And so it begins, fumblingly. I’m staying in a street-facing room with bay windows in a pleasant b & b in Toronto’s Yorkville district, near the Dupont subway stop. The plan this morning was to rise at 6 am (3 am L.A. time), check e-mails, do some work, and get to the Sutton by 8:30 am to pick up my press pass in order to catch the 9 am press screening of Guy Ritchie‘s RocknRolla. But I didn’t set the alarm correctly on the iPhone and woke up at 8:45 am instead.
Little crucifix mints handed out by Lionsgate as a promotion for Bill Maher and Larry Charles Religulous
I stumbled around for a bit, and then put on a pair of white pants (which you’re not supposed to do after Labor Day) and headed down the hallway to take a shower. Except the door closed right behind me and locked itself, and I’d left the key in the room. So I went downstairs to find the owner-concierge and was told she was bereaved over a death in the family (happened just last night) and that I probably shouldn’t disturb her. “Uhm…well, I, you see, uhm…” Gentle diplomacy eventually resulted in finding a spare key.
This, for me, is what the Toronto Film Festival experience sometimes involves. Life is never as tidy or well-ordered as we’d like. You just have to muddle through and keep smiling and say “thanks much” and stay focused.
The room has decent wifi, a cable TV, a firm bed, a light blue rug, a small table with two hard chairs, no hangers in the closet and no towel.