A Place To Stand, A Place To Grow...

Y'all know I'm not a "go out on Saturday night" kind of person, but the weather has been truly spectacular and we've got the Pan Am and Parapan Am Games going on in TO at the moment (aka the impetus for much new infrastructure and fun free entertainment). The fact that I couldn't find one sustainable objection to walking over to Nathan Phillips Square on a gorgeous evening, to see a free concert, put me on an interesting - and spontaneous - trajectory. Usually my husband relies on me to come up with some excuse for staying in, especially after dinner at home. But I was all: Let's get our adventure spirit on (and go to see that act you like). That act was Amon Tobin, a Brazilian electronic musician who's lived and worked practically everywhere in the world. As I understand it, he lives in Mtl. now.

At any rate, while I definitely dislike crowds and noise, I was encouraged by the set up. We arrived at the tail end of a concert by a Venezuelan pop band that was mega-cheesy in a way that totally appealed to the very happy audience. Said audience was predominantly Spanish-speaking (let's just say I never before knew what a robust Latin American community we have in Toronto) and it responded to the predominantly Spanish-speaking lead singer with much enthusiasm. The energy was lively and cheerful and strangely welcoming to a non-crowd / non-noise kind of person.

Here are a few shots of the venue and general environs:

That's Old City Hall in the background (the clock tower) and the arches denote the position of the venerable, wintertime skating rink. That TORONTO sign is surprisingly chic. Money well-spent, IMO.

Look at that gorgeous sky!!

I couldn't resist the buildings reflected in the building...

And finally, a sense of the main event:

The reason I have access to a shot of this caliber is that my husband bamboozled me into moving to the front of the stage. Have I mentioned that I don't like crowds and noise? Have I mentioned that the subwoofers were 6 feet from me, infusing me with the kind of all-encompassing bass-thud that aims to divest one of her identity, like, existentially?

Here's what happened: The Venezuelan band finished and about 2000 concert-goers made a quick departure. Scott convinced me that no one was going to be there to see his little electronic music crush. (Ahem. Doesn't it strike you, if the City schedules the musician as the last act on a Saturday evening, they expect him to bring a crowd?) I resisted but you know how that's futile and all.

Hilariously, the original crowd was replaced almost instantaneously by one that made me feel SO utterly stereotypical that I actually laughed out loud. Strollers, brightly-coloured outfits and multi-generational families were exchanged for an audience of seriously white people between the ages of 35 and 55. Extra points went to the couples wherein the woman was @45 and the man @51 (with a 15 year old daughter in tow, of which there were a statistical number). Natch, beards, tattoos, plaid clothing and rimless glasses were on overdrive and weed was de rigeur. At one point, I looked over at a short blond woman wearing the same shoes as me, who said with a smile: Is it me, or did the demographic just shift? If hell were a hipster-fest, this would have been my Huis Clos.

I love to think of myself as a vaguely unique, progressive urbanite who blogs about her interesting life (albeit with a small L). People, I'm a cardboard cutout.

My biggest fear was that I would be crushed by thousands of fans. Scott pointed out (and to his credit, he appears to have been correct) that it would take 3 minutes, max, to get out of the throng and that there were unconcerned children in our midst. How many parents, he asserted, would put children in harm's way? He then proceeded to draw my attention to the fact that we were free-concerting so TO-style that there were messages, posted regularly on a big screen, reminding attendees to hydrate due to extreme weather conditions and please not to smoke (which is against the law in public places). Note: They weren't referring to marijuana, be assured. They meant cigarettes - which are considered to be ultimately declasse around here, these days.

After 30 minutes of keeping my sanity, barely, in the wake of crazy lights / insane noise / zillions of fans, I advised Scott that I was done. We briskly made our way to University Ave. and decided which way to walk home. Dundas was the preferred route. I had a hankering for some sashimi (yeah, @11 pm) and a glass of wine. Alas, our fave place closes at 11 so we decided to walk and see what we might find.

A while (and many conversations about the potential state of my eardrums) later, we happened upon a place I'd never noticed before. We opted to stop in because of its glorious patio. I am a patio slut. Give me some good flowers and street-privacy on a warm summer evening and I'll pay practically anything for a glass of wine. Turns out we had one of our servers from another resto who had recently joined this one and we spoke about old times in the 'hood. He convinced me to order this slaw salad that isn't on the menu. I was so impressed by how he reeled off the 19 ingredients that I could scarcely say no.

Again, and on the subject of my warped self-perception: "that in-the-know, urban lady who eats the good food", I discovered the next day - and only because one of my friends advised that it's "totally famous" - that we'd been at Bent, one of Susur Lee's restaurants. If you click on the links, you'll see that it's been on the scene lo these last 3 years and I've never so much as noticed it. (I guess that's the mark of a city with stupendous food everywhere. Or perhaps, of my being very out of touch.)

Look, I like Susur Lee as much as the next person. I went to Lotus in the 90s (not that I could afford it). I've had many a Saturday brunch at Terroni on Queen West, accidentally sitting next to him and his family. You can't hit a sidewalk crack, in this town, without invoking a Susur Lee anecdote. And yet, I'm not a fan. Truth is, I don't much like Asian fusion. And I certainly don't like it enough to pay 300 bucks for it.

But while the irony flowed (like the Rioja), we managed to spend 78 bucks on a salad and two glasses of wine. Ha! (More dubious still, the place was in the dying throes of Summerlicious, a "culinary festival" wherein popular or pricey restaurants offer a prix fixe by way of enticing suburbanites to stop on in. Servers hate it. Locals hate it. The menu is the food equivalent of elevator music.)

I'm not doing a good job of recounting that this drink and snack stop was actually very pleasant because the serving was more or less over for the evening by the time we arrived, the night was perfection, we knew and liked the waiter, the patio was grand and the food was very well-prepared (if not my thing). Did I mention that the wine was excellent?

We stayed for an hour and then walked home. And that's the only time in recent memory that I've been outside till midnight - like in the world at large!

My aim is to invest in the many experiences I have at my fingertips here, because they're frankly, stupidly omnipresent. With a blue sky and warmth, Toronto is a gem - a place where you can have a conversation with a stranger (albeit a reserved one), where the open-air concerts are respectful - but badass, where the food is legendary, but down the block.

So that's my Saturday night. Thoughts or feelings? Have you checked out the Games or Panamania? Let's talk!

Hilarity

On Saturday, I went down the block to return a library book. While I was walking, I saw an open house sign at one of the new freehold town-home "complexes" that have been built not far from my home. What I mean by complex is that there are multiple units of homes that are attached and look largely the same; they span between two short blocks in either direction. They're all in this very "modern" vein. Actually, I find them verging on brutalist but then, I don't mind that look if the landscaping's good.

Before the reclamation of these blocks, for many years, a school and a church sat vacant. There was a murder in the church, which was then burned down. It was odd (to say the least) to observe the encroaching decay of a formerly religious structure, in a populous neighbourhood, which stood there, like a riot shell, abandoned. For its many dubious qualities, this isn't typical of the Toronto sensibility. We tend to just tear everything down before it burns - as long as it has architectural pedigree. And, though the area has certainly gentrified, it's always been a going concern, not the kind of place with burned out murder scenes.

At any rate, you can imagine that I wasn't overly disturbed by the influx of new housing.

I decided to check out that open house, you know, for research, because it is the first resale. So, it's big. The agent said "about 3000 square feet". I don't think so, but then I didn't add up the room sizes from the floor plan doc provided. Every floor is a long, skinny box. It's finished with high-quality materials (though I do doubt the overall quality of the construction job). I watched that thing go up, after all. It is built on a sort of hill (not that we have those in Toronto) so one has to climb up a zillion stairs, just to get to the front door. The house itself is built over 4 floors. It's more stair than anything.

The above-ground basement unit is touted as a nanny-suite or home office. It is outfitted with the plumbing for a kitchen. There are 5 bathrooms and 3 bedrooms plus den. All I can think when I see 5 bathrooms is that someone's going to have to clean 5 bathrooms. And, yeah, I do have a cleaner, so I know that's likely the route the homeowner will take. But still. That's 2 plus hours of bathroom cleaning a week?!?

The kitchen sits unceremoniously between a front and back section of a big rectangle. It looks onto chicly glassed-in stairs and, at an angle, the most horrendous backyard I've ever seen. The appliances are fancy.

The master-bath is gorgeous, in a clinical sort of way, but its wall of windows looked over the thing that this house is NEVER going to be able to transcend. The back view is of a Soviet-block style laneway replete with hideous garages, tiny patches of grass (like 8x8 ft) inset as unimaginatively as possible, cheap decking and concrete as far as the eye can see. Sure, you could langour in a tub, the size of my kid's room, but fuck - that view is beyond unsexy. Note: the view from the front of the house is better, but not awesome.

Oh, did I mention that the house is fully attached (on both sides)?

You may wonder what this post has to do with its title because I haven't said one amusing thing, so let me go there for you: The list price was 1.35M. Yeah, one million, three hundred and fifty thousand bucks. I actually told the agent that I thought her client was high on drugs.

Look, when a house on my (not-fancy) block goes on the market for 1.35, it only spells good things for me. But honestly, anyone who decides to pay that - even though it is tough to find that kind of space and 5 bathrooms in this city - is nuts. I mean, this isn't even considered to be a good school district?! (The schools are fine - but the peeps who pay that kind of money for their town home are probably looking into private... And that's a whole world away, geographically.)

It goes without saying, that reno is looking more reasonable by the day.

How You Know You Live in a Big City

I had the most bizarre experience today.

I went out to get some yarn (not the bizarre part, more on that coming up shortly) and to go to Herbs and Nutrition. While at the health food store, I observed that I was very hungry, too hungry to wait for food, so I tried to find something ready-made and healthful. It was harder than I would have thought. After some dithering, I happened upon a flat of (very locally made) vegan sprout chocolate mousse. It's produced by some hippie commune, I suspect; it delivers daily. So, just as I leaned in to pick up a container, another woman did the exact same thing. We almost smacked each other in the head.

Now, I think it's off the chain that anyone at all wants vegan sprout mousse, much less 2 women at the exact same moment (from a flat that had but 2 containers remaining). It was one of those hilariously stereotypical urban moments that you see in stupid movies about young professionals in the city. No need to come to blows, thought I, for mousse sweetened with coconut sugar. We can each have our hit.

When I looked at the ingredients, I was horrified to find that this stuff was made with broccoli. And other vegetables?!?! Wow. My comrade-in-grabbing walked away. Apparently, there was no question of her purchasing the mousse. She knew that shit. I asked after her: Um, this stuff can't possibly taste like broccoli, right?

She responded: Oh, no! It's delicious. It's the best thing I've ever eaten. The cashews give it lots of protein. The chocolate is dark and rich. The sprouts on the top (yes, there was a salad on top of the mousse) are so crunchy and green. I feel totally full and energetic when I eat it.

Did I mention that a tiny cup costs 5 dollars.

I was sold. In truth, I was too hungry to care. And very curious. I paid for the mousse and downed it on the spot. It did not taste like broccoli, mercifully. It was a beautifully neutral food, if chalky. Crunch was balanced with smoothness. Dark flavours mixed with a sweet-ish high note. I would totally buy it again. I mean, its stupid urban-price alone would keep me coming back.

I'm a stereotypical that way.

TO State of Mind

In case you're wondering, there's been a dearth of crafting here. It's been, um, stressful in these parts. I refuse to immortalize my renovation anxiety; I'd prefer to tell you, sometime in the near future, how it all played out fine in the end, smug, like those reno snobs. For right now, I urge you simply to move house the next time you want to improve your living space :-)

At any rate, S, my fitting friend, is in the midst of a very busy time in her life. I've got futons and stuff in my sewga room. Between the two of us, we haven't seen much of each other in a couple of weeks and may not for a while. I have made up a second muslin of my fitted bodice "sloper" (you know every new fitted bodice for me is likely to be its own thing, given the intriguing shape of my torso) but that's as far as it's gone to date.

I'm not feeling the sewing urge. Much like last summer, I can't find the creative zing - compulsion, should we call it? - to sew. It's too fucking beautiful outside. Too stressful having my house reconstructed around me. Too crazy at work. Too busy at weekends.

I've been finding my creativity in small ways. Knitting the sweater that looks like, well, anything other than a sweater. I'm prepared to discover I've gone all wrong on this one, but I can't really determine that till I finish one side. The fact that this thing is knit in sock wool is making it a very meditative (read: endless) experience.

No cooking to speak of. No baking. But I have been riding my M's bike to and from work and all around the city on the weekends. I've rediscovered this city in a fairly spectacular way. To wit:  Y'all know how down on Toronto I tend to be. It's dirty, it's noisy, it's cold, it's wet. Weekend urbanites co-opt and crowd my "cool, bohemian" neighbourhood; it pisses me off. (Seriously, go get your own cool neighbourhood.) We live to work in this town. Everyone's all about the work.

But I was recently blown away by a day trip I took in my own town. Scott and I cycled, mostly scenically, down to Harbourfront (in truth, a place I loathe). Got on a water taxi (10 bucks a person, peeps, including your bike) and spent the afternoon cycling the Toronto Islands and swimming at Hanlan's Point beach. In 30 minutes I was out of the city and on a vacation (Muskoka-style), swimming in water that was crystal clear and sand-bottomed for half a mile out. When we'd had enough, we went back to the city and cycled home.

That's the first time I've ever set foot in this part of Lake Ontario. When I was growing up, the lake was a polluted mess. In fact, the whole way to the island, I maintained that I would most certainly not be swimming. It's probably the clearest lake I've ever been in.

Some key details:

• Toronto Island (as we call it) is fucking gorgeous in a way that makes me proud and awed to live here. There are zillions of things to do (not that that's motivated me before, except sporadically). If you only go to the beach, this place is worth it.
• You do not need to wait like the riff raff for the ferry. Seriously. I will never take that stupid ferry again. Water taxis are to island hopping like taxis are to urban transit. Why take public transit if you don't want to? It's not like you save a boat load of money. (Hahahaha - get it?)
• Bring food and towels and sunscreen. A bike with a couple of baskets will provide all the storage you need. There are places to eat on the Island but they're either crappy, overpriced or hard to get into.
• You will never see a better view of downtown Toronto than from the Island.

I've been to so many terrific cities with amazing secrets to discover. But I've never seen anything quite like this.

I'm calling this my summer of outdoor adventurism: biking down mountains and all across town, canoeing, swimming in the city, going to visit friends up north. What I've sacrificed in crafting productivity, I seem to be making up for in lively activity.

It's a tradeoff I'm willing to make right now.

Sometimes I Love TO

Honestly, where else can you do Stoned Yoga??

Night and Day

You know I love to dis TO. It's a cool place but it's frequently ugly.

Well, here's a shot (looking west over Lake Ontario) I can't take umbrage with:

Photo courtesy of Blog TO, by EvidencE