T to the O - Part Deux

I absolutely freakin' LOVE Toronto.

In most of my travels, I have a pretty solid routine that involves some wandering around, punctuated with lots of breaks to laze around my hotel room and see if there's anything else I want to bother going back out for. Not so, this time.

All day, I've just wanted to be out, not really doing much, just being in the city. I finally forced myself back, though, because I was spending too much money. I need to chill for a bit before heading out again. I could stay here forever.



I opted against going up in the CN Tower, but I did go to the entrance. This photo also includes the CBC building, which makes it possibly the most Canadian photo I could have taken. In just a few hours this afternoon, I did some shopping, considered hopping into the Much Music request booth on Queen Street, drank an Ontario craft ale, and even saw a small parade advertising the brilliance of something called Falun Dafa hold up traffic for a few minutes. This place rules.

Of course the best part was the Hockey Hall of Fame. For this atheist, it was a cathedral. I can understand why it's called Le Temple de la Renommee du Hockey in French. And yes, that's the actual ceiling in the trophy room.

The Hall of Fame isn't very big, so I went through and saw everything twice. I bought totally overpriced souvenirs. I took pictures of all kinds of nerdy things like a team Finland Olympic jersey worn by the guy that my cat is named after. I saw both the current and original Stanley Cups. Did you know that Seattle had one of the very first US hockey teams, pre-dating the NHL? Do you care? Well I do. And it was AWESOME.

I'm forcing myself to take a break and not spend any money until dinnertime, when I fully expect to find myself drinking more local beers and paying way too much for pub food. This is the financial district, after all; nothing but tourists and bankers here.

Tomorrow I'll get back in the car and head down to Niagara-on-the-Lake. No idea yet what that part of the province will hold. I'm staying in a Missassauga/Toronto airport hotel Monday, but based on how much I love TO, I can bet I'll be fighting the traffic back downtown for one last fling before I go. If I can afford it.

Man, I love it here. If only they had less a hateful hockey team. Damn Leafs. Canada's Team, my ass!

Downtown Toronto

I didn't do much yesterday, given that I was sleep-deprived enough to have gotten easily lost and confused. However, I did spend the day wandering around downtown Toronto, getting the lay of the land, and checking out what I can get to until I take the rental car back from the valet tomorrow. Based on that, I now know exactly what I want to do today. Unfortunately, the moment I plopped down in front of the TV last night, I crashed out and slept for over 12 hours. So now I'm just caffeinating and trying to run out the door with enough time to see a few things today.

Not much of note from yesterday. I walked by CBC studios and briefly considered hanging around to stalk my boyfriend George Stroumboulopoulos, or trying to create enough havoc outside that they'd make an episode of the The Fifth Estate about me. But then I remembered that getting arrested will kill my chances of moving back to this fine country, so I moved on. I do love that network.

That leads me to my other key thought so far: I miss Canada. I really, really miss Canada. Part of it is that I really prefer living in a big city to a small-time well, it's the biggest one we got around here city. I loved Vancouver, which is roughly 5x the size of Seattle, and while it's kind of the same cultural vibe, it still feels very different. Toronto is the same way: east-coast big city, Canadian style. I'm having trouble getting past the nostalgia to judge this town realistically, if I'm honest. Every time I see a Chapters or Tim Hortons, every time I turn on the TV to find CityTV or TSN, I get a little jump inside. When I lived in Vancouver, my personal life was in a shambles, but I was happy with my surroundings. Now in Seattle, it's the opposite. I guess a girl can never be happy.

My point is, I'm having a blast, even doing nothing. Just because I'm here. And now I need to go enjoy more of it.

O Canada!

Far and Away

Well, here I am in Toronto, after flying all night and driving rush hour traffic into the city on 3 hours sleep. Funny, after all the miles I've racked up this year; all the hassles; every irritation, new time zone, and night of no sleep; I still love it. I'm not jaded at all.

Ok, let's be honest. I'm jaded about stupid things like overhead compartments, security lines, and tourist traps. But I watched the sun rise this morning from 30,000 feet, and it filled me with joy. When I walked off the plane, I immediately smiled and thought, Oh Canada, I missed you! Even though I'm so exhausted that I'm barely being held together with caffeine and willpower, I'm thrilled to get out into the new and unfamiliar streets. This makes me happier than anything.

There's another good sign this trip: I've been meeting people. My old friend and former co-dependent meets lots of folks like this on work travel, and calls them single-serving friends. It's a perfect description. These are the strangers you bump into on a plane, in a hotel bar, riding the airport shuttle; you pass the time together for a while, make a brief connection, then go your separate ways.

I've been largely in hermit mode since a couple of last summer's random events knocked me down. Making temporary friends of whoever's nearby is fun, and I haven't been doing much of it lately, so this is a good sign. Sure, I still hate Seattle, and I want to make some changes, but being this social means things are looking up for me.

Now, if I can only choke down the rest of this terrible coffee and resist the urge to curl up in my giant comfy hotel bed, I'm going out to find some single-serving Canadians... and maybe see some of the city too.

The Bottom of my Charred Heart

Last weekend I reconnected with a friend I hadn't chatted with in some time, and he made the comment that he sees more of my humanity in this blog than he's ever gotten from talking to me.

It's an absolutely accurate observation. While I often describe myself as dead inside, the fact is that I'm unemotional, and self-absorbed, and don't openly share a lot of what's going on behind the curtain. I'm better in front of a crowd than I am one on one, and due to shyness as a youth, I'm also more myself in written form than live. Put it all together, and you see the most me in a format like this. While I definitely censor my content for such a wide audience, the words, emotion and thought behind it all are a lot less edited than you get in person.

If my life were a sitcom, though, that comment would've been followed by me going back to my gang of 30-something thin, white, attractive, straight friends, and asking them if I was really lacking in humanity. They would respond with awkward silence, and unconvincing assertions that I'm "a really caring person." This would send me into a bout of soul-searching, which would be resolved (in 22 minutes or less) when some big event would prove my humanity, and wrap up the whole issue with a goofy comment and a few seconds of the laugh track.

We all want to fit that mold of a good person, right? Maybe. Or maybe not. While I don't like some of the elements of my life right now, I'm 100% happy with who I am. I wouldn't want to change it. I'm good enough, smart enough, and doggonnit, people like me!

Cue the Very Special Episode...

Behind the Psychotic Flanker

I love rugby. I really do. I can't wait to find out if I get tickets in the World Cup lottery, so I can start planing my trek to the rugger craziness in New Zealand next year.

Why am I suddenly blogging poetic about the hooligan's sport? I watched Invictus the other night, and I'm so glad that Clint Eastwood made that movie and made it well, because it's my very favorite sports story. Aside from involving rugby, I love how a sport united a nation with such a horribly divided past, and that Nelson Mandela was genius enough to see that it would work. Looking at South Africa now during the FIFA coverage, the racial strife is in the past, thanks to a much better sport than soccer. But even better, Invictus was just a good movie. It was engaging and well made, but didn't take a lot of liberties for dramatic effect; it stayed true to the history, and was awesome.

But I'm not a reviewer. The point is that rugby rules. And that I always cry at sports movies. Ok, I have two points.

I'm not sure what it is about sports, but they can touch my charred heart and bring a tear to my eye faster than any holocaust drama, chick flick, or truckload of game-show winners.* Maybe it's because part of my brain belongs to a stereotypical straight guy. That same part of my brain also requires me to record every episode of The Dudesons, and (no exaggeration) made me fall off my couch from laughing at Jackass Number 2.

I cried all through a documentary about the same South African story on which Invictus is based. I shed more than a few tears watching Wayne Gretzky do a final skate around the ice after his last game. When my brother's high school football team went undefeated in the regular season? Not a dry eye on my face. Despite not being much of a baseball fan and finding Field of Dreams long, boring, and generally stupid, I still got choked up during the ghost father and son game of catch at the end.

I think I'm off the point again. In conclusion, rugby rules, and sports conjure up my otherwise dead emotions, especially in movie form.

Except for The Wrestler. Maybe because pro wrestling isn't a sport. No, I remember, it was because that movie was terrible. Now back to my weeping; wonder if Press Your Luck is on...


*Possibly my girliest feature is that I had to stop watching The Price is Right several years ago, because I burst into tears every time somebody won. I was getting too dehydrated and emotionally wrecked every day to go on viewing the show. Besides, I don't like Drew Carey.

The Last Exit

The subject of death has been popping up a lot lately. Good or bad, it's on my mind for several reasons.

Last August, a close friend of mine died. He was very ill and many miles away for his final days, so the last times I remember him being around and having fun were Pride weekend and 4th of July. He was the first member of my chosen family that I've lost, and I think this time of year will always bring him to mind.

Even worse, a spambot wormed into his old e-mail account a few weeks ago. It's unsettling to receive advertisements from your friend's Yahoo address nearly a year after he went to the grave.

In the midst of all this, a book called The Deathday Letter came out, and I read it immediately. I discovered it because it was written by my Gay Husband's brother (making him my gay-brother-in-law? brother-in-gay? erm, no, let's just skip the title). I don't do reviews, and I'd just sound biased anyway, but I liked it, and you should buy it. In a funny and meaningful way, it deals with the age-old question of What would you do if you knew you had 24 hours to live?

I hate that question, because I don't live in Shaun Hutchinson's fictional world where you get advance notice of your impending death. I'd only ever know I was on my life's last day if I was so fatally ill that I wouldn't have the strength to go sit on the beach, or throw a last hurrah at Wrigley Field. In fact, I bet I won't even have 24 seconds of warning, forget 24 hours.

So lately, with death on my mind, I've been looking at the question differently: If the last 24 hours I just lived were my very last 24 hours, would I be okay with that?

The answer varies. Yesterday, I'd probably say yes. The day before? Not so much. The lesson I'm learning is that if I say no for most of the days of my life, then I'm not doing it right.

Ask yourself the same question every night before bed. It's illuminating, I can assure you.

The Open Road

I just got home and poured a glass of wine, after being away from Seattle for a total of 28.5 hours and 566 miles, and I'm in my best spirits since I boarded the plane to leave Copenhagen. I love me a road trip.

Even though I constantly struggle to understand how my relatives and I all sprang from the same gene pool, I agreed (translation: was coerced and bribed) to go to a family reunion this weekend. That involved driving down to Vancouver, Washington, last night, then continuing another hour South to Woodburn, Oregon, this morning.

After spending about 3 hours making small talk with relatives whose names I can barely remember, and eating various "salads" containing mayonnaise, I set back out on the highway, headed for home. But by the time I hit Portland, I realized something: it was a beautiful day out, I was cranky, and I really didn't want to come back to Seattle.

I thought to myself, I have about 6 hours of remaining daylight, and a full tank of gas... well, let's see what's shakin' in the Gorge!

I got on Hwy 14 eastbound (also known as The Washington Side), which is a narrow winding road with various low speed limits, just because it's pretty. It was a completely arbitrary decision, and I really had no destination. After an hour or two, I stopped in Bingen, and it occurred to me that I had to either turn back or continue east and zig-zag my way back up across Central Washington. I chose the former, crossed the Hood River bridge, headed back west on I-84 (The Oregon Side, because it's a much faster large highway), and rejoined my original path only a few miles from where I had left it.

And now I'm happy. Extremely happy. All I did for most of my day was drive, sing along to various CDs, and look at scenery. On the way east, I stopped off at Beacon Rock State Park to stretch my legs and use the public bathroom; on the way back, it was Multnomah Falls. That was enough.

I really like to drive, and to get away from the usual sights, especially when there's little traffic and the route is beautiful. It's even better when it happens on a whim. Today had all of these elements. I need to do it more often.