The Adventure Begins

Sweating profusely in my Canucks jersey which I brought along deliberately so I could wear it off the plane I was grateful to see that my backpack was (for once) among the first pieces of luggage to gently make its turn around the baggage carousel. But lo! Some bearded computer programmer snatches my backpack and it starts to disappear into the crowd. There can only be ONE Mountain Equipment Co-op backpack with a Lululemon yoga mat strapped to it and it certainly belongs to me, the chick wearing the ‘Nucks jersey.

I firmly alerted this bearded man that he was mistaken and the bag was mine. Something in my tone must have frightened him because he returned my property immediately and with a dose of enthusiasm.

Thank God again that I have fabulous relatives who whisked me off to cottage country early the next morning. A wonderful place where it’s always “beer-o’clock” and there are plenty of power tools to play with. Every night we sat out next to the water and watched the fire at first gently lick then furiously consume the planks of scrap wood we had cut. The warm lake water doesn’t buoy me up the same way the salty Pacific does so my morning swims left me panting on the shore and ever so grateful to slip into the hot tub and watch the baby ducks be schooled around by their mother.

Alas, it was not to last. It was back to the humid brick-built city simmering in the ripeness of summer. The streetcar rails trip up my feet and the subway tokens are so small I’m always afraid that I’m going to lose them. Sitting on the balcony at the family house up on Bathurst Street as a thunder storm gathers I watch the Orthodox Jews stream in and out of Tolvi Deli. The women wear long shapeless skirts and thick black stockings despite the sticky weather and the men are never seen without their skullcap in place and the strings of their prayer shawl floating behind them.

I try jogging. It feels unnatural. Cars zip past in an endless procession, smokers behold me with bemusement and the dusty garbage-laden breeze brings me no air. I give up and head for home. Merely an hour later the heavens open and Noah’s flood returns to be sucked up by the parched earth.

I get lucky and after only two days of pavement pumping and cold calling real estate agents I snag a beautiful apartment which is steps away from the school and the epicenter of downtown Toronto insanity – the Eaton’s Centre. Downstairs and next door is a deluxe ‘Poutinery’ shop which I already know will be the scene of many late night “drunchie” (drunk munchies) attacks where I try to consume the maximum number of calories in the minimum number of bites. Kitty corner to this Mecca for all things deep fried and lardy is the historic Filmore Hotel, the oldest strip club in Toronto.

According to a source back in the day the girls would give you a personal dance for only $5. And since at this time the ‘back room’ concept hadn’t been developed the girls carried around their own little dance platform and place it in front of you when you decided to be a customer. Of course the public nature of this practice meant that if any of the five guys to your right or left engaged a dancer you got to enjoy it too! My source tells me though that the standards have gone steeply down hill in the last decade and that the current ‘talent’ have more rolls than a Thanksgiving dinner. Posted underneath the hours for 'Afternoon Delight' (4-7) and the drink specials (starting at just $4) is a clever enough witticism for a strip club sign: "Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder." It make me chuckle.

“This area I got to tell you, it’s grimy, it’s rough,” warns my Greyhound delivery man. I nod sagely and thank him for the advice. Perhaps living in Vancouver has jaded me to the presence of the meth/crack-head element because I never thought the area was that bad, I’m only blocks away from Yonge Street for fudge’s sake. But as I walk into Metro to do my first grocery shop I’m given reason to pause. Next to the automatic doors leading out, only a pane of glass away from me and my produce and young man is lying on a stretcher being worked on by three EMTs. I watch as they put an IV into his limp forearm. Blood gushes from around the injection site and the blue gloved hands quickly mop it up, tossing soaked gauze onto the man’s chest as they go. A friend of the patient is sitting on a nearby bench being watched over by a heavily muscled undercover. The friend looks scrawny and has a moderate case of meth-face, the cheeks are pinched, a maple leaf tattoo graces the side of his neck and malnourishment makes his nose seem to protrude from his face giving him a weasel-like appearance. By the time I take my laden basket to the checkout they’re gone.

Toronto clearly has surprises in store for me but as I sip champagne on my fire escape and the evening light dapples the leafy canopy above me I don’t feel like worrying about it.

Welcome to my new office.