Tag Archives: Toronto

Unlearning what I have learned

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Tonight, mom and I went to Hope Lives Here, a fundraiser for the Georgian Bay Cancer Support Centre. The big room was filled with people celebrating cancer patients and survivors – bound together by shared experience.

I was moved by stories of courage, loss and, most of all, hope. I was also a bit overwhelmed by faces from my past.

If you aren’t from a small town, here’s what it’s like: there’s no use hiding in the bathroom when you’re guaranteed to know the woman peeing next to you.

If you were a total misfit and weirdo most of your youth (ahem), this lack of anonymity can be trying. But most of the time, it’s nice to feel connected to those around you. I think that’s what most mean when they use the word community: people who share a common story.

When I first moved to Toronto, I made eye contact with everyone I passed on the sidewalk, talked to anyone I rode more than two floors with in an elevator, and always made friends with seatmates on the subway, whether they smelled like garbage or not.

Fast-forward to now. The chatty salesperson trying to recommend a product makes me want to claw my eyes out. The old lady asking me where I got my coat gives me tappy-foot syndrome.  The waitress who can’t stop talking about the weather is deeply irritating.

My ability to remain disconnected from (or inability to connect with?) people I bump into every day is sad. In the words of Yoda, I must unlearn what I have learned.

This event was a good start. A reminder of the importance of community – in helping people heal, giving us purpose, and bringing our days meaning. I’m going to carry that lesson in my back pocket these next few weeks and see where it takes me.

 

Citry girl in New York

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These days I kind of feel like my Portuguese mom would have felt a year after moving to Manitouwadge from the Azores: super confused about my identity.

I’m not a posh Torontoist, but I’m not a bumpkin from Perkinsfield anymore either. I scoff at people in crocs, but snort at those who order espresso. It’s an interesting space to inhabit.

I’m a country-turned-city-turned-country girl, or (another hybrid word!) a citry girl. And this citry girl just got back from an extended weekend in New York.

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Mireille and Cynthis in Times Square

I’m not going to lie, the trip kind of made me miss Toronto. Not because New York’s not awesome, but because big cities can be.

We shopped for sunglasses at 2 a.m. in Times Square, ate amazing Indian food on Diwali, and bought handmade jewellery from an artisan’s market in Greenwich Village. Somehow Elmvale’s gift shop, Chinese food and farmer’s market can’t quite compare.

Ghost busters stand in a group

Halloween in NYC means meeting Ghost Busters!

Exploring some parts of New York felt to me like bumping into childhood friends – your guts say you know them but you don’t actually. Wall Street is like Bay street, but with better bagels. Fifth Avenue is like Yorkville times 20. Central Park is like High Park, but bigger and, well, central.

Rockefeller Tower

Rockefeller

It was pretty wonderful to be in the thick of it all, but at the end, it was equally wonderful to park my car next to my big red house, step out, and smell the fresh country air.

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Skyline with lady liberty

A big, warm thank you to Mireille and Cynthia, my travel buddies, for sharing the big apple with me. A little city adventure was just what I needed to appreciate where I’ve been and where I’m going.

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Me at the Staten Island Ferry

Kansas

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Sometimes I feel like Dorothy. Yesterday, I learned that Flynn’s Irish Pub in Penetanguishene becomes Uncle Flynn’s Daycare during business hours.

Huh?

When I hear about stuff like that, I can help but think “Mikaela, you’re not in Toronto anymore.” I’m actually in Kansas. Or what most Torontonians think of as the equivalent of Kansas: Ontario farm country.

Here are two other examples.

1) The other day I asked a colleague from Elmvale where I could drop off my dry cleaning in town. The answer surprised me.

“The gun shop,” she said.

“!??,” I said with my face.

A quick call to her husband, a local tradesman, confirmed it. Watson’s Sports is where you go to get your clothes dry cleaned in my town. While you’re dropping off your silk shirts, you can also pick up a new Ruger and some Hula Poppers. Amazing.

That night I – the pacifist vegetarian – stood in front of the gun shop on Queen Street East with an armload of dirty officewear, looking for some sign that they cleaned clothes.

My eyes found a barely legible, tucked away old placard that either said “French cry leaners” or “French’s dry cleaners.”  I hoped it was the latter and went in.

A man stared me down as I dumped my blouses and trousers on the glass counter – right on top of the ammo. He didn’t offer to help me. Didn’t even bat an eye.

“Do you take dry cleaning?” I asked.

“Yes we do,” he volunteered.

“…?” I said with my face. “I’d like to get these cleaned. How long will it take?”

“Two weeks,” he replied as he slowly moved to fill out a receipt.

I tried not to look shocked (two weeks!?) and walked around the store. I’m pretty sure there was a mounted stuffed dear head behind a rack of camouflage coats. Pray for my favourite blazer.

2) This past weekend was the Elmvale Fall Fair, in all its carnivalesque glory. There are so many reasons to love this event.

For starters, all of the moms and dads with kids at local schools take a day off work to watch their children march in the Friday afternoon parade. Apparently it lasts all of 15 minutes. That, friends, is community.

Then there’s the Saturday afternoon parade, which features pretty much all non-school-aged Elmvalers – everyone from grannies on scooters to farmers on tractors.

Also worth seeing at the fair: the tractor pull, oddest-shaped vegetable, best barley, most beautifully decorated pancake, and of course, the top cow.

This year, my old roomie Steph and I watched a handful of (we thought identical) three-year-old jersey cows walk around in circles and compete for a shiny red ribbon. A dairy farmer sitting next to us explained that judges look for cows with veiny udders and great “angularity” – that means bony.

But what I love most about the fair is that basically every living person originally from Elmvale comes to town, plus several extras like me. We could probably have sold parking spots in our driveway.

This really is a whole other world. My personal Oz.

The eighth oddest shaped vegetable in Elmvale

These cows are for eating, but at the fall fair, they are treated like queens.

These cows are for eating, but at the fall fair, they are treated like queens.

Off her rocker.

Off her rocker.

Mini princesses at the parade.

Mini princesses at the parade.

Elmvale is...

Rural Elmvale is… where we come back

Rural life.

Rural life.

Steph at the top of the ferris wheel

Steph at the top of the ferris wheel

The last piece

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I’m probably not supposed to virtually high five myself in my own blog, but I’ve got to hand it to me, I’ve been fairly practical through this transition.

With an exceptionally detailed to do list, I planned and prioritized the shit out of our move. I took an almost clinical approach to long-distance coaching JF on how to pack our apartment. I gathered amazing friends and family to help us renovate and settle. And through all of the job hunting muck, I stayed calm, reasonably organized, and moderately efficient.

Which is why I rather surprised myself today, when I traded my cell’s hard-fought 416 area code in for a no-questions-asked 705 model.  I didn’t think it was a big deal, but it was. As soon as I hung up with Koodo customer service, I felt a wooshing and sinking feeling in my belly.

I blame the new phone number. I don’t like the way it sounds. Too many fives or something.

Anyway, as I was driving home from work and pondering the wooshing, I realized this change was the last piece. The final vestige of my life in the city.

Tomorrow, I will toast the end of a process that took a lot out of me. Onward. Upward. And 705-ward.

Settling in?

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It’s been 2.5 weeks and our house is starting to feel like home. Sort of. We’ve finished de-wallpapering, painting and unpacking two out of 13 rooms. Two important rooms — the kitchen and living room — but that is still a measly 15% of the spaces in our house.

The good news is, we’re really enjoying that 15%. Tonight we sat on the couch and surfed the internet for several hours. That was great.

Living room before and after.

Living room before and after.

 

The bad news is, the rest of the house is in shambles. Pockmarked walls, smelly grey carpet, and a few sticks of furniture. I generally pretend those parts don’t exist. Or I attack them with spackle in the hope that they can soon be painted and prettied up.

Dining area before and after.

Dining area (in the kitchen) before and after. I need a bigger area rug.

 

I don’t think I’ll ever claim the main bathroom and damp basement as ours. They might be lost causes.

Kitchen before and after.

Kitchen before and after.

Neither JF nor I have fully absorbed the implications of home ownership. I still treat my mom’s like a grocery store. And JF still refers to the Toronto apartment as “home.”

I say THE Toronto apartment because, as of August 31, it is no longer OUR Toronto apartment. Aside from the baby squirrels that currently live on its dining room windowsill, it’s vacant. And soon, someone new will take over the lease.

Generally, we haven’t had any time to ponder the deep, existential, seismic change that empty apartments represents. We haven’t even cut our lawn yet. I’m waiting for that “holy crap this is real” moment.

In the meantime, we will keep trying to enjoy our new life while chipping away at the monstrous project we started when our mortgage went through.

Moving Sh*t

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Waiting for possession of a house feels kind of like the toe-curling excitement you get when you’re five years old, bundled up on the couch, and waiting for Santa to come down the chimney on Christmas Eve.

I’ve literally got a calendar with big black exes on the days that have gone by and a big red circle around August 16. I’ve already sketched out where my furniture will go, what paint colour I’m putting on my walls, and what I want to renovate first. Just thinking about that stuff makes me crazy-giggles happy.

The entrance hall of our new house. I'm thinking different tiles and a fresh coat of paint.

The entrance hall of our house. I’m thinking hardwood and a fresh coat of paint.

But what I didn’t quite grasp until about two weeks ago is that buying a house and relocating to a new town involves a lot of unpleasant work too. Thrilling tasks such as: decoding inspection reports, talking to lawyers, finding a new doctor, figuring out how to pile all our money together and give it to someone else, getting internet installed, paying hydro and gas installation costs, booking a moving van, changing our phone numbers, and determining what our day to day finances will look like with a massive mortgage weighing us down.

Then there is the actual act of moving. Getting all of our stuff from one residence to another. Call me weird, but I usually enjoy this process. I get a kick out of cleaning, sorting, labelling, and re-organizing my things. And when everything is in its new and proper place, the “I did that” feeling you get is such a high.

That said, this move is a little different than my past moves for a few reasons:

  • I’m not living in Toronto right now, so JF is packing up our apartment. Picture disorganized piles of loose, unrelated things being shipped out.
  • I now have a billion pound, upright piano. Normally awesome but at this moment, ugh.
  • After 10 years of renting, I am apparently millimetres away from becoming a hoarder. Though JF had rather frequently told me I have too many teacups and vases, I certainly never agreed with him until it came time to pack and move them.
Our Toronto apartment a few months ago. Looks innocuous, but I can assure you there were several truckloads of useless trinkets hidden in it.

Our Toronto apartment a few months ago. Looks innocuous, but there were several truckloads of useless trinkets hidden in it.

One thing is certain, I am doing a massive, Clean-Sweep-esque (Peter, I wish I could hire you!) sort as we unpack and settle in. And then, we will be hosting a great big, Elmvale garage sale. Maybe I’ll make lemonade and bake (read: burn) cookies to entice our new neighbours over.

In the meantime, I’m daydreaming about cream coloured walls, chrome hardware, and brightly painted dressers while trying to forget the to do list on my bedside table that seems to be perpetually growing.

Adventures in Antiquing

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I generally believe that old things are much better than new ones. Old music, old recipes, old houses — they are simply more remarkable than their modern counterparts. And few activities get my heart pumping like shopping for vintage furniture.

This chair is on for $55 at Country Connection in Elmvale

This chair is on for $55 at Country Connection in Elmvale

To me, antiques are, by virtue of their age, special. They have stories to tell. Their dents and scratches are like Girl Guide badges: proof that they’ve been there and done that. They make spaces totally inimitable, are often better constructed, and are good for the planet.

But here’s the best part about antiques: they can save you money. They can even be cheaper than IKEA, if you know where to look.

This chandelier was on for $50 at the north Toronto Re-Store

This chandelier was on for $50 at the north Toronto Re-Store

After years of hanging out with my mom (who taught me the value of a lick of paint and new hardware), I feel like I know how to shop for nifty and thrifty old stuff. Here’s my best advice:

1)   Always go with specific items in mind. If you shop aimlessly, you will end up with VHS tapes, santa claus cake molds, and shot glass collections.

2)   Start with the classics. Value Village, the Salvation Army and Goodwill are well organized and cheap. Try asking when they pull out new arrivals, so that you’re looking at a fresh batch when you go.

3)   Move on to garage sales. When garage saleing, start at 7 a.m. and bring caffeine. Come prepared with lots of change, the latest local classifieds and a GPS. Always stop at unadvertised sales for better odds of finding good pieces.

4)   Then check out consignment, estate sales and auctions. I have to be honest, I’ve never been to an auction. But if they’re like estate sales (which are usually advertised in the paper) they are fantastic. Of Things Past and Around the Block, both in north Toronto, are great consignment stores.

5)   Try the Re-Store. Support Habitat for Humanity AND find cheap sinks, light fixtures, and wallpaper.

6)   Next stop, antique stores. When you go to antique stores, you’re buying from people who have scoured sources 2 through 5 as well as hockshops and curbside garbage piles. You pay a bit more for those efforts, but there are some gems out there:

7)   Finally, flea markets. I have better luck buying food than antiques at flea markets, but the 400 market isn’t bad and the Elmvale market surprises me sometimes.

These benches were $40 and $60 at Dead People's Stuff in Bloomfield, PEC

These benches were $40 and $60 at Dead People’s Stuff in Bloomfield, PEC

Because I’ve basically been antiquing since birth, I already have a lot of old stuff. In fact, I probably have enough teak credenzas, rustic wardrobes and musty wicker baskets to fully furnish our new house. That said, I’m still pretty darn excited at the prospect of a few new little nooks to fill.

I’ve already dragged friends to antique stores in Toronto and Prince Edward County (side note: MacCool’s Reuse is a PEC mid-century mecca!) and look forward to more adventuring over the next few months.  Bring on the cracked tables and blue mountain pottery.

My mom scored two of these lamps (sans shades) at a Midland garage sale for $5

My mom scored two of these lamps (sans shades) at a Midland garage sale for $5

(Missing) The big smog

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My country bumpkin family often refers to Toronto as “the big smog.” I usually do it in a teasing, almost loving way, like I’m poking fun at an old friend. Besides, it’s only fair. We get “the sticks,” “the boonies” and “the backwater.”

But today — as I chewed some particularly sad and rubbery wakame salad at Midland’s one sushi restaurant — I found myself pining over some of Toronto’s finer points. So I wrote a list of things I miss about the city:

  • JF
  • People — friends, colleagues, my fellow Cantores choristers, and the Rebelo family
  • Matt Galloway
  • Good sushi
  • Good Any Indian food
  • The plethora of job postings with decent wages
  • Diversity
  • Solomon’s seal tea (Yishey, why did you get me hooked on that shit?)
  • The Toronto Blue Jays
  • The St. Lawrence Market
  • Pride
  • Regularly discovering new corners and nooks
  • Driving through yellow lights
  • The Grid
  • Anonymity
  • Properly stocked LCBOs
  • Social media that actually keeps up with local news
  • Concerts
  • Starbucks
I think I took this at Nuit Blanche 2012.

I think I took this at Nuit Blanche 2012.

Then, I promptly built a list of things I don’t miss a mite:

  • Looking nice all the time
  • Congestion
  • The TTC
  • Noise
  • Warmer temperatures, with sticky air and half-assed breezes
  • The smell of garbage day
  • The pace of everything (but driving and social media)
  • Crowds
  • Feeling totally disconnected from the people around me
  • Biking accidents
  • Yorkdale mall
  • House prices
  • Eating at restaurants almost daily
  • Rob Ford
  • Parking downtown
  • The Toronto Maple Leafs
  • Crazy rent prices
  • Getting lost in the PATH
  • The cost of food at farmer’s markets

Don’t worry, I’m not second guessing my choice. Just re-acquainting myself with what I’ve consciously decided to leave behind. A bittersweet exercise.

Small Town Living

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Living at mom’s isn’t half bad. As expected, she makes delicious food, folds my socks, and puts little pots of fresh lavender on my bedside table. The way she constantly keeps tabs on me is weird, but I’d forgotten how nice her house — with its comfy couches and vibrant art — is to be in.

I just had lunch on my mom's front porch. Lovely.

I just had lunch on my mom’s front porch. Lovely.

Beyond enjoying my mother’s slave labour, home, and company, living in Midland again is pretty great. My calendar is clearing up, my to do lists are shrinking, and I’ve spent a lot of time with family.

This morning, maman and I walked to Little Lake Park for a drop-in yoga class only to find the gazebo that usually houses Friday yoga totally devoid of activity. Google told me class had been moved to the Yoga House in Penetanguishene.

Little Lake Park, one of Midland's hubs.

Little Lake Park, one of Midland’s hubs.

We were about to walk home grumpy, when another misinformed yogi tapped us on the shoulder and asked if we knew whether class was cancelled. When we said it was moved she (a total stranger!) offered us a ride to the studio. And my mom (I repeat, total stranger!) said “sure” and hopped into the nice lady’s SUV. What could I do but follow?

The Toronto in me thought we might be driven down some dirt road, bound, gagged, and diced into fleshy bits, but it turns out our fellow lululemon-wearer was a friend of a friend. Of course.

When we got to class late, I was astounded when instead of scowling at us, people made room for us. And 90% of attendees looked at least vaguely familiar. The woman behind me was a former colleague at Discovery Harbour. The woman to my right was mom’s best friend. The woman two mats ahead of me had often shopped at Rub of the Green, the eccentric little boutique I worked in through high school.

A billion downward dogs later (ow!) I nabbed my old friend’s number then went out for coffee with mom and her buddies. At Grounded, we bumped into three more acquaintances. I smiled so much I think my dimples are now permanently etched into my cheeks.

It’s nice slash strange to feel so connected to the people and places around me again. That’s small town living for you.

My new friend Nytol

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We recently gave our notice to our landlord. We must and will be out of our Toronto apartment for September 1, 2013. Which means we must and will either buy a house or rent a place in Simcoe County sometime this summer. Blimey. This is really happening.

Or is it?

A few months ago, thinking about houses at bedtime (silk curtains, granite countertops and hardwood floors… mmmmmm) would send me first into a pleasant haze, then straight to sleep. Now, thinking about houses at bedtime induces me to take Nytol — an effective drug recently added to my pharmaceutical lexicon.

We just can’t seem to agree on what house to buy. What I love, he doesn’t. What he loves is ugly. And after ten years of renting, we just don’t want to rent anymore.

Which is why I’m moving (temporarily, I hope) into my teenhood bedroom at my mom’s Midland house in a week. From that tiny “terracotta”-painted (i.e. poo brown) shrine to my youth, I can help with my sister Alicia’s engagement party, volunteer, job hunt, go to the beach, hang out with my avó, and drive around like a crazy person in search of “for rent” and “for sale by owner” signs. My amazing mother will feed me and do my laundry.

This is my mom's house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

This is my mom’s house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

Mom, I love you. Thank you for being a regular reader of this blog. But I’m a bit scared of living with you and Geneviève. Three women, one bathroom. Plus it’s been ten years since I lived with a parent.

I started packing today and it’s harder than I thought. Just how many bags does one need for an indefinite stay in a small, storagely-challenged room?

I say indefinite stay, but there is a ray of hope in the vast gloom of this house hunt. JF and I recently set a drop dead date. On July 22, we will either make an offer on this house in Coldwater (which we both love — we would just prefer Elmvale) or choose a house to rent.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

We’ve committed. Crossed our hearts. Pinky swore. But whether we will actually be able to make a decision on July 22 remains to be seen.

What I know for sure is that for the next few months, I will have a foot in both worlds. JF will be working away in Toronto while I try to start building our new life in Simcoe County.