Small Town Girl Meets Big City.

I’m not sure what I was thinking accepting a college co-op location in the big city of Toronto. I knew nothing of city life, growing up in a small community two hours north. It was only a month-long stint for our final credit before graduation, and I chose a cottage magazine publisher that spoke to my rural roots. I wore a pinstriped suit, hair pulled back so neatly I must have resembled a child dressing up in her mother’s closet for a fake fashion show.

I had no idea what the working class wore, but my teacher wore suits every day and came from the advertising world, so I took my cue from her. I brought a “portfolio” to the interview which consisted of cheap photoshopped designs I had created in class. I knew nothing of the industry but spoke as if I could design their next cover.

The interviewer’s name was Randy. He clearly saw my lacking creative skills and steered me towards the media department. “Do you like sales?” He asked, and I shrugged. “I could do sales.” I nodded emphatically. I was eager to get my foot in the door, to begin my career in advertising and figured this had to be my opportunity. I was asked to begin the following Monday.

On my first day at the Magazine, I drove with my roommate to the furthest subway location outside the city limits that we could find, so that we didn’t need to worry about navigating inner-city roads. We parked at a mall and were able to board the subway without issue. We exhaled in unison as the doors slid closed, swapping a glance of fear mixed with excitement.

The correct subway route to take would have meant getting off at the Bloor / Yonge station and hopping onto a different line. We both knew that was too much for our small-town skill level. Instead, we gave ourselves the extra time to do the entire main Yonge line so we needn’t get off until our actual stops.

Katie was the first to get off, and I had a panicked moment as she stood and gave a slight wave. “Don’t forget we’ll meet at the mall at 5:30 pm. Right by the car in the parking lot.” We exchanged our “good lucks” and nervous smiles. Hers as she walked into a crowd of people, and mine as the doors closed and I realized for the first time in my life I was alone in the big city. My eyes never left the blinking subway locator. I silently repeated to myself after each stop “three more. Two more. One more. This is it.” I took a deep breath and emerged into the big world on my own.

I found the magazine office easier than I thought I would. I had remembered from my interview (that my Mom had taken me to the previous week) that it was on the quiet street tucked behind the station, and resembled a home. I was too early. The building wasn’t open yet. In that moment I had to decide if I was brave enough to venture somewhere to grab a coffee, or if I would appear too eager by sitting on the front steps for the first employee to notice me. I chose the latter, and clumsily introduced myself to the first person who walked up the steps. The man had no idea what I was doing there but let me in anyhow. “Welcome!” He said and motioned in a direction I wasn’t comfortable heading alone. I half expected this man to show me around, tell me where I’d be sitting and who I’d be working with, or at the very least sit with me in the lobby until the others arrived. But instead he ducked away to a basement and left me standing alone in the lobby feeling like I’d just broken into a house and the homeowners were about to arrive to find me there.

The morning awkwardly unfolded with my new mentor Kalia showing me her daily duties. By lunchtime, she asked if I’d like to go with her to grab a quick bite. I was thrilled; a personal guide that could show me the area so that perhaps by the end of the first week I could feel comfortable to venture out on my own, maybe even order lunch and sit alone in a restaurant, something I had never done before.

Together we walked by this beautiful church where homeless people lay on the grass with their grocery carts full of their belongings. Businessmen and women sat on park benches chatting, smoking cigarettes and eating food from the street vendors. We walked past the Much Music building where Kalia told me her husband worked. I had grown up watching that station, seeing that very backdrop of the logo on the building while V.J’s interviewed people. Suddenly I was standing in that very spot and had to remind myself to play it cool. Kalia led me to an internal market with tons of meal options. She motioned to follow her through a revolving door. I had never been through a circular door before, and I hesitated, wondering if we were supposed to share a space, or use my own after her. There wasn’t time to decide so I hopped in with her, too closely, and she laughed and said “oh, ok!”

My face reddened.

Kalia was Greek and showed me all these international food options, the likes of which I had never heard of. I was worried my stomach would hurt trying something new, and was also on a shoestring college student’s budget, so I ordered a croissant and a coffee. “That’s all you’re getting?” Kalia asked, confused. I nodded. “I don’t have a big appetite.” I lied. In truth my nerves from all this newness wouldn’t allow me to swallow down anything other than bread and coffee anyhow.

The afternoon sailed by, and after a long subway ride back to the mall, I was able to find Katie’s white Pontiac sunfire without incident. I turned my face towards the setting sun. I exhaled, I made it.

The month of working (for free) at the magazine was getting easier. I was able to navigate my way to lunch spots around the building, and Katie and I had figured out how to change routes at the Bloor / Yonge line which saved us time in the morning. One morning in our third week, her car broke down leaving us without a way to get to our co-op jobs. We both called in explaining our situations. With no way to get to the city, I spent that day instead as a guinea pig for another one of our roommates who was currently in hair school.

It turned out Katie’s car would need a few days in the shop, so by dinnertime that evening we had decided we would take the bus to the terminal at the mall. We calculated the time it would take to get us to our co-op jobs in time, and had our roommate drop us to the bus depot the following morning at 6:00 am. It felt like such a relief to finally be sitting on the subway that morning, but by the time I reached the office the only thing anyone said was “looks like you got your hair done…” Sideways glances ensued. Later that day I overheard one of the sales guys on the internal phone with who I assume was Randy saying “what was she supposed to do? Did you know she took the bus here today, with her own money to work for free?” It felt good in that moment to have someone on my side. I was working for free and couldn’t afford to take the bus more than one day that week. I prayed that Katie’s car would be ready for the next day and inwardly cursed myself for allowing my roommate to dye my hair, even if it was innocent. It felt shameful.

At the end of the month, I was called into my exit interview. Randy and Kalia invited me to the back deck of the house-turned-business-office and offered me ice cream while they gave me my review. After everything I had been through that month to prove myself in adulthood, this felt like both a slap in the face and a celebration all rolled into one. Randy smiled encouragingly at me when mentioning that I wasn’t excellent, but I was good. He said most employees weren’t excellent, so not to take offense to that. It gave me room to improve, were his words. I shrugged and nodded. I was hoping they would offer me a position, but instead they gave me a business card of someone in the media department of an Ad Agency uptown that was looking for a Media Assistant. Randy said he put a good word in for me, but I couldn’t help but think it was likely the sales guy who had my back over the bus incident. I left that day feeling as though I had climbed a mountain. I had grown up in the span of one month and felt ready to take on this new opportunity. I emailed the Media Director and was given a date for a job interview within a few days. I was thrilled.

But, I now needed to learn how to navigate uptown Toronto. Another beast entirely.

Katie was lucky to also score an interview at an Advertising Agency on Yonge street. At the time we didn’t realize how long Yonge street was, even though we had spent an entire month riding the Yonge subway line. You would’ve thought something would have clicked for us, but it didn’t.

When Katie said she had an interview at a place on Yonge street, naturally we got off at the Yonge street subway exit. “It must be north of here” Katie said and we began our walk, high heels clicking on the sidewalk along with all the other commuters on the street. We watched the building numbers as we took big strides, but something didn’t seem right. We had been walking for a good twenty minutes, block after block, where was this building? We considered getting back on the subway, but that thought frightened us both. Now we had completely lost our surroundings, the only certain thing was that her interview was on this street, but further north. Onward we continued for blocks, until finally finding it; covered in sweat, make-up running down our faces. We learned on the way home the correct subway exit was just up the block from her interview, not called Yonge street exit after all.

My interview was the following day, and Katie came with me for moral support just as I had done for her. We didn’t want to make the same mistake we had made the previous day. When we exited the subway at the Eglinton station, I repeated the address out loud “90 Eglinton Ave. West.” We stood on the corner looking for buildings with numbers. I began to panic, I didn’t want to be late. I decided hailing a cab would be the best option. An orange and mint green taxi instantly pulled over for us at the Yonge and Eglinton intersection.

“Where to ladies?” The cab driver asked.

“90 Eglinton West.” I said confidently.

He looked back at me, then to the front again. “nine zero?” He asked. The meter read $5.00 as the starting rate. I nodded. He shrugged and drove two building-lengths to the west. The meter still read $5.00.

“This is it.” He said.

My eyes widened. My face felt hot.

I threw $10.00 in his direction and didn’t look back. What a diva, he must have thought.