If you're not paying attention and keep driving west out of Dundas on Highway 8, you will eventually hit Stratford.

You will know you're there because something steps in front of your car, you screech to a stop, and when you crane over the dashboard to look through the windshield, you see a family of swans. Or an actor. (If it's an actor, don't get angry. Many of them know how to sword fight.)

Most people end up in Stratford on purpose, to see plays. I only mention the not-paying-attention scenario to get across how close we are, and no turns. We've basically got the same main street interrupted by Cambridge and Kitchener and some rural stretches. And along the way the historical immigration pattern shades from Italian to German.

You can get to Stratford in an hour and a half, unless you need to refuel. Then you have to stop in New Hamburg, take a part-time job until you can afford more gas, then complete the trip.

Once in Stratford, you will discover a lovely town, with stately old homes mounting the rise from the bank of a picturesque little river. They sell swan food in the stores. Stratford isn't the ruined woman that Niagara-on-the-Lake has become. The shops are charming, small town-ish, and the stuff isn't embarrassingly over-priced.

Most distinctive of all in Stratford, Shakespeare is everywhere . The restaurants have names like Othello, and the Bard seems to float among the branches of the trees. The wind blows in iambic pentameter, and I thought I heard the very rain tap out the words "I am thy father's spirit."

My wife, Anne, and I booked a bed and breakfast, and our master plan was to make picnics and wait in line for half-price rush tickets. The plan worked. Short waits, good seats, no problems. Except for Brian Dennehy in Hughie/Krapp's Last Tape, two one-act plays separated by intermission, the first by Eugene O'Neill, the second by Samuel Beckett. It's sold-out all season.

The Dennehy reviews came out. They were scintillating. We had already been to Cabaret and were stoked for more. So we got up early one morning, made a picnic and stood in line for the box office to open. There were no cancellations. We left, crestfallen, but got put on a waiting list. In an hour, upon our return, world of wonders, we scored last-minute house tickets. Second row seats, no less, in the intimate Studio Theatre.

We were so excited, there was drool in our playbill. Being excited, I did what I often do when I get excited, especially after eating a big picnic lunch in scorching heat on a day that started early, and someone dims the house lights. I fell asleep. Dennehy was electrifying, but 15 minutes into Hughie, my neck started snapping back from the weight of my eyelids.

I could scarcely believe it. Here we went to all this trouble and expense, I was in the presence of this great actor, and all my faculties were now turned over not to appreciating the performance, but to the monumental task of simply staying awake.

I resolved not to succumb, but it was like chloroform. I heard laughter at one point. I opened my eyes. My chin was planted so deeply in my sternum I thought I'd need a surgeon to lift my head. I started laughing along, too loud. Then I thought I saw Brian Dennehy look at me oddly.

I rallied to catch the end of Hughie and the beginning of Krapp's Last Tape. But then it happened again. When I came to, I whispered to Anne, "I fell asleep." She said, "I know. I heard you snoring."

I said, "What did I miss?" She said, "It's Beckett. Krapp ate a banana. Oh, and he moaned." "And Godot? Has he shown?" "Wrong play."

Now I was sure Dennehy was giving me the evil eye. I made my face into the mask of a big smile and an "attentive" look. I was tempted to give him a thumbs-up, but I didn't.

I went under one more time. An elbow jolted me awake and I asked Anne if the bomb had gone off in the bus yet. She said that was Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock in Speed. This was Krapp's Last Tape.

When the show was over I jumped to my feet and gave Dennehy such a spirited standing ovation. What a hypocrite I am. But I'm sure he was terrific.

jmahoney@thespec.com

905-526-3306