Hostelity

Hostels are really really strange environments. Right now I'm sitting in the common room at Canadiana Backpackers Hostel, writing and watching a group of very drunk Peruvians play cards, drink more, and just generally carouse. One of them just sat on my table until one of the men pressed her back towards me in a half-welcomed embrace. She pushes him away laughing and staggers forward a couple steps. On the other side of the room, a couple of GWAR fans I spoke to earlier are standing over the garbage can. One of them seems about ready to throw up, but doesn't.

Oh where my adventures have led me.

23.

I am sitting in the Canadiana Hostel in western Toronto, drinking free coffee and enjoying the Christmas soundtrack. Today is my birthday. I am 23. I am also alone in a foreign city and completely in love with everything. I have a pile of good books to keep me company for the next few days: I'm hoping to finish Sources of the Self in the next week, maybe get in to some of the novels I got for free, beginning with V.S. Naipaul's Half a Life. I fly home in two days. Then it will be Christmas. Thank God.

Now, rest, reading, probably further posting later today.

Election Night Pt. 3

I promised photos of election night a few months ago and finally managed to bug Daniel into passing them on. Here they are then, better late than never. (Thanks Daniel!)

Fig 1.1
Approaching the crowd

Fig 1.2
Flags and crowds

Fig 1.3

Word comes that Obama wins.
(That's a generational change he's got caught between his thumb and forefinger there.)


Fig 1.4
Two revelers


Fig 1.5
Two more revelers

Further adventures in Toronto strangers

Episode 1:

"Gnnaaaaaaaaaggghhh."

Somewhere between death metal and laringitus. I look around me, startled; seemingly empty transit station, merchant stalls, magazines, gum, tile floor. Not another soul in sight.

"Gnaaaaggghh."

Suddenly notice the guy behind the counter, doing what I think is clearing his throat. Except its at a customer, similarly just materialized and who walks away looking disconcerted. Death-metal-laringitis glances towards me. I glance first at the magazines (scientific american) then seeing that he's going to try to sell me something, quickly exit the station.

Fear trumps curiosity.

Episode 2:

Act 1:
A pirate is going down the steps to the subway. I only notice him just before he vanishes, but one of the disembarking passengers and lock eyes and he nods towards tricorn hat now making its way down the stairs, amused. As am I.

Act 2:
Pirate sighted smoking in front of Polish League Hall with group of homeless people. He is wearing sneakers.

Night of Three Syllabls

After the election results have come in, I wander over to Eaton Center, Toronto's downsized attempt to mimic Times Square. People have already gathered; loud music, bad techno music, is playing. People have booze, a slight smell of marijuana in the air. Some have got American and Canadian flags, and they are dashing around the edges of the crowd. A shorter bearded man has a megaphone. "O-bam-a!" he yells, "O-bam-a" replies the crowd. "Yes we can!" he chants, syncopating now. "Yes we can" they (we?) chant back in time with the music. It goes on like this for the next hour, more people arriving and other drifting away. Champagne is sprayed. Many people with cameras are there; I grab their attention and make them take a picture of me with my sticker. I want to be there when they show people years later and say, see, this is what this was like when Obama became president.

The street people gathered at the edges too, looking on in silence, maybe in apathy. It's impossible to tell with them. As I am leaving the gathering with Dan, a friend from New Zealand, we stop to buy food and immediately there's a man at my shoulder, asking for a hot dog. An awkward moment, but I buy him one and wish him good night. I feel justified: it's a gift, not a handout. And it's a good night for giving gifts.

In which I am reminded that disbeleif does not exclude having A Sense of Wonder

Ottawa is a big town full of constrained office buildings and older architecture left over from back when the city was home only to petty gangsters (the Irish) and less petty gangsters (the Government). Shortly after arrival, I wandered three blocks away from the hotel and found a tiny Catholic church nearly lost amid the highrises. The doors were huge, and I struggled with pushing for a good minute before discovering that pulling was in fact the best strategy.

The interior was huge, ornate, beautifully painted with arching ceilings and a lovely marble baroque alter. It was empty except for a few elderly people at the front of the sanctuary, murmuring into the echoing overhead. An amplified voice periodically came out of nowhere, reciting prayers in French, too raspy to be God and too young to be from the crowd. The whispers of the few alternated with the voice of the one, each succeeding the other like waves breaking silently against the shoreline. Somewhere in the distance a siren started up, barely breaking the stillness of the afternoon. I sat for a while then left.

Crazy bicycle man, part 2

I saw him again! He was wandering among the shops in the anarchist neighborhood, shouting at God to tear down the city.

If I see him again I'm asking for an interview.

Parade!

Just like last Saturday, I woke up this morning to the sound of booming megaphoned voices coming down the street. Staggering to the window, I peered out to see, again just like last week, large crowds gathered, signs hoisted high and banners waving. A rally, for what I don't know. Last week it was labor day. Today, I imagine it will be about the upcoming elections spurred by the United States continued economic stupidity. It's not that I'm unhappy to be here to see this; so often the foreign impact of the U.S.'s economic decisions is given a paragraph at the end of the coverage of its domestic impact, and duh, these things are important to understand. It's just that I didn't need to get up at 9:30 to hear it. (It's currently shifted over to a soul singer. Bizzarre.)

First thoughts

And now, after months of fantasizing about brilliant things I was going to post on this space about Toronto architecture, Canadian culture, about the meaning of whatever I could lay my deconstructive hands on, I find myself completely stumped as to how to begin, or what to write about, or how to describe the experience of the last 72 hours.

Blast.

I'm currently sitting in the rooftop lounge of the Chestnut Residence, the converted luxury hotel that now serves as Toronto's international and "other" dormitory. Back when the building was a home for tourists, this room housed a restaurant featuring a 360 degree panoramic view of the city, made more dramatic by the slow rotation of the entire floor. Nowdays it serves as the space for makeshift ice-cream socials, like the one going on around me as I write this, and as a study space for students who can put aside the massive incongruity between the space's form and function. (Harder than you might think, as I'm discovering writing this post.)

Looking out from up here, it's hard not to spend a good moment thinking about the kind of hubris necessary to put up skyscrapers. Chestnut is a very tall building in a city of very tall buildings, all with comparably novel tricks. Ahead of me, for example, is the CN Tower, for many years the world's tallest free-standing structure and now yet another world landmark surpassed outside the developed world. There's a beautiful light show that they project on it at night, with alternating bands of red and white running up and down the whole length of the structure and circling the saucerlike viewing platform suspended midway to the top. It was surpassed earlier this year by the Burj Dubai, still under construction in the UAE, and will likely be surpassed again once that buildings exact height is announced. Soon it will be just another new world landmark like those possessed by most major cities; something to remember the city by, a reminder of past efforts and a place by which tourists can validate their experience of a place, but no longer a thing adequate to the purpose for which it was built. A monument to the game which has now forgotten it.

Laying negativity aside though, Toronto has been a fascinating place so far. It's definitely the most multi-ethnic place I've ever been. Just getting off the plane at the airport, I heard no fewer than eight languages being spoken, and saw some representative of most of the major ethnic groups of the city. Toronto International itself is like most international airports, huge and built to give the impression of enormous motion and importance; vast spans of steel thrown up at odd angles, blaring apocalyptic voices, well-dressed business people straying anonymously across the tarmac, etc. It made me incredibly nervous and I was glad to escape. I hoped a bus and a subway to Downtown Toronto, where Chestnut is located, and promptly got myself lost for a good hour, eventually arriving home and checking in.

It's probably too soon to be trying to describe this place in too much detail, since I've only wandered around Downtown and I have the feeling there are large and amazing parts of the city I'm neglecting. Still, the sections I've seen feel like a strange combination of San Francisco and Chicago. Lake Ontario shapes the geography of the city much like the Ocean does for SF, with huge highrises dominating the coastline and buisnesses becoming more prominent the further inland you go. There are not a lot of green spaces, sadly, but the feeling is definitely not cramped. There is room to breathe and people will not run you down if you cross the street to early. Their manners are also very friendly, much like the Midwest, though I did see a tiny man on a tiny bicycle screaming "Go to hell Toronto, you're terrible and I hate all of it!" (I muttered "I love you Toronto" after he was out of hearing range. A little premature maybe, but also completely called for.)

Anyhow, I suppose that'll have to do till my next post. Welcome to all the new readers who have hopefully gotten my email or hopped over from facebook. Keep your fingers crossed I don't die once the schoolyear starts.

In which I discover I live in a luxury hotel with sub-par bathrooms

Dear Readers,

I have arrived in Canada and am getting settled. Expect regular posting to resume shortly.

More moving, more rock n' roll

I've been rather caught up in navigating the trans-continental bureaucratic morass for the last week, so apologies to any regular readers who may (or may not) be reading this and are expecting regular content. Hopefully I'll have more time/energy/love to spend on this thing once the move is complete.

In the mean time, here is a link to the really fascinating documentary on the history of Twin Cities rock n' roll that they broadcast on MPR last week. I know getting hyped up about contradictory artforms is so last week, but the idea of cobbling together a history of people who in many cases explicitly rejected the very idea of ties to pre-existing history is extremely cool to me; watching the baby-boomer cultural revolution slowly fall from rejection of the cultural status quo to become the status quo itself even cooler.

Speaking of which, here are the Suicide Commandos playing in front of their house as it goes up in flames.

Dot Matrix Printers and Plane Tickets

The family is currently repainting most of the doorways in the house, which requires lots of standing around with a face mask with a radial sander. Gripping stuff indeed. Luckily, it's grinding monotone reminded me of this clip from the mini-series Subsonics, which aired in Australia and profiled a whole pile of interesting avant-garde people. Here's one nice lady who got excited about dot matrix printers.



In other news, the section of this blog concerned with my adventures in Canada can now officially begin. The ticket is bought, the fellowship is in place, and I will soon be off to the great north. (Which, incidentally, is at a lower longitude than Minneapolis.) I've really gotten to enjoy the feeling of complete disbelief that comes over me in the weeks before I do something radically new with myself... Particularly when it comes just as I've finally acclimated to my surroundings and thus feel it incomprehensible that things might be different. But they will be, and sooner than I think.

It is, however, frustrating to be leaving town as my least favorite part of the year ends and the most interesting part is about to begin. Alas. I suppose I can write about the Canadian response to the destruction of downtown St. Paul while crying into my food.