Oh, 501

There is something about waiting for the 501 Queen streetcar in the wee hours of the morning that compels complete strangers to let down their guard and talk. It could be the futility of waiting for a streetcar that is always late as billions of taxis zip by or the lonely 3 in the morning experience made even more lonely if you are anywheres near sober. I met a man in his early 20's who sat down and next to me with the opening line … "How long have you been waiting for the streetcar" a bonding Toronto moment if there was any. I learned he was from Calgary and the first of his siblings to leave the nest and settle in a different province and strange city. His mother scolded him saying he'll be a bad influence and his younger brother will most likely fly the coop next. Oh, wayward sons. The conversation stopped once the streetcar arrived. He joined his friend. The streetcar was packed. A chap was playing Neil Young on his guitar as we were all ushered homewards.

The other night I arrived at the queen street stop and was quickly informed by a woman in her early 30's she had been waiting 25 minutes already. I can't remember what inspired her to confide in me but she told me (within a span of seconds) how a gentleman had complimented her on her dress, said it was very nice and then out of the blue proceeded to pat her long hair, like you would a dog. She was absolutely bewildered by his behaviour and as she said that I looked at her; her dress was feminine, light flowing fabric and there was something oddly old fashioned about her. I dunno, maybe it was because she was wearing white and her locks tumbled into loose curls over her shoulders, oddly childlike. She could have easily been an Emily Bronte character. She was vulnerable. Admittedly, I think we all are. We got on the crowded streetcar and some guy behind me was arguing with the streetcar driver, a german woman who works the late shift often enough that I recognize her. I looked over at her, Emily Bronte in white. She seemed uncomfortable. The streetcar driver told him to be quiet , that he didn't even pay for his fare and I wished I had told her, the girl in white, her dress was beautiful.

Perhaps, I need to lighten up but I can't help but feel the late night boozing, bars, the hook-ups is simply longing, longing for love, acceptance or whatever our heart seeks.

Summer in the City

One of my favourite times in summer is from 6pm to 8pm when the sun begins to dip in the west and the light is low. The traffic lights are a brighter red, green and yellow. White shirts glow and the red of the street car is the perfect punch of colour against the backdrop of the summer sky - fuchsias and blues bleeding into the clouds.

Walking past the Thursday night art openings of queen west, past the Gladstone Hotel (a group of twenty-somthings strumming instruments in the window) into the heart of Parkdale, you can literally see the heart of the city beating, pulsating ... I don't care how I am feeling, what state of mind I'm in, I can't help but smile as a head west on queen, a cool breeze nudging me through this Technicolour city.

Another new italian restaurant wafting garlic in the air as I stroll by and I think, I should have stopped, totally crashed that art opening and I want to check out that new restaurant. These days I find myself living like a chaste nun or better yet, a 70 year old stick-in-the-mud shakin' her cane at you. What I hope to do is change this and attempt a re-birth into the city's night life a la solo. Maybe start snorting cocaine like Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, start hanging out with a big party crew and go off the deep end. Could happen. Maybe?

The experiment begins friday august 19th. Will keep you posted. Wish me luck. ;)