I had a nigh-perfect day today. It started with making pancakes with my hosts Lisa and Alvaro, who gave me strict guidance about how to cook my coconut ones, which, sure enough, turned out perfect-looking”¦ but not perfect-tasting. Why? Because I asked for measuring cups but then didn’t want to ask Lisa for measuring spoons, so I got the baking soda a bit wrong.
This led to a great conversation with Lisa about how trying to be too much of a polite guest can actually wind up being the thing that becomes weird and awkward, while the host would never care about the things we worry about — like asking for measuring spoons, or doing my laundry, since she offered the use of their machines this morning, which spared me having to ask (while secretly not wearing underwear because I didn’t have any more).
I continued chatting with Alvaro and Lisa while they got the kids ready for their day. I was put in charge of dressing their two-year-old, Kai, in his T-shirt and little green dungarees — which he picked out, but immediately hated once they were on, and tried to pull off as if they were a potato-sack.
They all went off to swimming lessons, and I went into town to meet my old pal James (being subject to yet another stupid Toronto Transit Commission delay that involved taking a packed replacement service bus in the heat). James and I went for a very good and reasonably priced breakfast (thank God, because my money’s all dribbling away from such a long trip, even though I’m not shopping, just buying meals and groceries — oh, and weekly Metropasses for the subway). We had a great, big talk about life and everything.
It was time to move on, but we weren’t finished chatting, so he asked if there was anywhere I wanted to go. I said, “I want to see some forgotten, lost corner of Toronto I’ve never seen before.” He said a tentative “Okay” and we headed off, wandering down the all-too-familiar gay ghetto of Church Street, where both of us thanked the stars that, both permanently taken, we don’t have to frequent anymore. Then James showed me the former hockey rink, Maple Leaf Gardens, which is now a big grocery store. From there we entered the twisting caverns of the PATH underground pedestrian system, and I received a call from my old friend and work-mate, Margaux, whom I’d planned to meet later. We agreed on the Sheraton Hotel lobby, across from City Hall, but she wouldn’t be there for half an hour.
James and I went to the hotel and spent the time wandering around (taking with us a cup of their complimentary flavoured water, me lemon, him raspberry). Up the escalators, we saw trees through the windows there, then found an open door that led out to the courtyard where they were growing.
It wasn’t a courtyard, per se, but more of a space, a garden with little waterfalls, lakes, trees, and park benches surrounded by the tall, poured concrete walls of the hotel. It was a multi-levelled, hidden little oasis in the middle of the city. I’d certainly never seen it before.
I’m falling in love with buildings from the Sixties and Seventies with a ‘grand project,’ Canadiana feel. Some old concrete buildings are blank, pointless, soul-sucking wastes of space that should be pulled down at the first opportunity, but I have such an affection for these other ones, with their odd character and their attempt at a futuristic kind of humanity which, ultimately, didn’t really work. So when you find one of these spaces (like many in the Confederation Centre in Charlottetown) it feels like you’ve found something from a discarded retro-future no one else wants — an architectural “Island of Lost Toys” — so it’s all yours. This was definitely one of those, and I’ll never forget it.
Margaux arrived, and just as we left the building the sky opened up, dropping lots of huge, wet drops, and fast. We ducked into a doorway near the twin curves of City Hall, where we watched lightning above the skyline, and the water collected so quickly that soon our feet were getting splashed. I ended up with two ‘soakers’, since I was wearing my red canvas trainers; I got to squish around in those for the rest of the day.
Then we went to a fancy tea-bar place, where I had an iced root beer float latté (we don’t get those back home!), which I gather must have been a sarsaparilla tea. The three of us chatted, and it soon turned into yet another great conversation, like all the others I’ve been having on this trip — with Craig’s (now my) relatives out West, all of whom I really took to; then my old friends Lisa and Alvaro; my amazing, dynamic teammates at work; my old pal Bruce; and Dan and Babs, the owners of the company I write for, and a couple I now count as good friends.
As much as I’m an introvert — I’ll need to hide for a week when I get home — I do love a good meeting of the minds. What great minds I know here!
When James took his leave to go to his next appointment, Margaux and I went to a movie: Woody Allen’s latest (Something Something Rome or something, which was funny and charming; I’m liking his films since his great Midnight in Paris).
Just before the film, we were talking about art, and Margaux mentioned reading a book on photography that stressed the importance of practising. That idea really struck me: I don’t have a writing practice. Yes, I write copy all week, but I don’t have a practice for fiction. How strange that I should expect to jump straight into a book again after years when I should be warming up, writing for fun, writing any and every old idea, rather than expecting to run a marathon after sitting at a desk for years!
So that was my nigh-perfect Sunday. Only one element was missing: my darling, who’s at home waiting for me. A whole ‘nother week until I see him — oh no!