Of that Ilk

My knowledge of Toronto until Monday might have been summed up in two words : Glenn Gould. The great Bach keyboard exponent lived in Toronto for most of his life, from memory in one of the suburbs built along the shores of Lake Ontario. As my tram trundled towards the lake, I looked about for the perfect accommodation for such a man, surely an apartment block all chrome and glass, with an outlook to the horizon and some sea birds wheeling in the stratosphere. But I saw nothing that really matched.



In fact Toronto is so long and flat, and is such a beautiful old Victorian city, and has such a fabulous network of trams, and is built along such a huge expanse of water, that it seems a lot like Melbourne, but without the 'edgy' under-belly. Or so I thought until I came across the numerous homeless men strewn asleep on the footpaths, right in the heart of the financial district, and often right by the kerbside or wherever one of the grates above the subway warms the air.



Their visibility was confronting. And so was this sign in Trinity Square, on the side of the little church next to Eaton Square:


How do the homeless survive in such a climate? The answer clearly is, that like the woman who froze to death in one of Chekhov's stories, they often don't.

Eaton Square itself is a massive shopping 'mall', a convergence of shopping and tourism, and where our conference is being held, and almost presents a challenge to my pre-eminent love for department stores.




There are heaps of good places to eat in and around Eaton Square, but as my VISA card is currently in a state of disarray (memo to self : A$ do NOT = CA$) I'm currently confined to gazing from without, like the little match-girl. And my hotel is but a pretty pathway away.


At Niagara Falls (yes, of course I had to go there) after our baptism on the Maid of the Mist we were given a commemorative card. The opening words were rather striking in their complete separation from the truth : "Standing at the bow, you feel the mist lightly spray your face"



In fact, rather than feeling a light spray upon our persons, we were pounded by what felt like two turbine driven front loaders. Even in our fetching Da Vinci style blue plastic hoods and capes, it was basically a full body immersion. The water crept inside everything. It wasn't quite as exciting as being dumped at Main Beach after Christmas lunch, but I still loved it. I also loved the fact that the first recorded dare-devil to successfully go over the Falls in a barrel, was a 63 year old woman, in 1903. Time to get in training.



Bu why does every tourist 'strip' look like it's been designed by Homer Simpson? And with the cacophanous soundscape to match.



By contrast the little town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, scene of the 1813 British victory over the fledgling US army, and also of Ontario's earliest government, has retained its elegant 18th century architecture right down to the colours people are allowed to paint their buildings.



I did like the far from subtle Nelsonesque statute of General Brock, gazing across the river for eternity, like a gigantic middle-finger raised straight at the losers over the border.


Peace has now formally broken out in the form of a North American Free Trade Agreement, but for the first time travelling from the US to Canada requires a passport, something only 17% of American citizens have. So now they don't visit Canada for cheap pharmaceuticals, instead the Canadians go there to buy.. well, everything. The exchange rate having reversed the status quo, even going to the US supermarket for milk can save a bundle. Buying a car will knock CA$10,000 off the price. The whole area around Nigara is a micro-climate and vast fruit-bowl. It was warm and sunny for us for the day, cold and wet in Toronto.




And now to the pointy end of my journey, the conference launched last night, in the Ontario parliament. I asked directions of a couple of people, but no-one knew, although it's a little hard to miss.



I did find my way, by following a likely group, until I came to a gathering point of others, clearly of my own ilk.