US with no passport. Absolutely not. I leave the British Consulate in Toronto knowing my country doesn't give a damn. So, I can't get back into the US where my flight is from. Shit. My guidebook lists a Continental office a long walk from where I am. I walk there and discover the office has gone. There is one in Vancouver who could replace my ticket, or in the States. Neither choice is any use to me. I am beginning to think I might be in Canada a long time.
As I leave the place where the airline office used to be, I literally bump into a guy. I apologize, we chat, I discover he's English but moved to Canada years ago. I tell him my woes and he tells me his friend is a travel agent and can get me a ticket home no problem. We go to his office, his friend finds me a flight home for $99. It's a bargain, only I don't have a passport or money. No problem he says, and he pays. I actually cry, his kindness is overwhelming. He wants nothing from me, not even my home address. His friend arranges to the flight for Monday afternoon, the ticket will be waiting for me at the airport. I am on my way home. I can't remember the walk back into the city, but I do remember the feeling of relief, the anger at the Consular official wiped away by the kindness of a stranger. I have only two more days to wander the streets.
As expected, the money arrived at American Express; the ticket was waiting at the airport; passport control waved me through as if I was an old friend; there were smiling faces waiting at Heathrow. Although I was on the streets for only a few days, the experience was profound. I understood that anyone can become homeless, anyone can lose their cozy life and spiral downwards if the winds are against them. Next time you pass a homeless person, understand that that could be you. I knew that in the worst of times I had found the best of people. I was lucky, most are not.
