A Toronto Weekend and the World

When Mark and I still commuted weekly to our place in Orillia we saw little of Toronto weekend life. For close to fifteen years we would leave the city after supper on Thursday evenings and return on Monday mornings. We were “imbedded,” in Orillia cottage weekend life for all those years. In some ways we carried on the same activities that dominated our Toronto lives – i.e. work. Mark was involved in the on-going Elgin Bay condo building and he maintained connections by phone and the internet with other projects he had on the go. I saw a few clients up there, most of them sent to me by a counselling organization that had contracts for short term therapy with major companies or institutions. It was during that long period too that I discovered a love of auctions, especially and in fact mainly, at Dubeau’s Auctions held on Friday evenings or on Saturday or Sunday daytimes just outside of Orillia. There I indulged myself: buying, learning about antiques and collectables, and finding venues in which to move them on to new owners. It was fun and a great learning opportunity. The kids came up often, a whole other dimension that we really enjoyed.

In those days Toronto, The Big Smoke, as our Orillia neighbours characterized it, was a place to escape on the weekends. Six or seven years ago we sold our cottage and purchased one of the condos at Elgin Bay. It was a beautiful place with open vistas of the lake from every room. As I gave up my involvement in antiques – it just became too exhausting to be constantly schlepping boxes of dishes etc – and as the kids got more involved in lives of their own, our time there became less interesting. There was also considerable wear and tear simply in the packing up and driving approximately 150 kilometres twice a week in ever increasing traffic. We rented our place and last winter sold it to our long suffering real estate agent, a fellow who had always loved the unit, and who finally convinced his wife that it was time for them to move from their constantly-requiring-up-keep home. The Orillia chapter of our lives is well and truly over. And now we live in Toronto for most of the year and in Puerto Vallarta for the winters – a significant shift in focus.

Last year we settled in the “South Annex,” the area directly south of the true Annex which is boundaried by Bloor in the south, Dupont in the north, Bathurst to the west, and, Avenue Rd. to the east. Our Major St. address was only five or six houses south of Bloor. We enjoyed that whole strip: from Christie over to Yonge. It gave us the fruit and vegetable markets, my bank, the Bloor Cinema, the Dollarama – great inexpensive source of many needed items, lots of great restaurants, the subway, ROM, the Varsity theatre, and on and on. Our new place, of just two weeks occupation is at the extreme western end of what still gets monikered the “West Annex.” The strip of Bloor from Bathurst to Christie is called “Little Korea,” because of the substantial presence of Korean shops and restaurants that line its blocks. There are other businesses along this section of Bloor, of course: Honest Ed’s famous emporium – designated for demolition at the end of 2016 to make way for the mammoth redevelopment of an entire block into a combination of affordable rental accommodation, some condos, and other businesses; a large health food store; a great used book store; and etc. At the corner of Christie and Bloor one building houses Baskin Robbins, Tim Horton’s, and a convenience store. Next to the latter is the subway and then our building.

The area west along Bloor from here is another neighbourhood altogether, much changed since I lived on Hepbourne Ave with Michael Bergot thirty years ago. As Christie St has become more “gentrified” over the decades, so has this area. On this past Saturday as Mark and I carried on our daily efforts to put our new place in order, we were aware of the constant thrum of sound coming from the Christie Pits Park opposite our building. When we went out later by car to return some things and to make new purchases at IKEA, we saw that a considerable celebration was being held there. We got back about dusk, parked our car in the underground garage, and walked over to the park to investigate. There we found a party of several thousand people covering the entire southern section of the park. Bold letters over the erected bandstand proclaimed The Ethiopian Canada Day. The music, loud and full, broadcasted the band and the voice of a lovely, full-bodied woman who sang and shook her body with great abandon to the delight of the crowd dispersed in a large semi-circle. With few exceptions this crowd was African, north African, many of them no doubt brought into Canada a few decades ago when wars created so many refugees in that area.

We walked about through the whole of the area set aside for their celebration, seeing the places where children were involved in games, the fenced off beer garden that looked from the outside like a cocktail party, the stands selling both Ethiopian and North American foods, each with its own long line of patrons, and kiosks with clothing and jewellery from the region. People were enjoying themselves, happily chatting, introductions being made. It was a wonderful event, the kind of hyphenated Canadian celebration that finds venues throughout this large, multi-faceted city. I loved it.

On Sunday morning I headed for the Y to do some kind of dedicated workout. Because we are about a 50 minute walk from there now, I decided to go by subway. When I exited at College and Yonge, however, it just felt so good to be outside that I decided instead to walk home from there. Along my route I discovered that Yonge and Bloor Sts. were blocked of traffic and were open only to pedestrians and bicycles. On Bloor in particular lots was happening. In front of the greatly expanded Royal Conservatory of Music volunteers had corralled passers-by into doing simple dance steps to music from a boom-box. At least 20 or 30 were moving in time with them as I approached the area, little kids, their parents, and older people as well. Large signs trumpeted the idea of the importance of music for body, mind, and spirit. It was a thoroughly delightful scene. Further along Bicycle Toronto people were demonstrating a new kind of bike that I think could be folded for easier storage.

At the corners of St. George and Bloor and of Bathurst and Bloor costumed Morris dancers were performing their versions of this traditional form of English dancing. Groups of eight or twelve accompanied by a variety of instruments moved in patterns about a section of the road luckily still in shade (as the day was becoming quite warm.) Each group had its own costume, instruments, and sets of movements. They were colourfully attired; many wore small bells attached to their stockings that added percussion to the music; each member of some groups held a wooden stick about two feet long which he or she would rhythmically bang against that of another as they wove and ducked about one another. It seemed a form of exercise and communal fun which had the added benefit of preparing its practitioners for war! I spoke to a member of one of the groups which was clearly awaiting its turn, asking her about the activity. A Finnish girl who lives in North Carolina, she explained to me that each year Morris dance groups in North America go on tours to different cities where they perform publically. She gave me a button emblazoned with the name and logo of her North Caroline people. She was lovely. All along the route Open Streets Toronto volunteers encouraged people, holding placards congratulating us for walking along, making Toronto a healthier city. It was a wonderful and fun event.

The further west one goes along Bloor St. from about Avenue Rd., the more diverse the crowd. On our strip of “Korea Town” that diversity is particularly in evidence. It is emblematic of the success of Toronto, of Canada in some respects, to be able to hold within its bounds people of all religions, colours, and ethnicities in an easy-going, accepting manner developed over decades of trials and errors. We found little of this diversity in Orillia, where as in so many small towns, newcomers to the country have to gradually make their way into a comfortable position in the community. I love being a part of the mix that I experience each time I walk through my neighbourhood. Even though I’m Old Country “white bread” through and through, I rejoice in my location of just one of the many beautiful colours of Toronto.

I’ve been thinking a lot in the past week especially, as have many Canadians, of the terrible struggles of the refugees pouring into Europe. I am interested in gathering a group of at least five willing to sponsor a refugee family through Lifeline Syria, an organization spearheaded at Ryerson University. I encourage all of you to think of some way to give in your own fashion to assist these people. We must be some of the most fortunate people on the face of the earth. Perhaps we can help a few others to share in our bounty.