Airport Experiences: YTZ (Billy Bishop Airport, Toronto)

Did you know Toronto has two airports?

Everyone knows YYZ (Pearson International Airport), that big one in the upper left corner that has the honor of hosting a slew of airlines while acting as Air Canada’s hub.  It has lovely glass walkways that seem to go on forever, questionable artwork that is likely more meant for entertainment than deep thought, and a slew of shops in which you can buy the usual overpriced but Canadianized snack food.  Familiar to Torontonians and foreigners alike, if you’ve flown through Toronto chances are you flew into YYZ.

My point? 

Not about YYZ, I assure you.  That would be like writing a commentary on Coke.  Drink it and make your own opinion.  Better yet, ask your neighbor as for sure they will have an opinion you can steal, origionalize, and claim as your own.  Instead, let’s talk about YTZ, that other Toronto airport.

Billy Bishop Airport (YTZ), often referred to as the “island airport” by Torontonians, is a small airport located on an island directly across from Toronto’s downtown core.   It caters mostly to business passengers traveling to destinations within a few hours of Toronto.  Flights are on prop planes as the runway is too short to land jets on, however the popularity of the airport has recently brought the viability of jet travel from YTZ into question.

 For those not in-the-know:

FlyerTalk: http://www.flyertalk.com/the-tarmac/porter-airlines-wants-to-take-on-air-canada.html

Globe & Mail: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/toronto/mayor-ford-asks-for-report-on-billy-bishop-expansion/article11516617/

Assuming we’re all educated now, for kicks let’s look at the airport itself and the implications of an expansion.

YTZ is easy enough to get to, being located in the downtown core, however it isn’t directly connected to the mainland.  As a result, it has the dubious honour of offering one of the shortest ferry rides in the world.  Having ridden that ferry more times than I would like, I’ll say that in Lena-years this ferry takes ages.

Passengers arrive at the ferry terminal where they cue on the upper floor for up to fifteen minutes (they promise, but I’ve absolutely waited longer than this) before being loaded and carried the short distance to the terminal (schedule: http://www.torontoport.com/Airport/Getting-To/Ferry-Schedule.aspx).  Luckily, there are check-in facilities at the ferry terminal, including both machines and agents, so those rushing for the flight and just missing the ferry aren’t completely without hope (I wouldn’t recommend showing up less than 1 hour before your flight unless you are drunk already, have a bottle with you that you plan to polish off before security, or enjoy the wild ride that is the potential anxiety of missing your flight).

Once across, passengers have a quick walk to the main check-in counter, which I have never once seen even moderately busy.

 

From there, passengers usually have a short but very exacting security check before proceeding to the departures lounge.  Of note for frequent flyers, there is no priority line (gasp!).

The lounge is downstairs, offering a setup reminiscent of cubicles in an office with chairs set to face each other in small sets of four.  WiFi is free, and if you need computer access there is a somewhat austere business centre in the back.  Also on offer are drinks (water, pop, juice, hot chocolate, coffee, espresso maker, tea) and snacks (mixed nuts and cookies).  There is no charge for these, and there is also a small shop attached that offers more substantial options for purchase.  Another note for frequent flyers, all passengers have access to this area and there is long Star Alliance lounge (Elitist snob nightmare!  Gasp #2!).

 

 

 

The airport offers only a handful of gates, and the walk is delightfully short to any plane you might be catching (girls, keep your heels on, this is a non-running shoe necessary airport).  When the flight is called, passengers file through glass sliding doors and down a brief hallway to one of several desks where tickets and IDs are checked.  Boarding proceeds from there.

 

So overall, what are the key pros and cons?

Pros:

1.       Downtown location: I’m not convinced that this airport is a faster experience than YYZ, but it does have a phenomenal location.  Transit from the terminal into the downtown core has gotten better over the last several years, and with a shuttle service to Union Station and a timetable for the ferry I would expect the experience to continue to improve.  On top of that, the landing is hard to beat, coming in parallel to the Toronto skyline.  Honestly, I’ve landed in some phenomenal locations globally and never gotten the city skyline these flights offer.

2.       The airport authority has promised travelers a walkway “coming soon”, placating complaints related to the inefficient ferry they currently use.

3.       Departure lounge: Free food, newspapers and a business area with about two dozen computers.  Wifi is easy to access and doesn’t require a password, making this a great offering for those passengers who don’t typically have access to an airline lounge.

4.       Flights are rarely full.

Cons:

1.       Logistics: (1) The ferry: touted as one of the shortest ferry rides in the world, I’m quite certain I could swim across faster.  (2) Getting a taxi: a harrowing experience where you wait with the masses until someone shouts and waves at you to go to “that cab over there!”  (3) Security: For a primarily business-oriented airport where travelers know the procedures, could the agents be any slower?  (4) Pick-up: there is no area for stopping and no cellphone lot, so coordinating pick-up of a passenger is an unpleasant exercise in patience or non-verbal growling.

2.       No Maple Leaf Lounge: If you’re a frequent flyer, you may have gotten use to a little quiet place where you can have a lowball before or between flights.  The YTZ departure area is advertised as a lounge however it’s a far cry from your average Star Alliance offering.

3.       Routing: YTZ is small and caters to small planes.  As such, the route offerings are limited and the distance they travel often means that a connection is necessary.

In my experience, while YTZ is a great concept it has failed to deliver.  My primary complaint is related to the logistics of catching a flight and the ease of getting home when I land.  It’s poorly done and they are overburdened by the passengers they currently cater to.  I’m hard pressed to understand how they intend to efficiently and effectively bring it more flights and passengers.  An expansion is obviously worth considering, but first I would challenge them to work out the bugs in their current system. 

Judge for yourself, but for my part I’ll stick to Pearson.

Wicked Weekends: Montego Bay, Jamaica

             
“Any interesting plans this weekend?” a co-worker asked as we headed for our cars, laptop bags flung over our shoulders and jackets buttoned tight against the cool Canadian spring.

                

“I’m going to Jamaica,” I said, after an appropriate pause that suggested my reluctance to share.

                

She glanced sharply at me, laughing.  “For the weekend?  How far is that?”

                

“Four hours each way.  I’ll be on the beach by one o’clock tomorrow, back in Toronto by eight Sunday night.  The perfect weekend.”

               

“You’re going for two days?”  Again the laugh, then an observation that I was crazy, that I should spend more time there.

                

“It’s not that far,” I shrugged, “and I’m not much for resorts.  I just need a little sunshine.”

               

“Take pictures,” she ordered as we parted ways.  They always say that.  Take pictures, like they need proof that I’d gone.  Funny thing was, if no one asked I wouldn’t have said a word.  Travel isn’t about other people, it’s about enriching yourself. 

                

A few years ago I was considering driving from Ottawa to Boston for a three day weekend.  I was researching the best route to take, and was surprised at how opinionated people were about a simple road trip.  One post stuck in my head, the author held the opinion that unless you could spend at least double the time in a place it had taken you to get there, it wasn’t worth the effort.  At the time I thought that was reasonable.  Travel can be tiring and is a lot of work to organize and engage in.  Today, I only smile when I think about it.  If everyone took that simple piece of advice, weekend trips to the Caribbean would be common.  It’s really not that far.

                

So why did my co-worker say I was crazy?  It wasn’t the first time I had received that observation.  I flew to Myanmar last winter via Dubai, Karachi and Bangkok, leaving on a Thursday evening and walking back into the office the following Wednesday morning.  I was gone five days total; five fantastic, frivolous, fascinating days.  That was a crazy trip.  Jamaica was just a bit of sunshine to wash away the blues of a spring too slow in arriving.

                

I arrived at the airport shortly before the flight, changed my seat to a window near the front, sauntered through security, grabbed a latte from Starbucks, and boarded my WestJet 737 bound for Montego Bay.

Shortly before takeoff a man stopped at my row and took the aisle seat.  We were three to a row and the flight was full, however we were lucky to have the middle seat vacant.  Sitting down, the man immediately introduced himself.  I noticed he had no book or headphones with him, and from the way he started chatting with the flight attendant I just knew I was in for some interesting stories in the hours to come.

                

Life and travel have taught me again and again, pounded the point into my head perhaps, that everyone is the main character in their own story and each story is interesting in its own way.  I’ve sat next to CEOs and VPs, students dreaming of changing the world, HR managers with stories about the crazies they interviewed, and recruiters who asked for my business card.  Because of this, while some people might avoid plane chat, I smiled and jumped right in. 

                

This time I was meeting Joe, who had the honor of having helped Stompin’ Tom Connors write his famous song “Big Joe Mufferaw”.  It was when he was sixteen, and the success of an evening spent writing had obviously shaped the subsequent years of his life.  Today he lived in Toronto, renting apartments in the west end while enjoying the occasional vacation in Jamaica. 

                

The descent into Montego Bay was spectacular, the plane seeming to float over crystal clear waters and white sand beaches.  As I stepped out into the sunshine, the warmth surrounded me like a blanket, welcoming me from Toronto and promising that the bad weather hadn’t been quick enough to follow me down.  I immediately wanted to strip off my long sleeved shirt, run for the waves and throw myself into the surf.  Security suggested this would be inadvisable before customs. 

                

I spent twenty five hours in Jamaica that weekend.  My total transit time was about seven hours each way (14 hours total).  If I followed the advice of that post I had read so long ago, I wouldn’t have gone.  But life changes us, and this weekend was worth it for me in those first moments of sunshine. 

                

Why?

Because when I think about it, it’s the things I didn’t do that I most often regret.  And because I really enjoyed walking into work on Monday morning with a smug expression and just a bit of a sunburn.

Hotel recommendation: Coyaba Beach Resort & Spa

I was really impressed by this little resort.  Fifty rooms total, and very personalized service.  The staff were phenomenal from the moment I stepped out of the taxi, whisking my bag away while offering a drink and a cool towel, taking me to my room which had obviously been upgraded, and patiently pointing out features of the resort.

The room had two beds and the patio doors opened onto the beachfront.  On a corner table a bottle of water and a loaf of banana bread were arranged in a basket, a bright pink flower tucked between them.  Outside, I was within steps of the crystal clear Jamaican waters.

The resort probably had twenty guests the night I stayed, adding an intimate flair to the experience.  I sat for hours in the sunshine, reading a book as the wind caressed my cheek in a soft welcome to this beautiful island.  I thought of Big Joe and where he might be, I thought of life and if I was really happy with where I was, and I smirked when I thought of the snow that would be falling in Toronto this weekend while I was away.

No regrets.

Website: http://www.coyabaresortjamaica.com/

Rate: $170 CAD per night through Expedia

Special inclusions: Fresh banana bread on arrival and high tea in the afternoons

Location: 10 minutes by car from Montego Bay Airport (MBJ)

Awesome Search Engine: Kayak Explore

Though I use kayak.com all the time to check flight prices, I only recently came across Kayak Explore.  This is a fantastic option when you're itching to fly, but can't quite decide where. 

To use it, choose the city you want to depart from, the month you'd like to depart in, your budget, and the flight time.  It then gives you the cheapest flights available that meet that criteria. 

There are several websites out there that offer a similar idea, but the interface kayak uses is absolutely intuitive and links back to their main search engine.  The inability to choose specific dates or a specific network to fly on (for example, Star Alliance) are limitations, but this is otherwise a fantastic and fun option to help pick where to go on that next frivilous (or serious) trip!

Off the beaten track in… the Caribbean?

It was fall, and looking out the window I was sure I could see winter on the horizon.  I’m of the opinion that Canada should be abandoned during the winter, though obviously work makes that somewhat difficult.  I did have a three day weekend coming up though and decided to fly south.

Not wanting to just visit another resort, I instead aimed to see if it was possible to get off the beaten track in the Caribbean.  Essentially, I wanted to find the island tourism had somehow missed, and after some hunting I found Dominica.

Dominica is a small island nation located in the West Indies.  It has a population of approximately 70,000, and the dubious honour of being named by Christopher Columbus after the day of the week on which he first saw it (Sunday, in Latin Dominica).

Touted as an island paradise, it was covered in lush greenery and boasted more than a few dirt roads.  As my Liat flight cruised low over hills unspoilt by civilization, I knew I had found somewhere special.

 There are several barriers which have helped Dominica remain relatively unknown to most Caribbean vacationers.  Amongst them: 

·         It isn’t built up like many Caribbean islands and won’t offer a luxurious escape.

·         The runways are short so larger jets can’t land here.  Liat operates regular flights, however the added trouble and travel time act as a deterrent for many travellers seeking a quick and relaxing escape.

·         The beaches are black sand which tends to be less of a draw than the fine white sands of neighboring islands. 

None of these points are drawbacks from my perspective. 

Renting a car and driver for the day was easy and inexpensive (about $40USD for 5 hours).  We roamed over hills covered with palm tree and banana plantations, through small villages where children played in the streets, and past unoccupied beaches where the only sounds were the wind and the dull roar of white-capped waves crashing into the sand.  Everywhere I looked it was stunning. 

A highlight was a small rum bar we stopped at.  It was perched at the edge of the beach and made up of a single room filled with four rickety wooden stools.  I’m pretty sure it was still morning, and I’m pretty sure I was drinking moonshine, but it was some of the best rum I’d ever tasted.  The options were endless, with jar upon jar filled not just with rum but with spices and herbs.  I had one that was flavored with cinnamon, another with anise, and eyed a third that I was almost certain had marijuana leaves floating in it.  Sitting there drinking, I chatted with a man who was out to take the Guinness World Record for longest beard.  He said he had a few more years to go, but already his beard was wrapped several times around his neck.

My last post was a link to the 25 least visited countries in the world.  Dominica is number 25, receiving only 73,000 tourists a year.  It’s stunning to think just how close it is to North America, and yet how unspoilt it remains by development.  Having been there, it’s easy to feel like you’re one of the few rather than one of the many.  That impression adds to the charm, and while I’d recommend a visit, I hope too that this little corner of the world remains forgotten for a while longer.

Great Write-Up: The 25 Least Visited Countries in the World

Came across a fantastically written piece by Gunnar Garfors this morning on some rarely explored corners of the planet.  Definitely looking forward to visiting these in the coming few years.  In fact, I've already been to three and am heading to my fourth next week!

Check it out!

Papers, please?

I was longing for a hot shower and a good dose of greasy Canadian take-out as I walked the long but familiar hallways of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. Cliché, I know, but I was glad to be home. The last week had been an epic adventure, but the whirlwind pace and long transit was catching up fast. Though I can truly say I love travelling the remote wilds of Africa, the comforts of home had acquired a certain shine.  My friend Mo, just then trailed at my heels, appeared to silently agree.

We hit customs with the rest of the plane, turning down the resident’s line and patiently waiting our turn.  We bantered back and forth wearily, mostly about what our dinner options were.  It was trivial, but it kept the wait from becoming a torturous exercise in patience. 

“Let’s go up together,” I said as we neared the front.  “If they pull us over, it will be because we were in the middle of war-torn Africa.  It would be a hassle if one of us gets pulled and not the other.”

He shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less about anything that didn’t involve a bed. I knew he normally would have tried to get a smile out of the customs officers, perhaps even a laugh, but the long flight and the stomach bug he had picked up had knocked the oomph out of him. I took his passport and customs card, going up to the counter when it came free. 

Though I was trying to hide it, I was exhausted as well.  Nonetheless, I plastered a smile on my face as I slide our collection of passports and paperwork onto the desktop.

“Hello.”

“One passport and one form per agent,” the customs officer said coldly, hardly glancing up.

Rude asshole. I blinked, paused, then licked my lips to keep from growling what I thought of him. I reached out to remove Mo’s paperwork, but just as I was about to lay hands on it the officer yanked it towards himself, huffing.

“I’ll make an exception.  Just. This. Once."  It sounded like a movie line delivered by a B grade actor.  I even imagined I could see the agent's condescension encased around him like a second Perspex shield.

I felt Mo stiffen behind me, standing taller and more alert.  He wouldn’t interrupt, but he knew the opening of a verbal sparring match when he heard one. 

I took a deep breath, firmly reminding myself not to react.  Customs guards have too much power.  I’ve seen them use it arbitrarily far too often.  In the past I’ve been kept waiting just long enough to miss my flight, have watched a grown man bring a lone teenage girl to tears because her grandmother wasn’t picking up the phone, and looked the other way when a wheelchair-bound woman was denied entry because her visa had a crease in the corner.

My smile faded as I waited for his questions.

“Where are you coming from?”

I might have said London at this point.  We had transited there overnight and before that we’d been in Cairo for twelve hours.  That would have been easy though. The agent was being a jerk and I was itching to challenge him on it.

“Eritrea,” I answered.

The officer sighed, his eyes shifting slowly from his computer screen to my face.  “Not the city, the country,” he said slowly, as though I was ignorant not only of his question but of the whole re-entry process.

I wasn’t ignorant, but I was stunned.  You would think a job requirement of a customs guard would be to know the names of each of the countries around the world.  Obviously not.

“Eritrea,” I repeated flatly.  

He scowled, deciding finally to give me his undivided attention.

I considered snidely educating him on behalf of my beautiful and fascinating Eritrea. 

“It’s a small country on the horn of Africa, across from Yemen and bordering Djibouti, Sudan and Ethiopia,  at war with each of those three countries, by the way.  The capital is Asmara, and it has some of the best espresso on the continent thanks to once having been an Italian colony.  It’s one of the 197 countries recognized by the United Nations, and as a Canadian customs guard I would think you’d know that.”

As satisfying as it would have been to spit that out, teaching geography isn’t my job and I wasn't looking for an appointment with the back room.

“It’s a small country in Africa,” I said, mimicking a shade of the condescending tone he had used with me. I didn’t break eye contact with him and waited for whatever came next.

“The purpose of your trip?” 

“Vacation,” I said shortly.  I was enjoying my one word answers.  Ask me something hard, asshole.

Like a chess player realizing they cannot possibly win, he broke eye contact.  I was satisfied to see him looking somewhat chastened. 

I watched critically as he stamped our paperwork and handed it to me.  

He didn’t welcome us back to Canada, nor did he meet my gaze again. 

Canadian customs isn’t all bad.  I’ve had some fantastic experiences and spoken with some really fascinating officers, but that isn't the norm.  Is it unreasonable to expect a smile, a touch of courtesy, and a bit of knowledge about places beyond our own borders?  Customs officers are our first point of contact for foreigners who have often traveled immense distances and spent thousands of dollars to see a country I’m proud of.  I would hope that we would make an effort to make those first moments after a long, tiring journey, good ones. 

But more than that, I would really like to feel I’m welcome when I’m walking back across my own doormat. 

Where to begin...

Stand in front of the departures board at Frankfurt International Airport and be inspired.

From here, the world is possible.  Within hours you could be on a flight to any corner of the globe, perhaps if you're lucky with a glass of French champagne in your hand.  Some of the places are worth visiting for their names alone, others you would be challenged to place on a map, but from this finite list the possibilities are endless.

Sometimes when I'm transiting FRA I'll visit that massive board, watching as the times and places flicker, mumbling the cities softly to myself like the names of past lovers who could tempt me again.  Often I'm joined by students who drop enormous red backpacks at their feet, or businessmen with their smart black rollers and briefcases.  For a moment we're all captured in this place, knowing twelve hours from now we'll be thousands of miles apart.

More than once I've passed here as that weary traveler heading home, my bag a little dusty and my curly brown hair closer to an afro than is reasonable in public. I glance at the rows of ticket counters before peering up to examine my options.  One day I know I'll abandon that homeward-bound ticket.  I'll choose a place on this board, one I've never been to before, and I'll march up to the airline agent, snap my credit card down on the counter and purchase a seat.  I'll just go, because that would be the best way to start an adventure, wouldn't it?

Until then I have more organized trips planned that still manage to surprise and delight.  All the same, if you ever see a girl standing alone under that signboard looking indecisive, do me a favor and tell her to 'just do it!'.  It may not be me, but I like to think that none of us would regret making that leap.