Hoopla in Hogtown, pt.3

Goldilocks of the Pants!

I am the proud owner of a practically brand new pair of lululemon pants because they were too small for the girl who bought them, too big for her friend/my cousin, but fit me juuuuuust right.

***

The TTC ate my dayplanner. At least that’s the working theory. I think I left it on the ticket booth counter when I was getting tokens. This was Friday morning. Every time we left a place post-book-loss, I would catch Tracey surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder to make sure I hadn’t left anything. She’s a good friend.

***

Toronto isn’t a small city, right? So how come ever time I’m there, I run into people I know at odd times and places.

Serena. Friday night. Queen West. Approximately 15 minutes after we were texting each other in an attempt to make hang-out plans for Monday.

Aaron. Co-worker briefly at Harbourfront. Last visit: accompanying class [musician]. This time: Little Italy, The Big Chill’s end of season blow-out. With Serena, also co-worker from Harbourfront (but really, who isn’t?).

Antonio. Met in NB, around age 12, through mutual friend. Recognized me around 10 years later while serving. Then co-worker. Bump into him every time in Toronto. Last time: 1:50am, subway. This time: He walks by as I’m sitting on side of Bloor Street about 20 minutes before catching ride back to Ottawa.

Hoopla in Hogtown, pt.2

Oh, the humid sweltering heat that this city does so well! Mother Nature doesn’t seem to understand that it’s October and I should be able to wear jeans without being in near tears due to discomfort. At one point today, I even found myself lingering over a subway grate for the momentary relief provided by the greasy updraft (eww, I know, but it was really hot).

With a relatively open schedule for the afternoon, I started the trek to Bay and College to catch the end of a meeting Tracey was having with Kousha (for our piece – but remember, I wasn’t actually supposed to be in town). I was waylaid on my journey by a guy who needed a photo taken of him in front of Massey Hall. “Make sure it’s good; it’ll be in Monday’s Toronto Star.” Well, it wasn’t, Bernard LaChance, if that is your real name (ok, I checked out his website, bernardlachance.com, and it is his real name). Not that I was entirely surprised. As my friend Mr. B [a photographer] pointed out, The Star has a closed floor. They don’t just print anyone’s photos.

Pfft, not that I’d want my debut as a photojournalist in The Star, anyway. I mean, the only reason it can claim legitimacy as a newspaper is because it’s less laughable than The Sun. That paper still has a featured Sunshine Girl. In a bikini. Every day. The only things The Star has going for it are the crosswords/jumbles and that the classifieds are well laid-out.

The Toronto Star set up free distribution with York during my first year. The following year, U of T got free distribution of The Globe & Mail (on second thought, it may have been The National Post – and Google’s yielding nothin’). At any rate, a good newspaper with a world news section that’s always larger than their entertainment (see also: celebrity gossip) section, no matter what shenanigans Lindsay Lohan has gotten into. [Moncton’s Times & Transcript take note: although I may be pointing at The Star, I am looking directly and sternly at you, undoubtedly shaking my head. And quite possibly tsk-ing].
I believe that the disparity between York and U of T’s free-newspaper alliances aptly encapsulates the perceived disparity between the two schools. This is merely a postulated observation and, true to my status as a York alumna, I think U of T’s pretentiousness makes them look silly and somehow insecure. And no, this is not me being jealous and if you honestly think that, U of T Alumni, you probably should stop reading this anyway ‘cause you don’t wanna be late for the big Phi Delta Theta Trampoline Party.
Nifty!

But I digress.

I missed the meeting by minutes and was suddenly without any plans for a two-hour window. So I kept walking, ruing my choice to wear my blue ever-so-delicate-but-still-knit sweater over top of a t-shirt (I had no idea it was going to be so hot and I wanted to look cute, ok?). By St. George and Harbord, however, I was glad the 2^nd layer masked my thoroughly sweat-soaked underneath layer. Although somehow, with beads of sweat dripping off my nose, I don’t imagine I was fooling anyone.

***

As I turn onto Bloor, I catch sight of the jagged pieces of what is the ROM’s renovated façade jutting out over the street. Michael Lee-Chin – seriously? Crystal Age? Are you sure…?! Alright. I’m just sayin’… Gawd! It’s The Royal Ontario Museum; no one’s expecting it to be moh-derne.

When I was in Toronto last spring, the renovations were nearly complete and Holly [professor from school] told me in great detail about the soundscape-installation (sound-stallation!) her partner John Oswald had created for the lobby.

So in I went to check it out. And it was even cooler than the description – it also helped that the temperature was considerably cooler, too.

I know this may come off all snooty and not at all “hip,” but I think I like installation art. Oh dear! That statement made me cringe; I can only imagine your reactions.
Leslie Korrick, High Priestess of INFA 1500, why do you still torment me after all these years?!

Hoopla in Hogtown, pt.1

I moved away from Toronto just over four years ago. And every time I've been back since (averaging twice a year), the same scenario plays out: my initial return to The Big City That Everyone Loves to Hate always feels comparable to running into an ex a few years post-breakup. "Oh Toronto, why couldn't we make it work? We were good together, weren't we? [No.] If only we had tried to work things out..."
Alas, all it takes is a few days/hours/sometimes minutes for the cracks in the glimmering facade to become apparent and you realize that, yes, you are still better off.

But as I skipped out onto the Danforth en route to "Ride The Rocket" (how the TTC settled on that slogan is beyond me) -- rose-colored glasses securely in place -- Toronto and I were quite pleased to see each other, and I was bubbling over in anticipation of the day to come.

Coming across the too-good-too-pass-up rideshare that brought me to the city a day early was truly a happy accident. I happened upon it shortly after The Unparalleled Wonder That Is Susie Burpee told me that we would just miss each other as she was going out of town for the weekend (where? New Brunswick, of course -- I know!) and if I came earlier or stayed later, not only could we catch up, I could also take her class at Dancemakers. Yes, please!

On the bus to The Distillery, I run into Tal. [Please note: this does not technically count as a coincidence. The Parliament bus goes past TDT, 509 Dance, and Dancemakers, so if you're taking it to morning class, you will invariably encounter a fellow dancer. And for the most part, we all know each other.] Tal is moving to Montréal in two weeks. She's a little concerned about the whole thing. I explain that not only will Toronto still be here, in my experience, people don't tend to forget you. I tell her about the funny questions/comments I've received on every visit:
"Haven't seen you in class lately? Where've you been?"
Well, I moved away four years ago...
"Busy with work, huh?"
Well, kind of, but I'm not living in Toronto.
"So, when are The Uptown Girls doing another show?"
What?! OK, really, that was over four years ago!
So, it completely works in the absentee's benefit that nothing exists outside of Toronto.

As if to illustrate this point, the glorious Kate Alton strikes up a conversation before class with, "So Ali, where've you been hiding lately?" [For those of you familiar with my reverence for all things Kate Alton, you'll be pleased to hear I maintained a cohesive, non-(overly)tangent-y conversation with negligible stammering and blushing. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of my talk with Meagan O'Shea the following evening. Ah well, you win some, you lose some.]

Susie's class was, naturally, fantastic. I still love taking class at Dancemakers despite *insert unseemly grumblings censored due to potential political ramifications.* Sorry if you feel left out of the loop; it would be unwise to post such comments on the internets. The dance-world equivalent of a Disney teen-idol's nude pics -- what was she thinking?!

After class, we hit the bakery on Trinity for their delicious sandwiches and then Soma for a shot of their Mayan hot cocoa (so good that, word has it, it's reduced my friend Neil to tears on more than one occasion).
And we talk. How can so much happen to two people in such a short time? She says she could already see improvement in my dancing (Susie worked with Le Groupe), which is ultra-exciting after a mere 3 weeks.
And as I tell her about The Ottawa Experience Thus Far, she gets all verklempt. And then I do a bit, too; how can you not whole-heartedly love someone who reacts like that? In my thoroughly biased opinion, Susie is the embodiment of greatness. And that she makes time to hang-out with me, well, that's just the coolest thing ever.

I remember the first time I got the nerve to speak to her (years ago now): we were both eating apples and at one point "cheers"-ed them -- who knows why? I'm sure it seemed appropriate in the moment. Normally, not a big deal (odd, but not a big deal), but this transpired midway through The Summer of SARS, a fact that occurred to us immediately afterward.
Thankfully, no public health officials witnessed the display because we mostly likely would have been sent directly to a sanatorium.

Wheelin', Dealin'

The body and I talked things through last night and the body has -- albeit grudgingly -- given me 3, possibly 4 more days of my current neglectful behavior before taking matters into its own hands.
The body has in the past been known to induce illness, unaccountable pain, and above-(Ali)average clumsiness in an attempt to achieve desired amounts of rest, recovery, and respect.
Tensions have been mounting between the two sides over the past couple weeks, but the tentative resolution should stick.

Hang in there, Body! Give me two more days and then Monday is nothing but brunch, yoga, high tea, and a CBC-filled drive back to Ottawa. I may even break the bank for a jug of the finest juice The Big Carrot has to offer.

[Update: I did get a big bottle of Bolthouse's delicious Green Goodness -- the ultimate appeasement.]

Saturday Night: Escape from the Suburbs

Yesterday was moving day. Not a huge ordeal when the extent of your belongings fit neatly into a duffel bag, a pack, and a couple plastic grocery bags (excluding the bike, naturally). Of the two potential rides I had been offered into the city, I opted for the 5:30 one. The hour of departure rolled around and it became devastatingly apparent that the ride in question was not going to work. So there I sat, worldly possessions packed and piled ready-to-go by the door, thinking, “Well, there’s always tomorrow…” when a sudden urgency overtook me.

I would not, could not be in the suburbs for another moment. The possibility of hanging out in Nepean on this Saturday night held as much appeal as the 1hr 40min round trip bike ride it would take to find some fun.
No.
I had to leave.

I had to leave now.

And without the slightest twinge of regret induced by the frivolity of passing up a free ride, I called a cab and headed to my new digs on McLeod Street.

Lucky for me, it was unquestionably the right choice. After tossing the stuff in my new (and very large) room, Brother Dan, Poebe the Wonder Dog, and I walked through the Glebe to pick up a few essentials at the grocery store. My original plan for the evening had been to attend an arcade-themed art-type installation party at Club Saw – I was sold after reading “Super Nintendo” in their publicity. But the unplanned shelling out required by my extravagant transportation choice and the lack of a going-out posse deadened the siren song of the awaiting Atari. Concerned by the prospect of me kicking it alone in a new house, Dan invited me to the party he was attending. At the very least, I’d meet some cool people, he assured me.

And he was right!
I met some fantastic people: Zoe, the adorable hostess; Mark, the host with the quintessential-Ali music collection from A to Z (who’s invited me to bring my computer over whenever I like); Jill, my vivacious could-play-a-young-Julianne-Moore nearly-neighbor; and Anne, her equally hilarious and ultra-creative compatriot.

Want the coincidence of the evening?
Of course you do!

As Anne was adding me to her Facebook – hey, it was almost 2am, there had been drinking, everyone was in their mid-20s to early 30s, it would have been weird if Facebook hadn’t been brought out – I noticed She’s Crafty was listed as an event on her profile. I had been planning to attend after reading about it last weekend. So I asked my new friend if she was going. She looked at me kind of funny, “Ali, I’m organizing it.”

“Your last name is Tessier?! I was on your website and everything!” (Yeah, I’m kind of a geek.) So now, not only will I know at least one person there, it’ll be the organizer! Nice.

Highlight of the evening:

Dan introducing me and, in explaining my recent move, said, “What she’s done is essentially the modern day equivalent of running away to join the circus…”

***

I love my new home. I love my new roommates (including the pup). My new neighborhood. My new friends. My dancing life. The fact that today, Brother Dan made me up a plate of the vegan brunch he cooked for his date.

Love, love, love.

Exhibit 4: Wherein the Universe Ultimately Seizes my Attention with Great Vigor

My friend Steph, in reference to the stories from my Korean Saga, once wrote to me that there are always hard times in the mix with such adventure, but the memories I have will color the entire retirement home I get to when I'm 95 yeas old (she's one of my favorite people ever). Something tells me the same could be said of my current adventures, despite the conspicuous absence of exotic local.

Exhibit 4 is my star witness. It’s the “aha!” moment that interconnects a series of previously unrelated and seemingly meaningless things. It’s watching the tension disappear from Kevin Spacey’s crippled hand in The Usual Suspects. Exhibit 4 is beautiful.

***

The poignancy of this latest round is amplified by some treacherous not-paying-attention-to-my-intuition-(and-after-all-that’s-happened-!!) on my part. The full details are unnecessary; it involved a place I found early last week. I wanted so much for it to work that I completely tuned out the signs that were busily kicking me in the shins, their vain attempt to snare my attention. In the end, it worked out for the best (naturally), but at the time it didn’t feel that way. I’d love to say that I’ve gained all this valuable insight about listening to my intuition and learned my lesson, but I’m not foolish enough to think it will stick. The backslide will happen again, and again… it’s just the way of things.

So, without further ado, I give to you Exhibit 4:

Beth is a friend from York. She and her brother Dan grew up here. In fact, the first time I came to Ottawa was with Beth. Actually, come to think of it, the second time was for her wedding… Anyway, Beth and Dan have family in Moncton. They came to visit their relatives last December and we party-ed it up on New Year’s (I have pictures; we looked sharp). Other than a brief introduction at the wedding and hearing lots about him the whole time I’ve known Beth, this was the first time I had met Dan. And, just like his sis, he’s a great person and I liked him immediately.

When I saw Beth in the spring and asked what Dan was up to, word had it he was moving to Vancouver in the fall. And when coming to Ottawa presented itself and I was talking to Beth about the city and places to stay, she said it was too bad her mom was selling the house (she moved in with her new husband) because there had always been plenty of room. Oh well!

Jump ahead to a week and a half ago:
Biking to class Tuesday morning, I pass someone I think I recognize. I’d been taking the same route around the same time for over a week by this point and assumed it was just another regular. Then, it hit me: he looked like Dan. But it couldn’t be. Because he was in Vancouver. And even if he wasn’t, what are the chances that he would be biking to Nepean? And that we would pass each other? And that I would recognize him? While he was wearing a bike helmet?!

So, I kind-of, sort-of didn’t think it was actually Dan, but took it as a sign to send Beth an e-mail asking if he was in the city. And she told me he was! And that he’s living in the house on McLeod with three other roommates. And that he’s not really accessible by e-mail, but I should give him a call.

And I do. And we play phone tag for a while. And then it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, he’ll know of someone looking for a roommate. So I leave him a phone message to that effect. And a few days later, after an ongoing fruitless and disheartening search for a place, I get a message: Dan’s household has a spare room that just opened up. And it turns out that it was him I passed that morning.

Dan’s response:
“Talk about serendipity.”

And I tell him that I do.

***

I meet up with Dan. And we have tea and talk for hours and decide that I would be a good fit for the household. And here I am. And it’s perfect! I now have a room in a real home that is close to everything, four cool roommates (including Dan, hitherto known as Brother Dan), and Phoebe, one of the smartest dogs I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The End.

But not really.

With all this talk of coincidence, serendipity, and signs from the universe, you may be starting to wonder if I’ve been spending a little too much time with people who eat only raw food or something like that.

Here’s how I see it:
I know that I am in the exact right place for this moment in my life. There are no doubts in my mind. I imagine this doesn’t happen all that often in the course of a lifetime.

Yet, despite this insight, it’s hard when it means leaving the people you love. I miss my family, my friends, my home. When I’m in the right mindset, I remind myself how fortunate I am to have so much love in my life.
But then there are times when I have this pervasive feeling of rawness, like chaffed skin, when all I really want is a hug and my lack of physical proximity to the ones I love resonates throughout my body in the form of a dull ache.
And that sucks.

So when things are less than ideal – the “perfect” place falls through, my turning in class seems beyond hope, there is no one to go out with because I just don’t know enough people yet – and it would be so easy to throw in the towel, hop on a plane, and be at my parents’ place in time for dinner, these synchronous moments crop up, each one seeming to whisper, “Keep going, your on the right track.”
And that’s why I’ve been waxing on about them. I have to remind myself that they did, in fact, happen. And that I am in exactly the right place.

I miss you.

All of you.

To The Embassy, Driver. And Step On It!

Monday evening, Le Groupe held a gala fundraiser at The French Embassy. My primary tasks for the evening were to greet the guests, guide them toward the entrance of the labyrinth [which consisted of pathways defined by small, lit(!) candles on the (!)floor] and replace the aforementioned candles when they were inevitably kicked over by the diplomatic set.

It was grand: the Embassy itself is an art deco palace and at the end of the evening, we had the left-over champagne and some of the tiniest hors d’oeuvres anyone had ever seen. And, of course, I had to be dressed up, which is always fun. For those of you familiar with my multi-purpose dress, I came up with a new asymmetrical way to wear it. A hit, Marie-Claire (one of the dancers) found the most intriguing aspect of it was the amount of left boob that was exposed, which begged the question, how was everything staying put?

The events of Monday evening, however, highlighted a disturbing – albeit hardly new –trend. I am by no means well-versed in the language of fashion. Only a year ago, The Girls launched a determined campaign geared toward enlightening me on The Ways of Such Things. After much concerted effort, a compromise was struck wherein I could wear sneakers out dancing without repudiation, so long as I put on a little make-up. They were and are patient teachers, deserving, I fear, of a more malleable pupil.

Nevertheless, there is one thing I do know and it is this:

Flip-flops are NOT formal wear.

I don’t care how unseasonably warm it is for late-September, you can find lovely sandals that have no more foot-coverage than you standard pair of flip-flops. [I don’t know, is it the lack of coverage that people find so appealing…?]

I was shocked – shocked! – to see this atrocity perpetrated not by teens and early 20s co-eds, but by respectable (although this qualifier could be called into question) middle-aged diplomats and patrons of the arts. What is going on?!

I’m not the biggest fan of flip-flops under the best of circumstances. I find they have an unsettling effect on the wearer’s walk and posture. As footwear, they have their place: the beach, cottage, canoe trips (I don’t want to hear any sass about my own dollar-store beauties), etc. And I wouldn’t dream of denying anyone of their preferred summer footwear. But please don’t pretend they are somehow Gala-appropriate.

Note to my readers who have recently entered university:

Your flip-flop-wearing sins will be overlooked. I clearly recall arriving at my 8:30am Friday enviro. sci. tutorial clad in the same pajamas I had worn to bed the previous evening. On top of that, the tutorial in question was led by none other than Brad, hunky TA and Champion of the Environment. Seventeen-year-old me thought Brad was dreamy!
So, your everyday around campus flip-flops have got nothing on that.

[Still with the Enviro. Sci. here]:
Once, after we had a guest lecture from the president of a logging company known for its stringent sustainability practices and the course’s two other TAs – angry, dreadlocked, no-doubt granola-eatin’ Feminists – got their patchouli-drenched undies in a bunch and, one after the other, launched into an indignant tirade directed at the company and its murder of innocent trees in front of the guest lecturer, no less [man, I hated that department], Brad rose from his seat and calmly expounded on the need for tolerance, understanding, and yes, even sustainable logging practices.

Frankly, he could have told us to go club some baby seals and wear their pelts while burning a few acres of rainforest, and I’m pretty sure the majority of the female population in the lecture hall, bedecked in their MEC finery, would have complied. Ugh, did I mention I hated that department…?

But I digress.

Simple rules of thumb for flip-flops

Yes: beach, cottage, public showers, gym locker rooms
No: job interviews, weddings, gala fundraisers

So if in the process of getting dolled-up, you find yourself stuck looking at the “super-cute” $3-pair you picked up from Old Navy, and say, “These ones have rhinestones – that kind of makes them formal…?” No, it does not. Or “How about these ones with the sweet little sunflower?” Not on your life. Look at it this way, if they’re made of plastic and/or float in water, do yourself a favor: Go for another option.

***

And if, by some bizarre happenstance, this blog is read by the woman I saw out dancing in Moncton who saw fit to pair her hoochie club ensemble with white Crocs and thought that was acceptable (I’m only assuming) because they were studded with “diamond” jewels, I have this to say to you:

Sweetheart, they’re Crocs; the rhinestones don’t make ‘em look “hot.”
*3 snaps in Z-formation, turn on heel, and walk away*