In Which Sheena Rediscovers Her Faith In Humanity, Opens a Surprise and Samples Chevre Wrapped Figs

This saga begins just over a month ago when Sheena exclaimed to her virtual compadres that she was finding it hard not to slip out and attend the This Is Not A Reading Series event.

With El Chaperone walking shot-gun, we meandered over to the Gladstone, had a cocktail or two, and settled in for what we assumed would be some literary celeb gawking and possible DJ Ringtone mockery.

We quickly were enthralled by the talent and enthusiasm and genuine fun in the room.

As I said on another part of the innerdnets:

Oh! we had such a really good time at this thing. I went for the mockworthy factor but stayed for the fun.

Russell bounced along to his house tunage before and after the main show. Doing that DJ head bob with oversized electrified ear muffs that made him look rather unstylish. He really should have just held up one earphone to his head like the real mixalots do in Europe.

But what fun the rest of the night. Anne Marie played the banjo and sang along with the featured author Sean Dixon who I had never heard of before but he's a very talented musician.

And this Globe and Mail music critic (I need to remember his name) [aka Carl Wilson] turned the tables on himself and performed for the first time in public, shaky as all hell but pretty good.

And some neato old timey folk songs done with banjo and the tabla with Dixon and his Sikh buddy that he met at a party last week.

I bought a book but now I can't find it. Might have left it at the coat check. Oh, and I was acting all classy and hipster until I sneezed and sent droplets of pinot noir all over my legs and the floor.

Well. Wouldn't you know that banjo hero and literary genius Mr. Dixon managed to find Sheena's artless review and forgetfulness lament and did he not just buck right up and email, asking if she ever found the book.

No, Never did.

By way of miracle and Canada Post, just days ago, a little surprise arrived Chez Sheena. A real live geniune autographed replacement copy of The Girls Who Saw Everything

Been in the laptop bag since last week, and tonight had one of those dinner at the hotel moments absolutely made for starting a new read...

Little bit of argula salad, bit of seared ahi tuna, some chevre & proscuitto wrapped figs, washed down by a lovely dry Strewn Riesling. On the side, a brand new fresh-smelling soft cover novel that was all mine.

I'm liking it so far. I think it's the first Canadian novel I've read that had the word "blogger" in it. And how could Sheena NOT love any work with the phrase "Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful" before page 50...

Because they know how to handle Bush!

OK, why do Republican appointees to major international bodies look like they just took off their pizza delivery guy uniform in a bad 70s porno?

In the SheenaVision "Dreams DO Come True" Department

Police in Guelph, Ontario report that they

...are looking for a man who allegedly approached women and asked them to kick him in the groin.

Three women reported similar incidents to police and two of the women reported the suspect was on a bicycle. The various incidents allegedly occurred over the last two months. The suspect is described as white, in his early twenties, with a brown goatee and a large gap between his front teeth.

None of the women reported injuries.

However two reported minor damage to their newly dried seasonal French pedicure and are seeking redress.

Note To Self: Don't Ask "Where's the Beef"

In fast food news this weekend,

The parent company of the Carl's Jr. and Hardee's fast food chains sued rival Jack In The Box Inc. on Friday to stop TV ads that it says suggest Carl's Jr. and Hardee's use cow anus to make Angus beef hamburgers

.

To see the ad,
Click here...

Suddenly, the foodie in me no longer cares about whether Black Angus or Red Angus is leaner or more tender.

Good Luck Mike!

Mike the Bartender at The Local on Roncesvalles wows the crowd at his good-bye party as he moves on to a new and exciting opportunity. Watch this space for details on the Grand Opening....

The Stop 'N' Drink

Chicago is a great great city with great great bars. Sheena cannot claim to have sampled a broad enough selection to claim definitively that this is the "Best Bar" in town, but it is one of 3 mandatory stops during any visit. More officially known as the Clark Street Ale House , Sheena just calls it the Stop 'N Drink for reasons I am sure are now obvious.


We discovered it (Sheena and Jeks) a couple of years ago during a multi-phased plan of action to celebrate a certain strategic birthday. After a few bubblies at the Top of the Cock we window-shopped at the Bentley dealership and then ran amuck in the streets looking for the next source of liquid refreshment.

We turned the corner and there it was. The Giant Neon Sign staring us in the face. Awe-struck, Sheena turned to Jeks and reverently whispered.... "That's not a sign, it's a command statement". So in we went.

The CSAH specializes in mid-West craft brews and is a beer drinker's paradise. Their ever-changing seasonal draft list offers some rare finds and the Sampler pack is an essential starting point. Flagship Chicago microbrewery Goose Island is well represented, and Sheena massively regrets not having a picture of their funny draft tap heads. A Goose Head for the Honker's Ale, a Phone Receiver for the "312". (The area code for Chicago, dumbass).

Two words of caution.

1: You can still smoke in a Chicago bar. Sometimes Sheena forgets what cities have smoking and which ones don't. I'm generally a tolerant non-smoker, but appreciate the opportunity to change into some dirty grungy clothing BEFORE going into a smoky place so I don't incur unnecessary dry cleaning bills the next day. My recent stay at CSAH was cut short by some florid loud mouth meathead from South Carolina who needed to whip out the cigars and proceeded to regale the place with stories about how you can't buy draft (ie, "free pour") in his state. Sheena was very close to testing her hypothesis about the ability of the smooth white tapered Goose draft tap to fit up his ass in one graceful swoop.

2. There is no food at the CSAH. We learnded this the hard way when I took a gang of hangers-on there after an event. It was going on 10pm and we were famished. The bartender graciously handed us a couple of delivery menus but it was 1 hour minimum before we got any pizza. So..... we walked around the corner, pooling per-diems and brought back a cornucopia of greasy salty sugary goodness from the 7-11. Taquitos, Big Bites, mini-donuts, cashews, and a Slurpee for our Pennsylvanian friend who had never had one before (Sheena nearly passed out right there and then). A double shot of rum was promptly swirled into the strawberry-Coke concoction. We dumped the bag of goodies on the table, and ate and shared communally. Like good friends are supposed to.

Yes, Mennonites Are Allowed, In Fact Encouraged

Ate a couple of times in recent weeks at the Wildcraft Grill.

First time was with a bunch of people from all over the friggin globe so we started with a range of picky plates to share. Couple of the flatbreads, the chicken schnitzels, the beef satay and some very yummy crisp breads. Had the Mushroom Fusilli, but looked longingly and enviously at the Seared ahi-tuna across the table. I was pretty hungry. Breakfast had been 14 hours earlier at the airport in Chicago and lunch did not exist.

When I went back solo another night I could not resist it. Paired with a pricy but yummy NZ Sauvignon Blanc, was perfect meal while catching up on Graydon Carter's latest ass-kicking wit.

It was great, but the nicest part actually was the stirfry veggie selection that included a very light sprinkling of fennel among the carrots and onions on top of the bed of wild rice. A recommendation.

Dying is Easy... It's Comedy That's Hard

A fan of SheenaVision on a head-injury recovery support forum I used to read penned this love note sometime earlier this week and I thought I'd share it. As flattered as I am with the attention, I kind of wish I could attract a wittier form of stalker. On the upside, Father's Day is right around the corner....

The biggest compliment Doucheena ever made up -err- overheard her father give her & her sister was spoken in the heat of an argument many years ago."I pity the fools who end up with those two bitches because they're turning out just like you".Well okay, maybe that was just an old episode of the A-Team. But I think about these fictional words often. Well okay, as often as they serve my own self-centered purposes, because they make such a nice little back story to justify my being so narcissistic and selfish. I realized yesterday during my weekly hair appointment (which never makes me look any better but hey at least it gets it washed) in Bloor Village (an area that obviously impresses me and hopefully you too) that Sunday was Mother's Day and no I hadn't sent a card, or flowers or a gift. Because I'm just that thoughtless, cheap and self-centered!So in lieu of any of that crap (crap meaning thoughtful gestures I'd actually have to spend cash or energy on), I will write this completely no-cost blog entry and then maybe go phone Mom and read it to her (because Sheena's Mom doesn't do the innerdnets, but mainly because it involves no money or effort, and strokes my own ego very nicely all at the same time!).Thank you Mom for being the single largest influence in my life during the most crucial formative years (seeing how I turned out, I guess this part isn't much of a compliment to you, but moving along, as today is really all about me, after all).For raising me in a house full of books and magazines and respecting the power of words (even though I don't use them well and still can't spell most of them, but like to think I can).For exposing me to a circle of strong funny women and demanding we develop a quick wit and sense of humour if we were going to sit at the grownup's table at dinner. All my female friends are jealous when I tell them I was raised by a coven (okay okay, no one has ever been jealous of me and I don't have any real female friends but I like to pretend. Pretending people are jealous of me is especially comforting, since it's always the other way around in real life. Gawd I hate women who have anything that I don't and never will! Ya know, like charm, class, talent, manners, brains, beauty, breeding, discipline, grace, kindness, altruism, humour, humility, insight, sex appeal, physical fitness, nice friends, good families, you name it I hate it).For reminding me that money and good taste have nothing to do with each other (which is good, seeing as I have little of the first and none of the second).For teaching me that just because one was poor, doesn't mean one needs to look it (although looking like crap is a little harder for me to avoid no matter how much money I have).For letting me trust my judgement and make decisions for myself (even though my judgement and these decisions tell me not to bother buying you anything for Mother's Day).For allowing me to leave when I needed to be on my own (I'm sure that one was much more rewarding for you, so there ya go, there's your frigging gift, mom).For not crying in front of me the day I packed up all my possessions and bought a 1-way Greyhound bus ticket (it was just about you being strong at the thought of losing such a wonderful daughter, not that you were relieved to finally get rid of me, right? Right??).For teaching me the basic comfort foods like homemade stuffing, bread from scratch and forgiving my utter complete failure with pie crusts (hey I may not know how to make em but I sure know how to eat em!).For instilling the fundamental commandment of never counting on anyone to look after your security and financial stability. Especially a man (good thing too since I've never met a man who'd be with me unless I was willing to pick up the tab).For encouraging to reach beyond my station (and to spend the rest of my life constantly obsessing and boring people to death about it).The first time I bought a pair of Gucci loafers at a SAKS season-end-clear-out sale and slapped down my credit card to buy them (I worked Gucci, Saks and credit cards all into one sentence! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure!), I said "thanks mom" in my head (but not by phone or in person because that would mean spending energy or cash on someone other than myself).The first time I wore them in business class, I said "thanks mom" (but didn't bother to send you any shoes or a plane ticket).The first time I flew on a private corporate jet, the only woman in a sea of testosterone, and held my own in conversation (okay, okay, I didn't hold my own anything except an extra bag of pretzels or twelve), I said "thanks mom" (I really hope you are telepathic by now because I'm not putting my credit card into that frigging airplane phone).When I have 10 minutes to myself and get to explore the world, sitting in front of the places I need to mention for the sake of my self esteem, like the White House, touching the Conde Nast building in NYC, at the payphone outside the Eiffel Tower (hey I worked private jet, business class, White House, Conde Nast building and Eiffel Tower all into two sentences! Repeat: I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure! I'm not insecure!), I pick up the phone and say "thanks mom" (but don't actually dial). But rest assured I say it in my head much more often.Aww. What a touching tribute I just wrote entirely about -umm- myself. I hope you're grateful to have me as a daughter, mom. Happy Mother's Day!Ok, gonna call you now. Collect.

20 Years Ago This Morning

Went to work after a few days off. Rode the bus by myself. Sheena knew it was not going to be a very good day. Mid morning the expected phone call came. It was done. He was gone. Didn't really say all that much. The other people in the cramped little back-office turned silent. Wondered if I should call and cancel that orthodontist appointment later that day.

The accident had happened about a week beforehand. So May 25 was just a date. It's the date we all remember now, two decades later, but it doesn't really mean anything as a date.

The real date was previous Saturday night. May 2-4 weekend and family was scattered around at various events and getaways. The phone rang really late. The conversation made no sense. The next morning we went over to the hospital to see for ourselves. Yep, there he was. In the flesh. Had been about 2 years since I'd seen him last and don't actually recall the last words we exchanged. There was no recognition. The only movement was mechanically timed forced respiration. Sheena asked a few technical questions and then left.

In the days that followed, people returned from their now-cut-short vacations. Out of towners rushed to the bedside. So when the decision was made to pull the plug, everyone knew what was coming. Just took a while to figure out what the date would be.

Sheena kept working after she hung up the phone. Then some asshole from the office brought in a bouquet of flowers. And she went to the ladies can. And cried.

First Hot Day of 2007

At least the first one Sheena has been home for. Sitting apres-work yammering on about something or other and the bartender makes a comment about how nice it is to open the fridge. Apparently as a kid it made his mother crazy doing that all the time with all the electricity he was wasting.

One of the other regulars is ex-Montrealer so I turned to him and said, "You know what I miss about living in Quebec? The walk-in cold beer rooms at the dep". He turned to me and told me to stop being so cruel. Never had a depanneurd kick me out for just relaxing without buying. Fun to inventory all those crazy-ass 6.7% Extra Super Dry king cans that seem to not have a market on the English side of TROC.

I didn't think I missed any thing about Quebec, so this was a surprising suppressed memory resurfacing that made me wistful.

Chica Go Go

Goddammit all. Having to cut my trip somewhat short this week. Had hoped to take a couple of vacation days at the end of the week. Chicago is such a kick-ass city sometimes I even wonder if I like it more than NYC or San Francisco. Blasphemy, je sais.

I really really wanted to pop in at the Conrad Black trial, but just ran out of time.

You see. Sheena feels a certain personal connection to Lord Black. Yep. On October 7, 2005 Sheena looked Conrad right in the eye and totally regretted wearing her shitty travel shoes with a week old pedicure poking out. It was in the Red Carpet Club at Washington Reagan Airport. I still had a couple of calls to make. There was some stupid fake bomb scare in DC, so it was one of those goddamn "all circuits are busy" kind of days.

So I used the public phone in the main area. As I settled in to dial, I looked behind me and there he was. Stone faced, unmoving, unblinking. With a monogrammed garment bag at his handler's side. It said "BB". Oct 7 was the same day he got the NY apartment assets seized. So Sheena could understand the upside-down frown and borrowed luggage.

I had to ask a question on my call. Sheena froze. The words she was asked to say were pretty much on the topic of shit he had allegedly done. So she instant-messaged her peeps on the other end and pleaded mogul-chill. Silenced. By Greatness.

Favourite place in Chicago to sit and relax: Top of the Cock

Landing Gear Collapse on Air Canada Jazz at Pearson

Sheenavision was on the scene this afternoon, as her Embraer taxied past the Moncton-Toronto Air Canada Jazz CRJ 100 that had an oopsie this afternoon at Pearson.

12 More Sleeps

The anticipation is becoming unbearable.

Ottawa Maple Leaf Lounge, Off Peak Hours

Busy then very quiet. Then really busy. Then deadly quiet. Standby for overbooked flights. Or just wait it out and catch up on reading.

Sometimes it is the little things that let me sleep at night, and make me wonder if indeed there really is a God.

Pan Am Still Lives

Look who is here at Ottawa Airport right now at this very second..

14 Mar 0240Z Baton Rouge La
727-222 of Clipper Connection
Clipper Connection 906 ran off taxiway with RH maingear on taxi-in to the ramp
N346PA damage unknown. PanAm Clipper Connection (aka Boston-Maine Awys)

Do not click here if you are afraid to fly

The Club

This week ate at the GeekStreet Hotel, the newish posh hotel which tries to make people from Kanata think they live in a real city and not an uptight overbuilt suburb where you go to jail for clothes lines and non-earthtone paint colours on your street-prominent 3 car garage.

It is there to serve the nerd community who are sick and tired of having their cool American colleagues stay 20 KM away because of the innate suckholage of Ottawa's west end suburbs (my best pals who live there already know how much I love them so just chill out you know I don't mean you).

Sheena loves interesting foodie experiences but there is a certain line that which upon crossed is just well, stupid. How many of my readers here would eat a unagi retention? I mean seriously. Does that not sound like some seriously infected intestinal disorder? Something protruding and swollen? No thanks.

I'll have the Club please. It looked very nice. First thing was to try a fry. Volumes is said about the quality of a place based on that first bite of french fry. It was lukewarm and soggy. I tried a second bite dipped into some kind of chile mayo. Nope. Disappointing.

The sandwich looked plentiful and it was. But the toasted bread was too crisp and because it was a triple layer, was too big to take a demure bite, so the corners of my mouth felt like it was sliced to bits by yeasty knife points. The roast chicken was real, which was a nice treat, but was cut in too small pieces so it kept falling out of the bread. The ones that fell on the newspaper I was reading I ate, but the ones on the floor I left for someone else.

Most pleasant part of the meal was one of my favourite Niagara rosés - the Malivoire Ladybug - yum and so pretty in the sunshine.

Anti-Climax

All day in Ottawa yesterday everyone was yammering on and on about the Sens taking Buffalo 4-0 and that last night would be the night at the Stanley Cup playoffs come back to Ottawa for the first time since fire was invented.

Entertaining some Europeans and Antipodeans so we hopped into a Quebec plated car and after a watching 2 periods and downing a few pints at The Wonderful Pub Italia on Preston Street we headed to Elgin Street where all radio stations assured us that the streets would be mad with revelry and euphoria. Tow trucks were out in full force removing vehicles from the streets in anticipation of crowd craziness flowing with hockey fever.

Ok, umm... so where the hell is everybody. The pubs were busy enough, but the street was completely empty. I felt very bad for all of the media vehicles from NBC and CBC trolling the sidewalks for action and mayhem, but found only Sheena teetering in heels from the Fox 'n Feather to Big Daddy's because bad hockey makes me crave Malpeque oysters.

Happy Mother's Day

The biggest compliment Sheena ever overheard her father give her & her sister was spoken in the heat of an argument many years ago.

"I pity the men who end up with those two bitches because they're turning out just like you".

I think about these words often. I realized yesterday during my weekly hair appointment in Bloor Village that Sunday was Mother's Day and no I hadn't sent a card, or flowers or a gift. So in lieu of any of that crap, I will write this blog entry and then go phone Mom and read it to her (because Sheena's Mom doesn't do the innerdnets).

Thank you Mom for being the single largest influence in my life during the most crucial formative years.

For raising me in a house full of books and magazines and respecting the power of words.

For exposing me to a circle of strong funny women and demanding we develop a quick wit and sense of humour if we were going to sit at the grownup's table at dinner. (All my female friends are jealous when I tell them I was raised by a coven).

For reminding me that money and good taste have nothing to do with each other.

For teaching me that just because one was poor, doesn't mean one needs to look it.

For letting me trust my judgement and make decisions for myself.

For allowing me to leave when I needed to be on my own.

For not crying in front of me the day I packed up all my possessions and bought a 1-way Greyhound bus ticket.

For teaching me the basic comfort foods like homemade stuffing, bread from scratch and forgiving my utter complete failure with pie crusts.

For instilling the fundamental commandment of never counting on anyone to look after your security and financial stability. Especially a man.

For encouraging to reach beyond my station.

The first time I bought a pair of Gucci loafers (at a SAKS season-end-clear-out sale) and slapped down my credit card to buy them, I said "thanks mom" in my head.

The first time I wore them in business class, I said "thanks mom".

The first time I flew on a private corporate jet, the only woman in a sea of testosterone, and held my own in conversation, I said "thanks mom".

When I have 10 minutes to myself and get to explore the world, sitting in front of the White House, touching the Conde Nast building in NYC, at the payphone outside the Eiffel Tower, I pick up the phone and say "thanks mom". But rest assured I say it in my head much more often.

Ok, gonna call you now.

Oh My God! That Woman Should be Taxed!

Not Safe for Work.

Ursula Martinez at Just For Laughs


Thanks DW for the link

Because Being Green is for Other People

As Sheena sits in her UNairconditioned downtown apartment with the window open, hoping the humidity doesn't fuck with her hair too much.

Counting College Calories

Spent the evening traipsing up and down College Street in the funky Little Italy section.

Cocktails started at the long-on-the-to-do-list Sutra Tiki Bar. We were kind of early so it was quiet, but that made it easy to explore. After almost breaking a neck on a poorly lit step, was giggly happy to put my feet in the sand on the back patio especially since my pre-Jamaica pedicure still looked really good and my heels were still smooth.

The mai-tai looked kinda purty, but didn't crack the Top 5 list (Positions 1 and 2 held by Don Ho's in Honolulu and Trader Vic's Atlanta respectively). Guess all the self proclaimed Tiki authorities had a point with this particular drink. The second cocktail was a home run though, the Lychee Tiki martini, garnished with a big old eye-ball sized lychee. Remind me to tell you about my lychee-coated fingers that smell like sex story some time soon.

By the time we finished drink #2 the streets were packed with merry makers and Thursday night out people. Stopped in for a bite to eat at the College Street Bar and Grill and had an absolutely delicious meal. Sat at the bar and split some good garlicky bruschetta type starter and then moved on to a very yummy smoked chicken pancetta linguine. Would have again. Only criticism is the place's website. It falls into the "get over yourself useless web designer and quit making people load so much stupid crap before we get to see the menu" category.

Dessert at Dolce. Gelato doesn't make my stomach curdle like most ice creams, so we indulged freely in dark chocolate, cringingly tart limon and I snuck in a bit of pistachio on the side.

Strolled in the warm summer night, watching the people go by. As I'm sure they were watching us.

Shittiest Lesbian Food EVER

After a long night of patio drinking in a small town and an annoyingly sober-upish GO Train ride back to the city, Sheena climbed into El Chaperone's rally chassis and said "I'm hungry". It was late, so not much selection that was quick, close to home and not deep fried.

We selected Ali Baba's (Parkdale location). I got the beef shawarma and a side of tabouleh. He got the beef dinner.

Getting home, I take one bite of the tabouleh. It was disgusting. I took a second bite to make sure I wasn't imagining something. And spit it out. It was painfully oversalted. Sheena is not a salt lover, so she asked El Chaperone to give it a shot, since he's a smoker and his taste buds are dead, but even he couldn't bear it. Threw it all away.

The shawarma was better, edible but nothing special whatsoever. Kind of stringy beef. Not up to my Ottawa-influenced discerning shawarma palate. Made me so friggin happy I'll be up there to visit my sweet beloved Marroush next week.

More Pictures of Wasteful Decadence

An Up And Down Kind of Day

Loved the clapping. Hadn't heard that for a few years.

Story of the Week

Sitting poolside with The Peach and Sheena points out an older gentleman with a big ass gauze bandage on his forearm, thinking "ewww, I really hope he didn't put that gross bloody sore in the swim-up-bar pool".



She says "OMG! I wonder what happened. I chatted to him the last couple of days before you got here and he's such a nice man". So she swims thong-side up over to him to get the scoop. Sheena the eternal realist figgers he just fell his drunk-ass off a table or something, but when she swims back aghast, I wonder if maybe it was something more serious.



"He went on the day-trip to Dolphin Cove with about another dozen people...They spotted a small sized shark...Everyone else was able to get the hell out in time, but because of his disability he didn't make it and got bit". Holy cripes. Sheena had never met someone who had been bitten by a shark before and made an effort to introduce myself, because well, not a lot of people I know can say that they know someone bit by a shark, really.



He described the story, and we felt bad, and protective of him, and admired his strong and calm wife.



The next day, his experience was the buzz of the shooter bar. "Poor Guy!" Wow! I was going to do the Dolphin Swim but no way now! You're right, I should cancel my booking! Geez, that guy's L-U-C-K-Y!!"



And then his wife swims by, getting a refill on strawberry daqs. And we comment on their strength and resolve and wonderful spirit, still having a lovely time despite the extreme close call. And she looks at The Peach, tilts her head somewhat quizically and carefully asks... "You didn't actually believe that tale of his, did you"...



Turns out he did in fact fall on his ass, gouging his arm and cracking a rib or two, but no where near any fins. So next time I swam by him I bared my teeth, saying "be nice or I'll bite you too". And asked what other parts of the struggling Jamaican economy he was going to wreck next.

New Terminal 1 Maple Leaf Lounge at Pearson

Sheena's first time in this one since they oped the new International wing and got rid of the infield terminal. Lots of nice light coloured wood and '70s retro avocado and burnt orange furniture. Actually reminds me of the old Canadian Lounge in Vancouver, but without the big giant totem poles.

Pretty quiet in here.

And with my luck I'm here before 11am. FCS.

UPDATE:

Sheena stands here completely flabbergasted and wondering if indeed we are in The Last Days. One of the few constants in my life of chaos, a touchstone, a security blanket, a comforting haven in the madness of life is gone. GONE.


Here before me as I write, in the Maple Leaf Lounge, we see the death of the free tampon. That's right. 50 cents each. Fucking Air Canada cheapwad MEN. This sucks even more severely because it is in the International Lounge and why would foreign travellers have stupid Canadian coinage left at this point. What a horrible impression we must be making.




I hope they are collecting 7% of that as GST and sending it to Ottawa. Blood money.