Dinner is served with a generous side of anxiety

Gỏi cuốn or summer rolls by Yuchinkay. CC BY 2.0 Generic.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

"You'll have to tell me how this works. I haven't eaten in a restaurant since March." 

 

Neither had I. 

Today Cairo and I went to a favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Hung on Spadina Avenue at St. Andrew Street in Chinatown, for a late lunch/early dinner. Come to think of it, this is the first place we dined together in Toronto when we started dating more than seven years ago this summer.

Since shelter-in-place became the norm here in mid-March, I've done takeout from a Japanese restaurant and a Persian restaurant near where I live, but that, Tim Horton's, and Mary Brown's Fried Chicken, is about as adventurous as I've gotten in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. In defense of both of us, patio dining just reopened in Toronto in late June, but indoor dining only started up again in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA) on July 31.

 

First things first: 

• We had to wear masks, except when eating. Even when I went to the washroom, even when we paid the bill, we wore masks.
• We also had to provide our names and telephone numbers in case contact tracing was needed. (We now also have an app in Ontario to help with this as well.)
• All the silverware (in this case, chopsticks, soup spoons, napkins, etc.) came in individual plastic bags, which we opened ourselves.
• Tables were far apart and some were marked with a bright red 'X' so that no one was seated too close to others.

 But that didn't really matter because we were maybe two out of four or five diners in the restaurant. We were easily outnumbered by the staff and the owners.

 

Heretofore, this has been a very busy Vietnamese resto, in the heart of Toronto's main Chinatown. (There are a couple of others.) Maybe we went at an unpopular time or maybe it was just a nice summer day and everybody was at the beach or the cottage, but overall, Chinatown was more lowkey than you would expect on a Saturday afternoon in August.

 

The food was great, as always, maybe even better in some ways than usual but that could in part be down to the fact that we hadn't eaten there in so long. We even peeked into some shops along Spadina, which seemed to be doing a fairly brisk business, despite the pandemic.

 

But I keep thinking about that restaurants, all the restaurants, and how any of them have survived this lockdown. You really have to wonder how most of them, any of them, have held on for this long.

 

So maybe this will make me get out and about a little more, at least once a week, at least for takeout, to put some money back in the economy, other than a steady stream of Amazon and iTunes purchases. I confess that even as a die-hard introvert, I feel somewhat stir crazy at this point, ready for company, some activity, new sights and sounds, and definitely something other than my own cooking when I can be bothered to cook at all.  I can only imagine how the extroverts among us are doing. 

 

Stage 3 of reopening, where we are currently in the GTA, still feels a little raw, a little chancy, a little brutal even. There seem to be more homeless people on the street, in my own neighborhood and in Chinatown. We're not even close to normal, but perhaps today was one small step toward normalcy. Hopefully so. 

 

And then this evening we watched the news and learned that the province is back up to having more than one hundred new COVID-19 cases reported per day, a number not seen since early summer. Our infection rate is small stuff compared to what's going on in the States and other parts of the world, but that and the fact that the U.S.-Canada border is closed to travel for the foreseeable future are signs that the pandemic isn't done messing with us just yet.

 

Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Streetcar Stories: Hot fuss in Hogtown

"Flexity Outlook" on Spadina Avenue by Booledozer. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

[Author's note: This text was written while riding the 510 Spadina streetcar in Toronto on June 28, 2019.]

There's a group of elderly New Yorkers on my streetcar right now, two male-female couples easily in their 70s. Footloose and fancy-free in America's hat: Canada.

That accent is a dead giveaway. But who am I kidding? At this point in life, everyone living between Philadelphia and Boston sounds the same to me. I've never had a good ear for the nuances of Yankee accents; it's even worse now that I live in Canada.

One of the older gentleman is wearing a Killers t-shirt, aka The Killers, the contemporary rock group from Nevada.

Or so I'm assuming. He could just be advertising his default approach to problem-solving.

Killer is also the crankiest, snarliest member of the group.

Partner: "Have a seat. You should sit down before you fall."

Killer: " I don't wanna sit down! I wanna go to Chinatown!"

Killer groused for a while longer until a woman riding on the car told him that Chinatown is a way's off and that he should have a seat and relax (as if!), that she'll let him know where the stop is.

But sit down he did and stay mostly quiet. But then his fellow travelers started in.

"Is this Chinatown?"

"Is it this stop?"

Announcer: "This is Queen Street. The next stop is Sullivan Street."

"Is this Dundas?"

"Where is Chinatown?!"

Finally the lady who helped earlier told them to exit early and walk up the street.

"Which way is up the street?"

🤦🏻‍♂️

So lessons learned:

• Canadians are nice, but only up to a point. I think the Canadian woman offering assistance finally just gave up on their sad-sackcloth and ashes routine and told them to exit early. And I can't say that I blame her.
• Americans are less nice - at least this American is. I would have left the car much earlier and prayed they ended up murdered moments later by disgruntled former cast members of Canada's answer to the soap opera (smh!), Degrassi Junior High.
• Toxic New Yorkers are the world's worst ambassadors. And if you need further proof, take a gander the Baby-in-Chief in Japan this week, who has managed to sell us out to the Russians, the North Koreans, the Chinese, and the Saudis. Winning! So much winning!
• Toxic New Yorkers are why we should very carefully select our next president--unless we like being yelled at by confused, irritable, clueless, nasty-tempered, and perpetually aggrieved seniors on a non-stop basis.

And looking at the 2016 election process and results, whether it's Bernie or Babyshambles, apparently many of us do.

Boys with Luv and BBQ sauce

Posted on BlogTO, 30 April 2019

This just in: K-Pop boy band BTS spotted dining at Korean restaurant in Toronto.

Next up: Justin Bieber, Shawn Mendes, and Johnny Orlando seen drinking double-doubles and slamming maple glazed at a Tim Horton's in Seoul.

I have a difficult time taking BTS and all the other K-Pop stars seriously (Blackpink?). But I gotta hand it to them--it's no mean feat to be scoring top ten albums and singles on the North American charts while singing in Korean.

Bravo. Kudos. Gangnam style!

It's the neighbourhoods!

By Wladyslaw, Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 3.0

Somedays I imagine that at the beginning of winter, there was someone on duty at the City of Toronto Department of Public Works (or whatever we call it in Canada) who suddenly thought, "Heavens to Wayne Gretzky! We're dangerously low on the number of screaming, aggressive drunks in circulation! I better order more from Supply stat!"

Meanwhile, at Toronto Transit Commission headquarters, a similar scenario played out. "I swear on the name of Rocket Richard! We are almost out of screaming, aggressive drunks! I sure hope Amazon.ca can ship some overnight!"

And so now here we are, with too many screaming, aggressive drunks in circulation and fresh out of 30-day return options.

Stairway to Hockeytown

"Batman riding the escalator? Sure" by GabboT
CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

On escalators and stairs in Toronto, there should be 5 options:

1. Walk on the left.
   
2. Stand on the right.
   
3. I have a hockey stick and can't control it.
   
4. I don't know where I'm going but I'm going to move really slowly and block your path; then, when I see that my destination is straight ahead, I'm going to run like a bat out of hell to catch it, your safety and survival be damned.
   
5. Like, I'm texting. So deal.

Meanwhile in Canada, people are getting high the natural way

Nabbed from the CBC News website; retrieved 26 April 2017;
no copyright claimed

We're getting high in Canada, even before they've legalized marijuana! (Coming soon to a stoner's backyard in early 2018.)

When in Ancient Greece . . .

"The Statue of Socrates at the
Academy of Athens. Work of
Leonidas Drosis (d. 1880)"
by C. Messier, 7 February 2016.
CC BY-SA 4.0.

Hipster ghetto superstars, that is what we are.

If beard length and fullness coupled with a preponderance of ethnically vague, sloppily stitched boho clothing were signs of wisdom and knowledge, my Toronto neighborhood would be known as Little Ancient Greece.

And oddly enough, it's on the East Side, well south of Cabbagetown, even south of Cabbagetown South. Just imagine if we were in the epicenter of Toronto hipsterdom (generally West Side, from what I can tell). We'd be known as Little Genesis/Big Bang/Creation Story Heights.

Culture shock

They are everywhere. Beards. Man buns. "Sometime Samurai" hairstyles. Believing scooters and skateboards are viable means of transportation. Making ironic wardrobe choices that are still somehow au courant and stylish.

Welcome to Toronto. Hipster paradise.

If I were more invasive and more of a jerk, I'd take photos of these hipsters in their (un)natural element. And I may do so yet.

But suffice it to say, they are legion, they walk among us, and they're not going anywhere until they uncover the next trend, they turn 35 and really need to get serious about gainful employment, or they're all mowed down on the street (by accident) for riding their skateboards and scooters in traffic.

(Trust me. I've seen it happen.)

My most recent favorite hipster sighting was on the number 1 TTC subway (sorry, I don't know the names of the lines just yet) between Museum and Union Station, seen maybe this past Thursday or Friday. He was a very handsome guy--underneath all the hair and the consciously grungy clothing, that is. A dark lumberjack beard, close-cropped hair on the side with a shock of a dark 'do that he was meticulous about keeping in place, swept up and over to the right side.

I saw him breathe in, his strong chest swell underneath his t-shirt, revealing a hint of fur. Be still my heart (and everything else), I thought.

But then I thought, too, can you imagine kissing that? Making love to that? All that beard and all that hair. That's what the entire encounter would be about: Passion and pompadours. He'd no doubt be too narcissistic to make sex enjoyable for anyone but himself.

Maybe 20 years ago but more likely 30 years ago, I would have gone head over heels, especially if I thought there was the slightest glimmer of interest from him--although I am sure it would have gone nowhere, the thrill of the chase being his turn-on and my turn-off, leaving me lonelier and sick in my gut.

Thank goodness I've moved on and matured in many, many ways. Toronto makes me realize that in a good way. I like it here--in spite/because of the hipsters and because/in spite of who I am now.

* * *

Editor's note: You can also view a version of this with sound via YouTube:

Yonge at heart

Route of Heroes? More like Rout of Consumers.

Yonge and Bloor, Toronto's highfalutin' economic epicenter (or so it seems to me). And who am I to say no? Although plenty said no to me: I struck out at J. Crew, Zara, Roots, Banana Republic, and especially Holt Renfrew's men's store, which featured some gorgeous designer clothing, accompanied by some stuff better left on the Paris runway--or perhaps I mean the Paris runaway. HR for Men: Where Canada's Aspirational Eurotrash Come to Shop.

But I mined haberdasher gold at The Bay. Which probably says more about my sense of style (and waistline) these days than I care to admit.  Nevertheless, they were beautiful shirts (and, OK, a tie, too), sort of a plum hue, which seems to be my colour de l'année.

And speaking of aspirational Eurotrash, have you met me lately?


Still very new to Canada, I'm in between paychecks, having finished one job and now starting another within the last month. Nevertheless, I didn't go the Route of Credit because I don't yet have a Canadian credit card and am trying to give my American ones a bit of a breather after the move.

So I did the, ahem, practical thing: I used my new Canadian debit card.

Now come on, I needed to know it worked. Really, I owed it to the bank and the hiccuping Canadian economy.

And if I don't watch out, I really will owe it to the bank. Really, money doesn't grow on trees, not even in Canada.

Bienvenue au Canada

I still feel like I should live in Montréal--somehow it speaks a lot to my spirit, my inner life, even if my French is paltry and pitiful at the moment--but I'm enjoying being happy up here in Toronto.

I highly recommend it. Immigration FTW!