One of the things I love best about Toronto are all the divey restaurants you can chow down at. In Vancouver everything is so clean – I’ve actually seen people eating off the streets.  Granted, it’s at 2 in the morning when the bars close but I’m sure those fine citizens are very aware of what they’re doing.  Toronto, on the other hand, tries to be clean but misses the mark somehow, and this is precisely what I love.

Yesterday Chiuchiu introduced me to the JH on Queen West where you have to walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom.  The dirty dishes covered in tomato sauce and grease piled high on the belt were no indication of the tastiness of my avocado shake and the tomato lentil soup was positively delightful.  Waitress 1 wore a lovely jacket covered in skulls, some of which sparkled, and served us with a smile. Then surly and bored Waitress 2 brought our food. I’m never sure why those who hate people work in the service industry.

In conclusion, these dives are great and well worth eating at, with the exception of Sneaky Dee’s which smells like gym socks and cooked broccoli.

The last assignment for my radio documentary class was to put together a 10 minute doc on any topic of our choosing.  I’d been thinking for awhile about parties and what people celebrate.  The biggest celebration seems to be weddings of which I have attended many, none of them my own.  So I got to thinking about what’s the biggest party you could throw for yourself to mark an event that was sure to happen.  Who would come, what music would be played?  This is that story.

He is an old man.  His grey hair is short, cut close to the head, and his beard is neatly trimmed.  His pinstripe suit isn’t new or pressed, but the hems of his pants break cleanly over his shoes, and the cuffs of his sleeves come right to the wrist.  The collar of his plaid dress shirt is folded smartly over the lapels of the suit jacket.  His leather dress shoes are old and well-worn.

He gazes at the ground as he walks.  His figure is stooped and the limp in his left leg hampers his stride.  He’s not shuffling though – he picks up his feet and sets them down firmly.  His left arm hangs stiffly at his side, while he occasionally raises his right arm to swat above his head at unseen flies or cobwebs.  He coughs often, but never clutches his side, nor does the coughing slow him down.

It’s Friday evening, and his unhurried stride prevents him from keeping up with the hoards of pedestrians who are rushing out of office buildings and scurrying down the street.  As he enters the crowded shopping mall, a group of young adults, oblivious to everything but themselves, walks into his path.  He bumps into the young man, knocking him off-stride.  The youth glances over his shoulder, looks the old man up and down, and turns his attention back to his girlfriend.

The gentleman makes his way to the basement of the Eaton Centre and walks to the back of the food court where he pushes through the door to the men’s washroom.  Fifteen minutes later he reappears, fastening the bottom button of his suit jacket.  He walks slowly past Arby’s, glancing at the sandwiches, and is eventually swallowed up by the crowd as he moves to his next destination.

This was originally an assignment for my magazine class.  When our instructor told us to observe and describe a stranger, I knew exactly the person I wanted to write about.  I sat on the street corner for about an hour before this gentleman walked by and made my day.