A Break from The Bubble

Following Sunday afternoon’s disappointment in not landing rush tickets for Half of a Yellow Sun, I took a bit of a breather to go to a show taping with a friend of mine.

Following the taping, I made a detour to the TIFF box office to see if I could get tickets for films on Tuesday and Wednesday. My current dilemma is I have five vouchers I somehow have to use between now and Saturday. And with only two free days left before I return to work, it’s been proving to be a very frustrating challenge.

I was successful in getting my choice Tuesday. Wednesday, not so much.

And – after asking people at the TIFF box office, AND at the TIFF Bell Lightbox – I also discovered that my beloved vouchers are only valid for the duration of the festival.

As I understand, this has always been TIFF’s policy (volunteers are the exception). However – and my intrepid friend Renee took the time to check this – is ISN’T clearly stated on TIFF’s Web site.

So, if anyone from TIFF stumbles upon this blog – which I highly doubt – may I make the following suggestion: Please consider reviewing – and changing – this policy.

Sure, people should probably think about how many movies they can reasonably see during the festival. But not everyone can take a 10-day vacation to watch dozens of films. Quite a few festival-goers are spending hours after work queueing in rush lines to see movies (and use up their vouchers). Plus, you know what they say about the best-laid plans. Things unexpectedly arise. People get sick. Or you’re stuck a rush line to try and use a voucher, and that line runs out of tickets for your desired film.

If people have 10 vouchers or less, they should be given up to a month after the festival to use the vouchers to see movies at the Lightbox. One, this helps get more foot traffic into the Lightbox theatres to see movies, and two, the people with vouchers then don’t feel as if they’re losing all that money they spent on ticket packages.

Admittedly, I was (and am) feeling the beginnings of TIFF fatigue beginning to set in, as well as anxiety about being able to see six movies between now and the end of the festival, and trying to get normal daily tasks done (because, frankly, I’ve haven’t – I’ve barely been home and it’s beginning to feel a bit inconvenient to do this). But I’m going to try my best – starting on Tuesday.

A Hit & A Miss

IMAG0348Sunday was the first day Renée and I attended a movie for which we actually had a ticket.

To our complete surprise, we secured tickets for Mandela: A Long Walk to Freedom during the ticket-selection phase before the festival, so we were looking forward to seeing how British actor Idris Elba did in his portrayal.

And unlike the previous day, the weather was much better, much warmer, and not a dark cloud looming overhead, which made the lineup experience much more bearable.

We were in for a bit of a treat this day.

1378656204723The film’s director, Justin Chadwick (you might know him for his directorial work on the mini-series, Bleak House, among other things) was in attendance and spoke to the audience beforehand.

(Incidentally, his previous film, The First Grader, premiered at TIFF in 2010.)

He told us we were only the second audience to see the movie, after the audience at Saturday evening’s gala.

Oh. My. God. What a movie. Idris Elba did a fantastic job as Mandela – showing the icon we all are familiar with, but also the man with his flaws. And the film did a good job of depicting the brutality of South Africa under apartheid rule.

The other performance that I think should be noted was Naomie Harris‘ portrayal as Winnie Mandela. If any attention should be paid, it should be to her transformation over the course of the film (which, obviously, is based on true events). She’s a powerhouse. If she does NOT get an Oscar nomination for this, I’ll be VERY surprised and annoyed.

And – absolute truth – tears were streaming down my face partway through the film. You’d have to have been made of stone NOT to have been moved. Kudos to the people who worked on this production.

Following Mandela, Renée and I decided to try to make it a double feature by getting into the rush line for Half of a Yellow Sun, the other movie starring Chiwetel Ejiofor and Thandie Newton. (Kids, it’s a British invasion this year. These ladies and gentlemen are DEFINITELY bringing their A-game).

We lost a bit of time waiting to leave the theatre after Mandela, and opting to walk over to the other theatre. But, we’d gotten there about an hour and 20 minutes or so before showtime. And if we had such great luck the day before – and people kept saying that usually people in rush lines end up getting seats – this should be a piece of cake, right?

When we first arrived, I asked one of the “headset” volunteers how many people were ahead of us for rush seats. He said 40.

Within the span of about 40 minutes, that number had somehow ballooned to SEVENTY.

Why? Likely because people were holding places in live for their five OTHER friends, family members, etc. Which (according to what I’ve heard from people who’ve worked as volunteers) is NOT supposed to happen.

So, long story short, it wasn’t until after 4:30 p.m., when we were almost AT THE FRONT of the rush line (with about a half-dozen people in front of us) when it was announced that they’d run out of seats.

So, after lingering a bit longer, we walked away, our first defeat of the festival. Ah, well. Between seeing Benedict Cumberbatch on Thursday, and the two movies on Saturday, our luck had to run out sometime.

Big Film, Little Film (Or, The Science of Rush Lines)

When you’re a film-goer with a purse full of vouchers to burn, every option available at TIFF can be a bit of a crapshoot.

You can try buying tickets online. Providing there are actually tickets for your desired movie when you click the “BUY TICKETS” button.

Or, you could go to the TIFF box office and hope that when you ask the film(s) of your choice, the box office cashier gives you the right answer.

Then, there are the rush lines. The mother of all crapshoots.

It’s this option Renée and I attempted, not once, but twice, on Saturday.

After our TERRIBLE ticket selection berth, we decided to make a Hail Mary pass and brave the rush line for the only non-premium screening of The Fifth Estate. We figured we’d never see all three movies with Benedict Cumberbatch. But if we were going to try for one, this would be it.

We met at 10 a.m. in the pouring rain, and surfaced at Yonge and Dundas just before 10:30. And when we did, we saw the lineup that wrapped around the block from the theatre where the film was showing.

Sweet merciful shit-snacks.

1378564635935We crossed the street and follow the line … down Shuter … along Victoria … ALL the way around to Queen Street East. And waited.

Roughly five minutes later, a volunteer appeared, and it was through her we discovered we were in the ticket-holder’s line. But there was ZERO signage to indicate this. So we turned around and joined the rush ticket line “behind” us, snaking towards the theatre entrance on Yonge Street.

Unlike the previous line, this one wasn’t as long. But I was still torn between remaining optimistic, and becoming downright skeptical about getting in. I mean, it was the OPENING MOVIE of the FESTIVAL. Surely our chances were slim?

A man came by, offering up his Fifth Estate tickets for cash. Renée and I sort of perked up and looked at each other. But that moment of hesitation cost us – a couple of younger women ahead of us (they sounded like they were from France) snapped up those tickets.

Probably just as well, we thought. We had vouchers. So, good for those two.

Then, a guy wearing a headset and a soggy blazer, carrying a clipboard, was making the rounds. He was asking who was in line for The Fifth Estate, and who wanted to see The Railway Man (starring Colin Firth and Nicole Kidman). Seems just as many people wanted to see the latter as the former … which seemed to shrink that rush line even further. Maybe we had a chance.

As we continued to wait in the rain, a woman wearing a leather jacket emerged from a white SUV. Seems SHE had two tickets for The Fifth Estate she was trying to offload for $45. She started near the front, but not with much luck. She got to us and made her offer. I whipped out my wallet, only to discover I only had $40. Too bad. She moved along.

Almost, but not quite. Oh well. We were close to the front of the rush line anyhow …

Not even five minutes later, the woman – getting wet and extremely cranky – still had her tickets. Seemed no one had the cash – or enough cash. She groused about getting wet, and I still had my money.

“You know if we do this, we’ll lose our place in line, right?” asked Renée.

IMAG0344“Yup,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

Seconds later, we were the lucky recipients of two tickets. A small victory – won!

While we waited, we spoke to a woman who was going to see the movie with her two sisters. We shared our stories of frustration with the film selection system, and she offered some insight from her perspective as a veteran TIFF-goer.

We finally got inside the theatre some 30 or so minutes later, and actually got some seating with decent sightlines. The only quibble is, unlike modern movie theatres with their stadium seating, this was an old venue, so I doubt anyone in that theatre didn’t have a head blocking a small portion of the screen.

But the film was decent, if a bit heavy-handed. The performances were definitely what made the movie. It was definitely a good start to our film-going experience.

Feeling a bit emboldened, we decided we’d see a second movie. But what?

1378582338438After scrolling through the schedule, we decided on a small foreign comedy, All About The Feathers.

Set in Costa Rica, it’s the story of Chalo, a security guard who dreams of buying a rooster so he can get into cockfighting. We’re also introduced to the small rag-tag group of friends he makes in the process.

This rush experience was the complete opposite of what we just experienced.

For starters, when we got to the venue to queue for tickets, there was only ONE other person ahead of us on the rush list. Renée went in to the box office and had the tickets in a matter of minutes.

1378590324434Then, there was the obvious contrast between the two films. Unlike The Fifth Estate – which had relatively known actors and an enormous budget behind it – All About The Feathers was done on a $35,000 budget, with roughly $16,500 coming from 273 Indiegogo supporters, and had a cast of people, save for perhaps three, who had never acted before.

And not only was the director of the film, Neto Villalobos, actually in attendance, we had the privilege of having a Q & A with him afterwards.

We left the downtown core happier, and perhaps a wee bit high off our TIFF experience. But, it’s still early in the festival. We’ll see what else happens.

Opening Night? All Right …

1378419533842Day 1 of the Toronto International Film Festival tends to open to a bit of excitement and even pandemonium.

From a programming perspective, it’s the initial one-two punch to hook cinephiles (and film festival members) who got first dibs for those big-named films, and get them talking. For the most patient of star-gazers, it’s a visual smorgasbord.

My friend Renée and I – with some trepidation – are braving the crowds to watch some of the movies the festival has to offer. (She’s also chronicling our navigation of TIFF on her blog.)

Part of that motivation was actually spurred by one of our favourite actors, Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s in town to promote not one but THREE films. The first of those, The Fifth Estate, showcases Cumberbatch’s talents in his portrayal as WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange.

The film had its first two showings Thursday evening. They were premium screenings (that is, only certain credit-card holders, members, and those who bought special tickets or packages got the privilege), so schmoes like Renée and I – who bought regular flexible packages – were shut out of getting tickets.

The third, final, and only, remaining screening happens this weekend (before the film’s general release in mid-October), and it’ll be a crapshoot as to whether we can score two last-minute tickets. Depending on initial reviews (and from what I’m hearing, they’re good), it could be a challenge.

In the meantime, it did provide what’s likely our only chance to see Cumberbatch in the flesh on the red carpet outside Roy Thomson Hall.

I can’t lie – I embraced the idea in a millisecond. Renée? She was a wee bit more ambivalent. In the end, though, we resolved to do it for the experience.

We met just after 6 p.m. and walked to the red carpet “grounds”. Unlike previous days in Toronto, the weather was brisk.

We scoped out the crowds. Not bad – it was maybe two or three people deep. We then attempted to figure out which would be the best place to stand and get the best snaps.

A woman – presumably a volunteer – came up to us and suggested we go to the other side of the fan pit, where there was a big structure with risers and pillows. Initially, I was a bit suspicious as to where we’d end up. But it turned out to be the best suggestion we were given. Despite the big display, there was still enough space to get a bit closer to the barricades.

1378420212747We fidgeted and fiddled with our phones in the cold while we waited. Renée made ended up making small-talk with some fellow fans.

A number of fans up held signs or various paraphernalia adorned with fonts and imagery from the BBC series “Sherlock”, which helped make Cumberbatch popular (and sparked our interest in North America, where he’s becoming more familiar, but still isn’t exactly a household name).

At about 6:50 p.m., we heard whoops go up from the crowd. A group of volunteers – identifiable by their orange t-shirts and head-sets – walked between the barricades, getting fans pumped for the big moment. (Not that any of these fans needed ANY pumping up whatsoever.)

Five minutes later, a sleek, black Audi sedan glided along the concrete, eliciting more squeals and whoops. But when “ordinary” people stepped out of it, you could hear “awws” of disappointment.

But that disappointment dissipated when a shiny black SUV rolled into the area just after 7 p.m. The man of the hour had arrived, in a black tuxedo and skinny bow-tie.

Arms and hands holding cameras and smartphones (mine included) immediately shot into the air. Even on my tip-toes (and I’m five-foot-seven!), I couldn’t see a thing, and had to rely on my abilities to shoot semi-blindly in Cumberbatch’s general direction.

1378422284489It’s wasn’t in vain, though – he hung a right from the vehicle and started coming our way. At first, I only saw the top of his newly-cut, sleekly-coiffed chestnut mane.

But he more or less made his way to our section and, for the briefest of moments, I got a partial look at him (and one of his renowned cheekbones) through the forest of arms and necks with my own eyes.

I craned my neck to hear him talk, and could hear him faintly, amid the noise. (If you’ve ever heard him speak, he sounds exactly as he does on screen.) My camera, though, had to be my eyes, and I managed to get a couple of decent shots, considering where we were standing.

Photo, courtesy Renée Sylvestre-Williams.
Photo, courtesy Renée Sylvestre-Williams.

I do have to hand it to Renée, as she snapped what I consider the “money shot” – a perfectly framed shot of Cumberbatch as he signed autographs.

We posted our efforts on Twitter, and within the space of an hour, we’d been retweeted dozens upon dozens of times.

Renée had had her fill, so we turned from the action and strode away. Even though we didn’t get anything signed, or get pictures with him, the experience – to me, anyhow – still felt a tad surreal.

And if not for Renée, I would have lingered a bit longer. But it was worth it just the same. Siiiigh.

So with the gawking likely out of the way, our next order of business: actually seeing some movies (and using up our TIFF movie vouchers)! Wish us luck.

(NOTE: Pictures are mine. Picture #4 property of Renée Sylvestre-Williams. Please DO NOT use without first seeking permission.)

From Travelling to TIFF (and Back Again)

IMAG0325Hey y’all!

So it’s been, what, seven weeks, since my trip to the Bahamas with my friends?

(If you’ve been following along, y

ou’ll know my posts came to a most quiet end on Wednesday.)

Luckily because of the summer, I’ve managed to ride that post-holiday high a little longer than usual. Outings to free movies, friends visiting from other countries, and other get-togethers have handily filled that gap.

Admittedly, though, I’ve been feeling a bit of late-summer malaise. But hopefully not for long. Why?

Well, first and foremost, I’ve got another trip coming up later this month, which I’m slowly getting excited about. (You probably won’t see posts for those until well into October.)

And secondly? The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF, for short) is upon us. In fact, it starts today.

I first went well over a decade ago, and have taken in the odd movie at TIFF a couple of times since then. But I’ve shied away in recent years, simply because of the way the festival seems to have exploded in popularity and star wattage … and price.

This year, I’d been on the fence up until a few weeks ago. But a friend of mine and I decided to take the plunge, and we’re splitting a ticket package.  It’s the first time we’ve gone this route, and in all honesty, we’ve found the initial experience – picking films on a specific day, by way of a lottery system – a bit frustrating. But hopefully in the end, the experience will be worth it.

The set-up for the "big show" later today ...
The set-up for the “big show” later today …

In a way, it’s also another way to be a tourist in my own town – that is,

seeing the world, but through film. And maybe, note unlike when I travel, unexpected things might happen. Or not. Who knows?

I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try my best to post at least a couple

of times during the festival – whether it’s to give my thoughts on a film I’ve seen, or maybe share an entertaining anecdote. (Likely, it’ll be thoughts on movies.)

But a new month (and, in a couple of weeks, a new season) is upon us. And it’s simply ripe with possibilities!

Let the festivities begin!

That One Time at the Yacht Club

Over the last few months or so, I’ve posted stories from my previous travels abroad.

But every once in a while, I’m reminded that within my own city, there are opportunities to feel like a tourist without even setting foot onto an airplane.

Over a month ago, my colleague (and direct supervisor) says I need to replace a work-mate on a weekend work assignment.

Admittedly, I grumble at the prospect.

When I’m told what the assignment is, my grumbling’s replaced with a slightly raised eyebrow and some cautious side-eye.

It requires a trip to a yacht club. The Royal Canadian Yacht Club.

Cut to that Saturday morning.

Two of my work colleagues and I enter the small terminal for a private passenger ferry (also referred to as a launch) that’ll take us over to the island clubhouse. It – and the adjoining marina – inhabit a small island separate from the other Toronto Islands..

A few people are sitting in the terminal lounge, chatting amongst themselves, and casting glances our way (presumably because [1] of the equipment my colleagues are carrying and [2] we are obviously not members).

We’re not even there five minutes before we’re joined by a young lady, who – as it turns out – does public relations for the yacht club, and is accompanying us to the island today.

The launch itself is a tiny vessel, with seating for maybe a couple dozen people – operated by a compact, snowy-haired, stone-faced older man.

This is going to be interesting, I think to myself.wpid-IMAG0005.jpg The launch ride from the mainland to Snug Harbour Island is about 15 minutes long; it’s not long before the tall masts of sailboats parked in the marina come into focus.

As the launch docks and we come onto land, one of the club members turns to my colleague and asks her if we’re coming to film the wedding taking place later in the day. Interesting, indeed.

The yacht club was founded in the mid-1800s (primarily as a sailing club), but over time, has expanded to offer other athletic activities to its members, both on the island and in the city, as well as organized social events.

As our small group walks along the pathway past the clubhouse, I spot members in tennis whites playing on the partially-obscured courts to my right. In the distance, close to the clubhouse, members are lawn bowling on a perfectly manicured green. The scene before me brings to mind the image of “the country club” that I’ve only seen in movies. It is truly another world.

Today, though, we’ve come to interview two members who happen to be competitive sailors. The first interview takes place inside the hangar-like tent where they keep their gear.

As I wait for the second part of the interview – which is on the side of the tent facing the marina – I take a moment to gaze out at all the docked boats of all sizes. A hare hops by. It’s strangely idyllic.

A bit later, the public relations rep takes me on a brief walk around part of the island. We pass the clubhouse, which has been rebuilt twice (it burned down in 1904 and 1918). Around the side, on the huge “veranda”, people are seated for lunch.

Around the back of the clubhouse facility, there’s a garden, where various vegetables and herbs are grown and used in the meals served in the clubhouse dining room.IMAG0013And on the other side, away from the house, is a beautiful view of Toronto’s skyline which rivals any you can get from any of the other nearby islands. Not too far away, staff are setting up a small number of tables and white linens – likely for that aforementioned wedding taking place.

We join the others, who are waiting for the sailing crew to set up their boat and get it into the water. When they finally do, we board a motorboat to accompany them as they practice.

IMAG0014These guys sail a type of catamaran that is lightweight, and – as a result – really fast. In fact, it only needs a bit of wind to get it moving.

As it picks up speed, the sailors maneouvre the boat sideways onto one of its hulls, just gliding and turning. I know absolutely nothing about sailing, but watching the boat in action is just a little bit mesmerizing.

I can only imagine the rush a trained sailor must get operating one of these vessels.

The sailors continue their practice, but for my work colleagues and me, our time on the water – and at the yacht club – is over. We have to get back to the mainland, as we’ve got some work to finish.

I’m not sure if this will be my one and only time at the yacht club. (Membership fees are several thousand dollars which – despite what the PR person says about being “decent” – is a bit too dear for my bank account.)

But if the club ever comes up with a special occasion to allow non-members such as myself to check out the yacht club, I might be on one of the first Kwasind rides over there.

Thoughts on the Bag Ban

On Wednesday, Toronto’s mayor Rob Ford stepped into City Hall, and asked councillors to scrap the five-cent fee for plastic shopping bags.

City council saw that request … and raised it, by voting to ban shopping bags completely.

This not only caught the mayor off-guard, but the entire city.

Following the vote, Mayor Ford then proceeded to (a) give THIS gem of a reason as to why council got away with their surprise motion, and (b) voice his intention to quash the shopping bag ban.

But amid the mayor’s fist-clenching and councillors David Shiner and Anthony Perruzza ripping a plastic bag in victory (which I found a bit cringe-inducing … and would “ironic” be the right word?), the decision actually got me thinking.

Personally, I’m a bit torn (so to speak).

In theory, the ban is a good idea.

For example:

If I understand correctly, manufacturing plastic bags uses a process requiring a material derived from petroleum and natural gas. So – at least in this city, anyway – hypothetically speaking, that would be reduced.

As well, fewer bags would be littering streets and sidewalks, stuck in trees, floating in rivers (and Lake Ontario), or sent to landfills, to name a few places.

Plus, bags are one less danger animals have to worry about.

These goals are things I absolutely respect.

But here’s where I stop from fully embracing this idea.

It’s not about the inconvenience, when you forget your re-useable bag on the day you need to do a quick grocery run, or carry meat, or something frozen/thawing or sticky.

Or not having a shopping bag when you need to scoop your pet dog’s poop on the daily walk.

To me, it’s the long-term plan when it comes to waste diversion.

If you live in a house, chances are you’ve got a blue box, a black box and a compost bin. Perhaps you might be even more green-minded, and actually do your own composting for use in your garden.

But unless you’re in a living situation (either as a homeowner/landlord or renter, or maybe as a member of a forward-thinking co-op), where the dwelling in which you live has an agreement amongst all its residents to recycle and compost, the ban on plastic bags poses a bit of a problem.

Before last fall, I lived with my parents. Our neighbourhood – like many, many residential areas – is part of Toronto’s compost and recycling program. We put kitchen scraps in our little bin, and recycled the various items that were accepted under the city’s program.

Fast forward eight months.

I live in a low-rise apartment building – owned by a management company – with a few hundred other people. We have the most basic of recycling programs: three blue bins and three black bins. There is no compost bin. We still have garbage chutes. So people – myself included – put our garbage in shopping bags (if we have them) and chuck it down the chute.

Recently, there was a small cockroach infestation in my building. In an effort to discourage the one-roach-a-week visits to my apartment, I would take my food scraps and dispose of them in the small clear produce bags I’d bring home from the supermarket – down the chute – separate from the rest of the garbage. So I’m using twice as many types of plastic bags to dispose of my garbage.

To boot, when I take my recycling out to the bins and open the lids, it’s evident people use plastic bags to carry their newspapers, cans, bottles, plastic, and cartons to the bins and toss them in.

If Toronto had a comprehensive waste diversion program for apartment buildings like mine, perhaps the bag ban wouldn’t give me pause. But it does.

People still use garbage chutes to dispose of waste. And perhaps even IF there was a waste diversion program in place for Toronto, garbage bags might still be needed for that small percentage of waste that couldn’t be recycled or composted.

Sure, it may be well-intentioned to ban shopping bags. But what about all the OTHER plastic bags?

As I mentioned earlier, I use small plastic bags at the supermarket to bag my produce, then use them long after I’ve removed my fruit and veggies, to dispose of my food scraps. Those aren’t banned.

What about the plastic used to package produce and merchandise?

Or the plastic liners drycleaning businesses use, to protect those articles of clothing you’ve had cleaned?

And sure, if Mayor Ford is unsuccessful in overturning the ban, Toronto would join a number of towns, cities and countries, that have implemented bans on plastic bans.

But how do they stack up against the number of countries that DON’T ban plastic bags? (Or, like the city of Ottawa, don’t WANT to?)

And if you’re close enough to another municipality that still allows plastic bans – say, Markham, for example – what won’t stop my septuagenarian mother, from driving a few minutes north in 2013, and hoarding stocking up on shopping bags for garbage bins?

Perhaps I’m exaggerating. But perhaps there should have been a plan behind the ban.

(P.S.: Councillor Shiner, I wish you didn’t rip that plastic bag. I totally could’ve used that.)

Photos, courtesy Nathan Dennette/Canadian Press, David Rider/Toronto Star and BlogTO.

Epilogue (or, The Return)

Monday, February 20.

We’re ready and packed pretty quickly. We’ve almost got the routine down to a science.

Jen drops by our room; we give her our remaining food to take with her on the long trip down to Santa Teresa, where she’ll spend the next week with a mutual friend with ours.

Somehow (and this pretty much convinces me she’s simply blessed in travel-related matters), she’s gotten an arrangement through the hotel, for a shuttle that will take her (and two other women from the States) all the way down to Santa Teresa – avoiding an otherwise long, winding trip to get to the six-hour ferry she’d otherwise have to take.

According to the man at the reception desk, arrangements like that NEVER happen.

(I NEED to know how she does that.)

We part ways, and Jenn, Zoe and I drive the two or so hours back to the car rental place to return our trusty RAV4.

We’re shuttled to the airport, and before we know it, we’re in the air … back to our chilly home, and cold reality.


It’s been exactly six weeks since our trip ended. And man, does it ever feel like a dream.

I did spend another week after Costa Rica puttering around, before returning to work.

But it didn’t take very long for the post-vacation bliss to completely evaporate.

It’s as if my workplace decided to make me pay – nay, overcompensate – for the fun I’ve had, by working it right out of me.

Long shifts. Numerous requests to work overtime. The list goes on.

I even took a long weekend off in mid-March, to visit a friend in Ottawa. But it didn’t really ease the fatigue or the grind of the big, bad work machine.

In fact, I’ve just come off of nine consecutive days of work, had one day off, and have started another six-day stretch.

The only thing keeping me from completely losing my mind, is the prospect of a future trip.

I just submitted my request for summer vacation.

Fingers crossed, I get my first choice. But I already know where I’d like to go.

And I’ve even been speaking with another friend, who’s thinking of going to one of my desired destinations. With any luck, our trip itineraries will overlap.

Even if they don’t and I end up going alone, I’ll be happy just to have the privilege of going places I’ve never been before, and to soak up what I can, for however long I can.

And perhaps in between my big trips, I can find the time to take some day-trips outside Toronto (providing I don’t have to work, that is).

But make no mistake: The travel bug that’s laid dormant for the past few years is awake.

My wanderlust has returned. With a vengeance.

The Subway That Hardens People

In recent weeks, I’ve had a few experiences on the subway that have kind of clouded my belief that people are, generally, nice and good.

It also has reminded me to (a) keep surrounding myself with the good moments in life and (b) remember to keep being nice to others.

Sunday, September 6. I was en route to my friend Angela’s place. She was holding a last-minute bridal shower for a mutual friend of ours. Going north on the subway line, I kind of noticed this middle-aged man get into my subway car. Scraggly beard, stringy hair. I didn’t really pay him any mind after he got on.

At St. Clair West station, I exited through one set of subway doors to make my way towards the streetcar platform upstairs. He also exited, but through the doors at the farther end of the car.

On the platform, we were walking in opposite directions. As we got closer, I noticed he seemed to be kind of walking towards me – but he wasn’t looking at me. It wasn’t until it was too late, that I noticed he was going to deliberately walk into me. I actually tried to avoid him, and said “Excuse me”.

But he obviously didn’t care, and smashed into my right shoulder, pushing me into the station wall. The oddest thing about it all was, there wasn’t really anyone on the platform.

I turned and momentarily stopped to look at him. The guy just kept on walking. Who knows? Maybe he was on drugs. Maybe he was angry at the world and thought trying to knock me over would make him feel better. But I didn’t have the time, nor the desire to run after him. I started to jogging over to the escalators,. gift bag in hand, so I could make the St. Clair streetcar.

But the exchange shook me a little, and I’m glad I was pushed against the wall and not off the platform.

Saturday Night. I had just finished work, and was hurrying along to meet my friend Lori for Nuit Blanche.

At St. Andrew Station, I whipped out my Metropass and prepare to enter one of the reversible turnstiles, just as this older woman and her companion were approaching. (While not overdressed, they looked like they were going to attend an evening at the symphony nearby.)

Apparently only one of us was aware of the “reverse” function.

The woman and I stopped in front of the same turnstile. I deferred, and stepped to one side to let her through.

I only expected her to pass through and mumble a perfunctory thank you.

Instead, she decided to say, “It says ‘exit'”, as she clicked through the turnstile.

This made me stop and say nothing for at least a couple seconds. I was thinking, This woman actually thinks I’m an idiot!

Instead I said, “It’s also ‘enter’,” swiped my Metropass and passed through the turnstile. I didn’t even look at her when she left my sightline, and chances are she wasn’t really paying attention after her oh-so-(not-so)-smart comment, either.

Later that evening, while travelling home, I was sitting in a two-seater, iPod cranked and head buried in a NOW Magazine, when someone sat down close beside me. Because it was after midnight and there was already one drunk guy in the subway car, I didn’t want to take any chances encouraging whomever was sitting beside me by looking at them.

Several stops later, the guy – who STILL hasn’t given me so much as a microscopic buffer zone – starts nudging me. I’m thinking, who on earth IS this? I pull my head out of the news paper and turn … only to stare into the face of my work-friend Errol … who, by now, is giggling because he’s found the whole scene hilarious. My subway game face gives way and I just start laughing – at my own ridiculous behaviour, and his response to it. We must’ve been laughing for about 4 or 5 subway stops, until he eventually got off at Main.

It’s just made me realize how cold the subway – and city – must sometimes be to people who come here from other places.

If a homegrown resident can see it, I can’t even imagine what a transplanted citizen must see.

Toronto The Good

Tuesday afternoon, my friend sent me an e-mail, asking if I wanted to see a play that evening.

I was on the fence. I’d been at work late the night before and was feeling kind of tired. 

I’m glad she asked me to reconsider. I ended up seeing a really good theatre production called Toronto The Good, by playwright Andrew Moodie (best known for his 1995 play Riot).

Moodie’s newest work begins at the centre of a racial profiling case. But the production extends beyond that, through the characters’ interpersonal relationships, and the characters’ personal stories. 

Emotions run high. The dialogue is great. And the themes explored can certainly hold one’s attention and give them pause – it certainly did for me.

Toronto the Good is playing now through March 1st at Factory Theatre here in Toronto. You can visit the play’s Web page , and check out  my friend’s thoughts at Play Anon. If that doesn’t help make up your mind, click on the link for the review mentioned in that post.

You can also visit the Toronto The Good blog, on which Andrew Moodie talks about the play, and invites people to discuss the issues facing our city.