I was sure that something would go wrong. I had never left the country before, and I convinced myself that the moment my passport was checked, I would discover that I was living a lie. Perhaps my name wasn’t actually my name. Maybe I had unknowingly committed a crime. Maybe they’d arrest me right there in the Philadelphia airport where my layover was. I was convinced that somehow I wouldn’t make it to Toronto at all.
The funniest part is that I got a passport just in case in the first place—too many of my friends have had to trek to Boston to get an emergency passport, or to church to pray that theirs would come in time. I got my passport just in case the opportunity to travel internationally presented itself, and sure enough, it did. Ellie, one of my best friends in the whole world, and her family scored tickets to the most coveted event of the year: the Eras Tour. And not just the Eras Tour, but one of the last shows ever. Her friend’s family had somehow, by the grace of the musical gods, also gotten tickets, but they ended up not being able to go. I was all too happy to pay Ellie’s friend twice what she had paid for her ticket, knowing that the cheapest resale ticket for the event was somewhere around $3000 Canadian dollars (which is not much better in USD).
Our first flight, Providence to Philadelphia, left at 6 a.m. Ellie and I planned to meet up at 4:30 a.m. between our dorms. I reached the spot a few minutes early; campus was completely quiet. I’d never seen it so still—no people except for one jogger, no sound except for wind and distant cars.
Skunk
In bush
Ellie’s texts arrived at the same time that Uber alerted me the driver was one minute away.
Skunk aside, we made it to the airport with plenty of time to get through security and find our gate in our quaint, beloved T.F. Green airport. Other than being at the crack of dawn, the flight was fine. It was the second flight that worried me.
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I’m sitting in the international terminal of the Philadelphia airport, sweaty from a 15-minute walk here and the unwise decision to keep my crewneck sweater on throughout. Ellie, an experienced traveler, assures me that everything will be fine, but my heart rate is unreasonably high. I check my bag for the seventh time: yes my passport is there, yes my passport is real, yes this is the right gate at the right terminal at the right airport.
Finally, when the gate agent calls for boarding, we line up, Ellie in front of me. I hand my passport to the gate agent, my hand a little shaky. She looks at it quickly, passes it back to me, and is already on the next person. I nod to no one in particular and move forward to scan my boarding pass.
The screen flashes red, and my heart drops into my stomach. Ellie is already through, standing outside to walk to the tiny plane, but she turns around when she realizes I am no longer right behind her. The gate agent doesn’t have an ounce of expression on her face. I try to glance at the screen to see what the problem is, but I can’t make sense of it.
“May I see your passport?”
I’d put it away since the other agent already checked it, but I fumble with my bag to get it back out. “Yeah, of course, here you go.”
She scans and looks at it. I watch her look at it, combing her face for any information on what the hold-up is. How serious of an issue is this? I feel the staring eyes of the people behind me. The woman types a few things, and clicks a few buttons. “Alright, you’re good to go.”
“Thank you,” I say with more gratitude than she would guess. When I see my assigned seat, it clicks: perhaps it was all about exit row eligibility. I settle into my seat and feel my heart rate slow.
This flight is short too: too short to fall asleep, but not short enough to evade boredom. I watch a Netflix show that I’m only half-interested in until we land.
In customs, instead of the screen that asks you questions about what you’re doing there, it prints me a blank slip that says “Inc,” telling me to see the customs officers. I look around for someone to ask about these kiosks, but there’s no one to help.
I try a different machine, pressing my passport firmly down to scan, and am then prompted with the questions. I feel rather silly selecting “1 day” for the duration of my international trip, but I see other girls with hands covered in sparkly bracelets and realize I am in good company.
Post-customs, I ask Ellie if we can make a quick detour on the way to the Airbnb to the main Toronto site I want to see while here.
An hour later, Casa Loma looms above us, a 19th century castle that makes you wonder why we don’t build things like it anymore. It’s a Gothic Revival masterpiece, a collage of sandstone and marble. Countless turrets, around seven or eight stories of gilded window panes and curtains peeking out from the inside. From above, a large Canadian flag flaps in the wind, with other tourists posing under it.
“Life is so much more fun as a tourist,” I say, skipping over to that area. I’m savoring the grandeur of it, the detail, the excitement in the air.
We place our bags a few yards from the castle’s black metal gate and take a few photos, although I’m not sure there is such a thing as enough. Something about only being here for a day makes each photo feel urgent, like the memory will disappear unless I preserve it somehow. I saw these things. I went to these places. Where we are standing looks like the inspiration for Beauty and the Beast, and I’m confident there’s a library at least the size of my apartment inside those sandstone walls.
From the back of the house, there’s a clearing of trees that opens up to a view of downtown Toronto. Only a few other people are back here, all of them with wristbands indicating that they paid for the tour ticket to see this view. If I had more time, maybe I would have paid to go inside, but the outside is enough for me.
After savoring the view for a few moments longer, Ellie and I exchange a look that says, “We should probably go back.” In unison, we move towards the other side of the house.
Ellie tugs our luggage back towards the black gate we originally came in through. From far away, it looks closed. Sure enough, once we get closer, we can see that it is not only closed, but also locked. A heavy metal bar latches it in place, with a metal chain wrapped around the bars and a padlock dangling from the end.
“Oops.” I laugh. Ellie looks more concerned than I am, which makes me feel an inkling of concern too. Still, I find it kind of funny—this gate would have been covered in signs if this was America: “do not enter,” “not an entrance,” “maintenance only.” But no, here in Canada, the gate is trustingly left open, no signs to be seen.
I shrug. “Well, we could always play dumb American tourists.”
Ellie watches me undo the bar, the chain, the lock. We check around us, confirm the coast is clear, and slide through the opening I’ve created.
“But won’t they notice it’s been opened?” Ellie asks once our luggage is safely through.
“Hang on.” I reach my arms back through the gate and reinsert the metal bar, rewrap the chain, leaving the lock dangling as it was before. “Close enough!”
After a quick stop at the Airbnb, we head down the block to St. Lawrence’s market, where rows and rows of vendors sell raw meat, vegetables, pastries, and bread. The place smells like Whole Foods but reminds me of Faneuil Hall back in New England. We grab steaming bowls of ravioli Bolognese, and I’m pleasantly surprised when the charge that pops up on my credit card is less than I thought.
We then head to the Distillery District, a Canadian Disney Springs, minus the Disney magic but with plenty of signage encouraging trips to Orlando. Restaurants, bars, and kiosks offering hot chocolate and liege waffles line the pedestrianized streets. There are chain stores I recognize and places I’ve never heard of, all of them fun to look around. A massive Christmas tree stands at the center of the place, and holiday music pumps through the speakers.
To the locals, this might just be their local outdoor mall or weekend activity. But to the tourists, this is a memory. “Once again,” I say in between video clips, “life is just more fun as a tourist. Everything is special and new and exciting. Even this!” I point to a tinsel-covered poutine stand.
Rain eventually comes in, stronger than the promised drizzle, whisking us back to the Airbnb earlier than planned. The wind is so strong that I swear if I jumped I might never come back down—whisked away like Mary Poppins but without an umbrella.
Just a few hours before the concert, Ellie’s mom calls and tells us that she and Ellie’s sister have been stuck on a bridge for almost an hour. The bridge spanning the gap between Detroit and Canada has been stalled completely—car-in-park type of traffic. I immediately Google two things. According to Maps, if they don’t start moving soon, they will not make it in time. And according to a Canadian news outlet, a truck caught fire on the bridge. After almost 10 minutes of weighing options, we agree to wait another half hour before making a call.
Three phone calls and a new StubHub account later, I’m listing their tickets for sale. They sell in under a minute, and as soon as I’ve made sure that the payment information is updated, we rush out the door and begin our half-hour walk to the stadium. We are accompanied by hundreds of other people, a pilgrimage to the greatest concert any of us will ever see. Sparkly dresses, cowboy boots, handfuls of bracelets, giggling voices, red lips, star-patterned tights. Every single color of the rainbow, iridescent, gold, silver, holographic—the night is dark, but the crowd is bright. Alive. Radiating excitement.
Once we are inside the stadium, the wild joy in the air is undeniable. Pure strangers are completely approachable, ready to trade bracelets and then never see each other again. I’ve traded almost half my bracelets before we make it to our section: a straight-on view of a stage I cannot wait to see come alive.
I don’t think of the 9:00 a.m. flight the next morning, or how early I was up today. I think of the three-and-a-half hours of music and dance and life and love I am about to experience. Just like at Casa Loma, I take photos to preserve every moment so I can’t forget it.
The show is the fastest three-and-a-half hours of my life—over before I even process its beginning. I’m crying then laughing then screaming then doing some weird combination of all of it. It feels so incredibly human to be here, singing along with 50,000 other people and feeling these emotions together.
And I’d give anything to experience it all over again. My trip to Toronto might have only been 24 hours long, but I was awake for 18 of them, and they were some of the most fun, exhilarating, joyful 18 hours of my life.
