It is hard to write a blog, especially one that is not focused on the contemporary issues of the day. It is easy to rant and rail at the foibles of politicos and government policy. It is hard to talk about the mundane and keep it interesting. Real stretch to come up with that that last though, eh?
What I try and write about are internal things like my thoughts and fears in living day to day. Sometimes the details required the setting out of experiences and hopes; but this is not intended to be a diary. True North is a blog about observations and perhaps it is a starting point for a conversation. Sometimes this requires a journey back in time. Sometimes it simply requires me making notes about what I see.
Over the past two decades I have tended to journey to Toronto, Ontario twice a year. My stays have run the gamut from hockey hotels (the places where the out of town minor league teams stay) to five star places (the kind of joint where they would masticate your food for you at a price)
Normally these sojourns would be in mid-April and late November. Sometimes it would include a Labour Day trip. Labour Day trips usually ended up involving a trip to the Ex. The Ex is an experience. It is an agricultural fair and trade show located in the middle of a sprawling urban center. It is a county fair on steroids. You can watch people milk cows and the kids can ride carney rides. (Me, I don’t do ride anymore. It involves a story about a bucket or two of beer and a tilt a whirl a few years back). As you walk through the pavilions in addition to absorbing the smell of bovine urine into your clothes you can pick up free rulers (metric of course) and post it pads that say Neighbourhood Watch.
The coolest thing at the Ex is the human cannonball. I have seen these guys on television hundreds of times and blah, blah, blah so what. However when your are standing under the maniac’s flight path and you see him hurtling about 20 feet 4.5 meters above your head you realize just how nuts those people are. I am sorry I don’t see how this guy doesn’t soil himself each time the cannon goes off. To see what I am talking about check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Az566JcRjI
But I digress. Normally I love going to T.O. The food is so wonderful. Indian food, Thai food, Jamaican food and other cuisines abound. As you wonder about on foot here are so many different things to do. This time I found some old college buildings that looked like Hogwarts. Some fancy ball was going on and there were police everywhere and limos. Ah to live that life. Just down the street a movie was being shot. Tres cool.
The city is just so livable. However this time it just didn’t work completely. It probably has to do with the fact that this is the longest time I have spent away from T.O. in years. Last April I didn’t go because of my cancer surgery. Last November it was the flu and the weak U.S. dollar. In the interim my little piece of the world a microcosm contained within the confines of Bedford Avenue, Avenue Road, Bloor Street West and Prince Arthur had changed. The fortune teller, the little Mac’s store, the Swiss Chalet, Harvey’s Burger and the Bedford Ballroom all disappeared.
The Bedford Ballroom was the place where I could go hoist a pint of Smithwicks and not be afraid to be seen by my clientele. Located at 232 Bloor St West it was an old late 1800s building populated by University of Toronto students and staff quaffing pints, shooting darts and engaging in stick. It had great tortes and carrot cake. It was pool hall for people who drank and a haven for people who wanted to be crowded into a smoky bar on a cold winter’s night. The Leafs were always on. Where it was is now a four storey deep hole that will be the base of an 18 storey tall condo.
All over Yorkville the scene is being repeated. The Pizza Hut and the little Mac’s convenience store where I bought my scratch off lottery tickets from the old Arab guy are gone too. Condos being dropped into places where neighborhoods once were sucks. The foolish thing is that the moneyed want to move to where the cool factor is. When money pores in and changes the physical attributes of the place the essence of cool is gone. I guess the lesson is don’t let a friend go too long without seeing their face.
I don’t want to linger on the comparison between my lack of ease with this change and my lack of happiness with growing old, they are different things. Like that old song goes, “Life is change, how it differs from the rocks.”
The building at the top of this is the Royal Conservatory of Music. It gives you an idea of the kind of building that once populated the area. These structures are quickly going. C'est la vie.
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