The fog rolled out. I got on a plane. The fog rolled in. The plane landed in Halifax, refuelled, and flew back to Toronto. I climbed stairs and did airport laps trying to keep the blood moving in my legs. The fog rolled out, I boarded another plane. At midnight, St. John's finally decided to grant me entrance. I can only curtsy.
The next gloriously bright day I stroll over to my favourite restaurant, The Sprout, and order brunch fit for a queen. (I would eat here three times a day if possible but it's clear that air travel to this part of the world is sketchy at best.) Just at the end of the meal my blasted blackberry buzzes. "Sssshhh" I admonish. "I'm digesting some quality nutrients!" It falls silent. Then Royal's phone beeps. He does the same. Then mine buzzes again, with that cow-mooing insistence I find both humourous and creepy. "Uh oh" I am thinking. Uh oh indeed. All's well with the boys, the tour manager, except, uh --- no bass player. My adrenals start to squirt. Oh nice meal, I'm so sorry!
Tod speaks in calming, tender tones but I'm ready to throw things. Large breakable things.
After several Tums and a few moments later we are setting up equipment and Rhodie is systematically calling all local bass players. Song charts are being furiously printed.
St. Johns' own Andrew Dale shows up, plows through a rapid-fire song-by-song rehearsal smiling, making goofy jokes and looking generally un-phased.
Stress is just not on the menu here. St. John's officially banned it or something.
Two hours later I am packing up in my dressing room wondering what just happened. A big thank you to the Rock. Educational always.
xoxo
SS