Recent stories and editorials in The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star and elsewhere have accused a surprising number of Toronto Transit Commission employees of unprofessional conduct, ranging from sleeping in their ticket booths, to texting behind their wheels, to pushing the passengers around. To add to the TTC’s besmirched reputation, several of its vehicles have recently been involved in accidents that have left motorists and pedestrians seriously injured and even dead.

There are two sides to everything of course, and out of the hundreds and hundreds of drivers and other employees, this rash of incidences of inattention and frustrated behaviour is probably representative of a small minority. Most of the drivers I’ve run into as I wend my way through Toronto almost exclusively by public transit have been helpful, friendly, attentive and — for the most part — apologetic when something wasn’t working or they couldn’t answer questions. Some have even gone out of their way to help passengers with problems, remind them of an upcoming stop that they have asked about, and patiently listened to the nutbars who stand next to them and yak on and on about religion and politics as the drivers try to steer through traffic and snow to their appointed destinations.

My sympathies for transit staff increased when I read this excellent article in Toronto Life about the impact of “subway jumpers” on the drivers who become their unwilling killers.

It’s true that there are lots of problems with the transit system here — long subway delays (sometimes because of the aforementioned jumpers) are part of the fabric of daily life. When I was at a hospital recently for a minor procedure, I noticed a form that staff needed to fill out to indicate the status of scheduled patients, and one of several boxes that could be checked to indicate the reason for a patient’s non-appearance was “delayed on subway.”

Still, it hasn’t been so long since I lived in a city where the only “rapid transit” was the occasional cab driver who drove too fast, where buses sometimes appeared earlier than the appointed hour and if you missed them, you could be left standing in lethal cold for an entire half hour or longer before the next one came along, and where driver rudeness and inattention seemed more the rule than the exception. On one occasion a bus I was taking to a meeting drew up to a regular stop, and the driver quietly called in to central office for a repair team and then sat and waited for it, without bothering to inform the passengers that the bus would not be going anywhere for quite a while. In the meantime, several other buses went past to which we might have transferred.

So I am not complaining here in my new city. I am still astonished at the number of buses and streetcars that show up on a regular basis throughout downtown Toronto, and I still see the subway as a modern miracle—even if it is apparently outdated and slow compared to those of other large cities. But I also understand why everyone else here is frustrated. This, to them, is like Saskatoon Transit was to me (and apparently still is to those who continue to reside in that otherwise warm, friendly and accommodating prairie city).

___

Note: I have pretty much stopped posting to this blog. After a year and a bit I no longer consider myself a newcomer to Toronto. But I do still blog, fairly often, and you can check out my other writing locations here:

I’m All Write: Some thoughts and an occasional update for those who don’t follow me on Facebook or Twitter

The Militant Writer: My flagship blog — I am militant about lots of stuff, and I think other writers should be too

Notions: Observations on life that I can’t think where else to put

Book Reviews:  An occasional blog

Film and Movie Reviews: Another occasional blog

Fiction Tips and Writing Tips for Bloggers are even more occasional

Some of my Short Stories

by Mary W. Walters

originally published in Open Book Toronto. Also reposted to my ongoing blog, The Militant Writer

Waiting for the lights to change at Bay and King, I looked happily up at the office buildings and through a gap in the high-rises to the southwest at the CN Tower lit up in blue and red. Even after two months, I still could not believe that I was actually living in Toronto — a city that I found endlessly appealing for its size and sprawliness, its geographical and cultural variety, its human diversity, its sounds, its smells, its industry and (most particularly, to my mind) its status as one of the world’s great writing and publishing centres.

A friend and I had decided to walk, despite the dampness of the afternoon, from College Street down to Front, where we would survey the rich literary wares on offer at Nicholas Hoare Books. Just ahead of us now was Harbourfront, where internationally renowned writers read to captivated audiences. A few miles back were the publishing houses whose logos had marked the spines of books I’d been reading since I was a child — McClelland & Stewart, HarperCollins Canada, Penguin. From the very spot where I now stood on the street corner, I was sure — if I only knew which way to look — I would see a few of the windows to the mysterious aeries where the literary agents dwelled.

I laughed aloud from my pleasure just to be there, and my friend pulled me closer in a hug to share my joy. I wished that I could have beamed my feelings of excitement and anticipation back across the miles to the friends and family I’d left in western Canada — most of whom had received the news that I was packing up everything I owned and moving all alone to Toronto with a mixture of indulgent good wishes and mystification. There had probably also been prayers for both my safety and my sanity (Toronto being, after all, the city most Canadians love to hate).

But I had done it. And here I was: poised on that very curb that very afternoon — ready, I firmly believed, to fulfill my destiny as a fiction writer.

* * *

Mine is not an uncommon story. Every year, hundreds or possibly thousands of aspiring writers, actors, designers, visual artists and musicians make the trek east from the frozen prairie by bus or plane or car (or west, from the Atlantic stormlands), their backpacks set, suitcases rolling along behind them, their gazes lifting with their hearts as the office towers emerge from the mists like physical representations of their dreams. Nor is my story uniquely Canadian: it repeats itself in big cities all over the world — from Mumbai to London and New York — and has for generations. Whenever and wherever there are dreamers in the hinterlands, there will be those who will make their ways toward the cities.

So I was just one of many — but in my case, there was a twist. Most of my fellow-travelers were kids: 18 years old or less, 25 at most — young people who’d been motivated to take action by the need and determination to fulfill their destinies before real adult life intervened. I, on the other hand, was 59, with much of my adult life behind me, and my dream had been 30 years in the percolation.

I hadn’t even figured out the nature of my destiny until after I’d had children. Although I’d once imagined myself as a translator at the UN, I’d set my sights on more proximate goals — obtaining a degree, falling in love, getting married and starting a family. Still, something was always missing — some part of me felt underdeveloped. I took piano lessons, a course in clothing design, aerobics. And then, one day, age 29, I signed up for a correspondence course in fiction writing… and my fate was sealed.

In the years that followed, as I raised my children and gradually acquired the editing skills that allowed me to earn a living, I also wrote and published dozens of short stories, works of creative non-fiction and two novels. I wrote radio dramas and documentaries. I won writing awards, critical accolades and even an entry in Who’s Who in Canada. But I was unable to extend my fiction-writing reputation beyond the West. I came to believe (to the scorn of many of my fellow prairie writers) that if I wanted to fulfill my dreams for my fiction and myself, I would need to move closer to Canada’s largest centre for the literary arts.

By the time my first book of non-fiction was released, my kids were well launched and my daily life was my own again. As an editor and writing consultant, my physical location no longer mattered: I could earn a living in cyberspace. I decided that moving to Toronto would provide me with the kind of big-city environment I had always found inspiring, and I decided that it was now or never. The fiction writer in me smiled at these decisions, and stretched, and opened up her arms to opportunity.

So here I am, with all the younger dreamers, and I’m holding some cards they’re not. A few them will find success in their chosen fields, but before long most of them will need to relinquish their artistic hopes in favour of the joys and realities of adult life: marriages, careers and children.

I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world… not to mention thirty years of credentials and experience. In my more mature and serious moments, I imagine that I am here not only for myself, but also for them: the wide-eyed talents who are standing beside me on the street corners (not to mention the ones back home who, in their late twenties or mid-thirties are just now discovering their passions). I’m here to remind them to be patient and to practise: there will be time for them to stretch and fly after the kids grow up. I’m here to tell them, too, that if they nurture and groom their talents, they will have as many dreams at 60 as they did at 17.

But most of the time I’m not mature and serious. Most of the time I’m just a kid standing on a Toronto street corner, imagining a red-carpet of a future rolling out before me as I step down off the curb.

Post 24

There are advantages to moving to a new city five months before your belongings arrive. One of them is that you are calm and collected when the boxes and furniture are delivered, and you are not already exhausted when you start to unpack. I am taking my time and enjoying re-discovering what I own. The move was not, however, quite the triumph I had hoped it would be from a financial point of view.

At storage unit in Saskatoon

On the morning of Sunday, April 18, right at the appointed hour (i.e., at 8 a.m.), Country Wide Movers/Allied Van Lines arrived at my storage unit in Saskatoon to pick up my belongings and bring them to Toronto. Three weeks prior to that, I had sent out quote requests to seven or eight movers. Four replied –with five estimates. The two lowest bids both came from the same company – Two Small Men with Big Hearts. (One of their estimates was for $2,300 and the other for $2.760 for the same weight and distance.) The other three were about $1,000 more. After checking on-line for the reputations of all four companies that submitted estimates, I took the lowest of the three higher bids (all of which were within $100 of one another): the one from Country Wide Movers/Allied Van Lines.

Due to the small print and confusing layout of the estimate (see below), plus the fact that it was so close in amount to the other two acceptable bids, I neglected to notice that the Country Wide quote was based on a weight of 3,000 lbs while the others were based on a weight of 4,000 lbs. I did realize that all companies would weigh the truck before and after they had loaded the goods, and revise their estimates based on the actual weight. However, if most companies figured that my belongings would weigh at least 4,000 lbs based on the list I had provided (which included 30 to 40 2 x 2 ft. boxes of books), why didn’t Country Wide?

Still, the fault is mine for not reading more closely. Never assume anything when it comes to a moving company. Or any cost estimate, I suppose.

As it turned out, the actual weight of my possessions was about 4,600 lbs, so my charge from Country Wide ended up being about $1,000 more than the estimate. In the long run, I could have got the move cheaper from ANY of the other companies. Stupid me.

Allied did do a good job of moving my things efficiently and safely from Saskatoon to Toronto. They arrived for the pickup exactly when they said they would, and they delivered when they said they would. Both times the driver called the night before to double-check the time and the address. I was very happy with the driver and his assistants in both Saskatoon and Toronto. It was only the estimator who did not leave me feeling very pleased. Considering how many problems people have with movers, I guess I should be contented that nothing else went wrong — but money is money, especially when you’re moving and so many other costs are involved. As far as I’m concerned, $1,000 is a lot of money at any time.

By the way, the Government of Canada has a very good checklist for consumers when it comes to choosing a mover. I highly recommend that others (even non-Canadians!) read it before undertaking any major move. It’s located here: http://www.ic.gc.ca/eic/site/oca-bc.nsf/eng/ca02029.html

My apartment before the movers arrived...

And now I have all my belongings in one place. All I have to do is unpack and figure out where to put everything. I have had no second thoughts about moving to Toronto. I am already finding more work here as a freelancer than I have had before, and I’m busy with social activities, visitors from the west and south, and events I want to take in solo or with other people. And I still love the subway.

... and after the delivery

It was a good decision for me, and I am one happy former-Saskatoonie-former-Edmontonian-former-Londoner(ON)-former-Wainwrightian-current-Torontonian.

The estimate from Country Wide

Post 23

Today I get all my stuff from Saskatoon. Welcome to your new home, Cuisinart coffeemaker!!!!! How I have missed you. Welcome books and bookshelves: we must never be separated for this long again. Welcome, mattress. The airbed and I just never hit it off. And Watch Out, Toronto: I am grounded. Hear me roar.

Post #22

I sat down to write an update to this blog and realized that I am now pretty much settled. There is still administrative stuff to do, and lots of parts of Toronto to explore, but I don’t feel like a newcomer here. I find myself as irritated with the phone company as I was in Saskatoon, and in Edmonton before that, which means I must be home. I even got myself a family physician last week.

Spring in the city

I’ve read that it takes a full year to get used to new surroundings and completely feel at home, but since I think it is likely that I’ll be moving to a new apartment when the first year in Toronto is up (just to get myself a bit more room), I can only say, “It’s never over till it’s over.” And I hope it will be a very long time before it is!

Anyway, anything further that I could write about Toronto now would be the same kinds of things a visitor would tell you – they would include my first trips to the St. Lawrence and the Kensington Markets, the Bata Shoe Museum (a pretty cool place, I must say: they have a pair of Elton John’s shoes there, and a pair of Marilyn Monroe’s, and Terry Fox’s, and Pierre Elliott Trudeau’s. Not to mention a lot of intriguing shoe history), or seeing the King Tut show at the Art Gallery of Ontario – a building to which I want to return soon, to admire the building itself. It was designed by Frank Gehry, who is originally from Toronto.

Those are some boots! At Bata Shoe Museum

So I am going to abandon this blog for the most part, and move on to the next stage of my life with a brand new blog, The Whole Clove Diet Chronicles, where I am hoping you will rejoin me. Here’s the basis for that one:

After six years of trying to find an agent and a publisher for my third novel, I am about to take the self-publishing leap. I intend to prove that in this era of book-publishing uncertainty, for certain novels (my own being a prime example) self-publishing can be a far better choice than the traditional route.

Unfortunately, while I was looking for an agent, I was also eating too many M&Ms. So in preparation for all the media stuff I’m sure I’ll need to do (appearances on The Today Show, Ellen Degeneres, and Perez Hilton), I am about to apply the techniques set out in The Whole Clove Diet to get my svelte self back.

I’m blogging it all (the weight loss and the self-publishing) here:

http://wholeclovediet.wordpress.com/

Alexander Muir Park

Thank you all for your support throughout this move!

Post #21

At the end of April, I am going on a business trip to Saskatoon. This will offer me the opportunity to see some of the people from that city I’ve been missing, but it also means that I will finally be able to spring my furniture loose from the storage unit and move it to Toronto.

In the next few weeks I will be posting on Kijiji and Craigslist (and other places anyone suggests) to try to find someone who would like to share a moving van from Saskatoon to Toronto in late April. If you know of anyone in that situation, let me know!

Two months after that, I will be in Edmonton to collect the last of the items remaining in the storage unit there. This means that as of June, for the first time in about ten years I will have all of my possessions consolidated at one address in one city. I am really looking forward to being in that position.

The only problem I’ll have then (possession-wise) is that I will probably have too many things to fit in my apartment here. However, I am quite happy to consider being overcrowded for a while after feeling like I’m in a campground for what will have been six months by then. (What I am anticipating most is having a real bed again—no one wants to alternate between sleeping on an air-bed and a couch for six months: trust me.  Next in importance will be getting my paintings and bookcases up on and against the walls. This place is barren and it makes me feel barren in my head. I need my books and art.)

The next phase—sorting – can happen when it will; like Goldilocks, my ultimate goal is to  create a situation that is exactly right . . . mainly so I can stop thinking about my immediate surroundings, and get back to focusing on my work (and my recreation of course!)

One thing I have learned through all of this is that it is desirable to be in a position where one can take one’s living quarters for granted. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done that.

Post #20

Note to self: Next time someone gives you an address in Toronto, ask that person whether there is an East or a West involved. Do not simply look the address up on Google Maps and assume that Google Maps has given you the correct and only answer. Many addresses in Toronto do not have an East or a West attached to them. But those on major streets that fall on one side or the other of Yonge St., for example (like Bloor and Sheppard) do.

If you take this simple step of finding out exactly where you are going before you go there, you will never again find you’ve headed off in the wrong direction from the subway stop, and that you are therefore arriving one-half-hour late for—let us say—an ophthalmology appointment with your hair as damp and bedraggled as your spirits because you’ve walked 15 blocks farther than you needed to through a downfall of wet snow.

Just a suggestion. An auto-suggestion, as it were.

Post #19

On a Tuesday in mid-January, I was called suddenly and unexpectedly to Alberta when my 89-year-old aunt fell seriously ill. Since her illness had come on so quickly, I had to pack and go very quickly. In fact, before I could even get to her bedside, she had died.

The next five days passed in a whirl of emotions and administrative responsibilities as my sister and my cousin and I made arrangements to memorialize my aunt, sort her belongings, and begin the executorship of her estate. Five days later, on a Sunday morning, I found myself back on a plane to Toronto, still feeling overwhelmed with what had just happened and what still needed to be done, but relieved to be heading home again.

It wasn’t until a few days later that I reflected on how surprising it was that after having lived in Toronto for only two months, I already thought of it as “home.” I had lived in Edmonton for nearly forty years, and in Western Canada for at least 45, but after eight weeks it seemed I was already adapted to my new spot half a block off Yonge near Eglinton.

I thought back to when I moved in the opposite direction at the age of 14, from London, Ontario to Edmonton. I had gone there against my will, when my mother died and I was left to relatives I barely knew. I swore I would return at my earliest opportunity, and every time I went back east for a visit, which I did every two years or so, I renewed my vow. It wasn’t until I was finished university and newly married, enjoying a holiday in London with my new husband but looking forward to getting back to our place in Edmonton, that I realized that I had finally started thinking of the West as “home.”

Perhaps my rapid adaptation this time is because I grew up in Ontario, but I don’t think that’s it. Perhaps the fact that I chose to move to Toronto rather than being required to do so has made the difference, but I don’t think that is the entire explanation either. I feel that I have reached a point where I think of where my stuff is as home, no matter where that is. Where my stuff is now is in Toronto. If it were in Timbuctu, that would be my home.

However, just because Toronto is home doesn’t mean I know very much about it yet. I’m still learning. I keep discovering new things to like: such as the fact that for three dollars I can get onto a bus and then a subway and then another subway and then another bus and one and a half hours later I am at the airport. A cab takes half the time, but it costs $50.

I may be the only Torontonian (!) who is still in love with the Toronto Transit Commission system which took the amazing step last week of making an apology to the public for its past sins, promising better service and more pleasant and helpful customer relations in future.

I also continue to eat my way around my new city: I have found a great Mexican restaurant (Chimichanga on Yonge, just north of Eglinton) and my friend Mari-Lou took me to an authentic Hungarian restaurant where she ate regularly when she lived in Toronto many years ago: the Country Style on Bloor east of Bathurst, where we had a tasty chicken paprikash with home-made spaetzle.

If I moved here in part for the weather, I picked the right winter. We have had a few days of cold, but for the most part it’s been so mild that even long-time Torontonians are remarking on it. I have walked out in the morning and thought that the streets and sidewalks had been dusted overnight with hoar-frost, then realized that what I was seeing was the rime of the salt that was sprinkled weeks ago on then momentarily slippery streets.

Of course, it’s only February.

Speaking of stuff, I am really looking forward to consolidating mine in Toronto before too much longer. I have a tentative commitment to do some work in Saskatoon and am going to combine the trips. I am tired of “camping out” in my apartment.

Aside from that, it’s good to be home.

Post #18

Despite how it may have sounded in previous posts (and how it sometimes feels), I have not spent all of my time in the past six weeks moving boxes and their contents around my new living space or wandering around Yonge Street and the roads that intersect it looking for Crazy Glue, Mrs. Dash (original version), a doormat and some Christmas presents.

Here are some of the places to which, so far, I have ventured beyond my home turf:

• Sotto Sotto Trattoria on Avenue Road near Bloor—apparently one of Toronto’s toniest restaurants, and who am I to disagree? At 8:30 p.m. on the warm Saturday evening in November when a friend and I dined there, would-be patrons formed a line down the block, waiting for the first shift to be finished so they could get to the tables they’d reserved. And when we were finished our dinner at close to 10:30 p.m., another whole phalanx of the chic and slender were waiting to take our seats. The entryway and several walls at Sotto Sotto feature photos of famous people who have eaten there—Brad Pitt, Tim Robbins and Elton John, to name a few. The proximity of the restaurant to the upscale hotels where film folk often stay when they’re in town is rumoured to be a reason for its popularity (according to one review I read, the locals come there either to see who they can see, or not to be seen themselves, depending on who they are), but the food has something to do with its acclaim as well. The fare was outstanding from the antipasto to the espresso, although pricey—as one might expect from a tiny award-winning restaurant that is nevertheless big enough to have its own sommelier. I had a magnificent veal entrée that I am certain would have been capable of melting in my mouth if I had given it the time. The atmosphere of the restaurant, which is  several steps below street level, is candlelit and intimate—effectively evoking a grotto, as intended;
  

  CN Tower in the rain

• Bloor Street United Church, where a friend and I attended a recital by soprano Maria Knight. Ms. Knight, who looked beautiful and sang stunningly as well, proved herself a trouper by hitting each sweet note bang on in spite of the fact that the heat in the church was on the fritz and her arms were bare. The rest of us were so chilly we kept our coats on. Ms. Knight was accompanied by an outstanding pianist, David Eliakis, and the Artelli String Quartet from Guelph supported her exquisite rendition of Chausson’s “Chanson perpétuelle.” I was also beguiled by the occasional rumblings of the subway making its way through the ground beneath our feet. I am in love with the subway;

• The waterfront of Lake Ontario, downhill from the elegant and lovely old section of Toronto called The Beaches, where a friend and I skipped stones into the water (I am no better at that in November than I am in July, I discovered. In the west, lakes freeze in winter, and skipping stones becomes much easier) and ate brunch at The Beacher Café. I spent some time considering how nice (and expensive) it would be to live in an apartment across the street from Lake Ontario;

• Trinity St. Paul’s Centre, where I heard Handel’s Messiah performed by Tafelmusik. At $25, my seat put me in perfect line to see the shoes of the orchestra and the noses and skirts/trouser legs of the soloists, but the sound was unimpaired and it was an outstanding presentation. Tafelmusik is considered by many critics to be one of the finest Baroque orchestras (and chorus) in the world, and many of the musicians perform on period instruments, and I was honoured to have heard them perform in their own space;
  

  I also went out to Yonge St. on December 17 and watched the Olympic Torch go by

• The Monarch Tavern near Korea Town for a well attended launch of four books by Mansfield Press, not to mention the celebration of the nomination of one of the press’s poets, David McFadden, for a Governor General’s award;

• Sherwood Park near my apartment, which is a beautiful section of the miles and miles of well-treed valley through the city. I look forward to running and walking there frequently;

• The Toronto Centre for the Arts to see Jersey Boys – the musical that tells the tale of the rise to fame of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. The music was great and the facility was outstanding: there is not a bad seat in the house (and I know because I was in the back row, and only occasionally even felt inclined to put my opera glasses to use).

I have also been to a Starbucks on Queen Street near Strachan (pronounced “Strawn”) where I met my friend Mary who was visiting from Edmonton, and I’ve walked down Bay Street to Front Street near Harbourfront (where I once read) with my friend Nik from Regina. We admired the art-deco architecture of the Bay Street bank buildings and he introduced me to two of the more interesting bookstores I’ve ever been in – Ben McNally Books on Bay, and Nicholas Hoare on Front. I’ll be going back to both as soon as my ship comes in. (The stores are handily located near the waterfront, so it won’t take me long to get there from the ship.)

Art-deco entranceway, 320 Bay Street

I have managed to get myself to all these places by subway and trolley bus, almost without a hitch. (I do have to stop and orient myself sometimes before I can proceed.) I love the transit system here.

You say tomato and I say tomato

Here is a list of a few more things I have found unfamiliar in Toronto. I don’t know whether the unfamiliarity is because I have been living in western Canada for so long, or because I have been living in smaller-than-Toronto cities for so long, or because Toronto just has its own way of doing things (and therefore these things would be unfamiliar even if I came from Montréal), but:

• Rather than parking meters, one per car, there are ticket dispensers, usually one per block, where a person buys a ticket for a given length of time to place on the dashboard, like in a parking lot;
• There are little apron-sized parks, maybe a quarter of a city block square, that are called “parkettes” and are named after people or things;
• I hear people on the street say the word “fuck” far less often than I do out west;
• (on the other hand) I hear many more drivers telling other drivers to smarten up by blasting their car horns at them;
• There are more hybrid cars here, I think, than there are in Edmonton or Saskatoon (or in New York, for that matter).  I often notice that there is a lot of traffic, but hardly any car noise;
• Lesser streets meet major streets in a staggered fashion. The stoplights are usually at the bigger intersections, and the only crosswalks are there too, so often one needs to walk at least four blocks to legally cross a major street. This creates interesting strategy problems when it comes to choosing how to hit specific stores on a shopping excursion without walking miles farther than necessary;
• There is one major intersection somewhere (I can’t remember where I saw it) where all the lights turn red at once, so pedestrians can cross in any direction—including diagonally—at the same time;
• Liquor stores are still run by the government, and so is the place where you have to go to get a driver’s license, a new health-care card, or other documentation from the province. Good old Ralph Klein really spoiled us Albertans in this area with all his privatization: the wait to apply for an Ontario driver’s license was  2.5 hours the day that I went to the Ontario Services office near Bloor and College (and that was during a strike by people who do the road tests which would,  I think, have reduced the number of people waiting in line considerably from the norm).

Speaking of that application…  as of earlier this week, I have an Ontario driver’s license! I must, therefore, be an Ontarioan. An Ontarioite? A Torontonian, at least. But until I stop noticing the strange things that happen here (and appreciating the weather) I won’t really be a Torontonian.

In the meantime, I’m happy to report that the people here are much friendlier and warmer than most people who live in Western Canada think they are.

Post #17

Why would anyone bring 25 bottles of nail polish with her to Toronto, but leave her can-opener and every single knife, fork and spoon she owns in a storage unit in Saskatoon?

My "I need it now!" belongings arrive from Saskatoon

This is just one of the many odd decisions that have come to light as I was unpacking all the boxes and suitcases I’ve been schlepping around with me for a month. But I have done it—unpacked and stowed it all.

Almost everything survived the Greyhound shipment from Saskatoon to Edmonton and the subsequent shipment from Edmonton to Toronto in good order—with the possible exception of the boxes themselves, which arrived in coherent but poor condition. I have the feeling that if they had been transferred between vehicles one more time, they would have fallen to pieces and my belongings would have been strewn everywhere.

I would recommend to anyone who wants to ship by Greyhound that they eschew cardboard in favour of something sturdier, like large Rubbermaid containers. Also, they should take into account during the packing phase that some of the items are likely to arrive upside down. But in general, I was most satisfied with the condition in which my goods arrived: only one item was actually damaged, and that was an umbrella that apparently came unsprung during the trip—its handle emerging through the corner of one of the cardboard boxes where it was exposed to the vicissitudes of life in the fast lane.

The busted brolly

In short, I highly recommend Greyhound—to the point where, with the cost of taking luggage onto airplanes, particularly in the U.S., I would even give serious consideration to shipping some of my belongings by Greyhound if I were going on an extended vacation.  (As long as I could be sure the luggage would arrive before I was leaving for home again. But that can be a problem with luggage that goes with you by air as well.)

My New Apartment

The apartment I selected (and to which I have now signed a one-year lease, as is fairly standard around here) is near Yonge St., about a kilometre from Eglinton. A friend from Toronto tells me that the nickname of this part of town is “Yonge and Eligible,” and there are certainly lots of young, well dressed and attractive people living in this area, but “Yonglinton” seems easier to say so I am going with that.

The rent in this apartment is sort-of equivalent to what I paid for a similar-sized space in Saskatoon — when you take into consideration that there utilities were extra and here they are included. This place also offers a microwave in addition to the dishwasher and air conditioner (the latter of which works, I hope, unlike the one in Saskatoon). On the other hand, I have no storage to speak of. (Mind you, at the moment I have nothing to store, so it is fine.) There is also no parking. But I don’t have a car.

Sleeping quarters with no bugs

You may be amused to know that one of my considerations for taking this apartment was that it did not appear on The Bedbug Registry. Bedbugs are a big issue here in Toronto, as they are in apartments and hotels in other parts of North America, particularly in the east, and I’ve seen more than one mattress sitting on the sidewalk out front of a Toronto apartment building waiting for the garbage truck.

Seating area

Positive features of this neighbourhood include lots of small (and several chain) shops, grocery stores, produce outlets, flower shops, ethnic, funky and classy restaurants and a lot of movie theatres. I had the best piece of pizza I have ever tasted (maybe I was just really really hungry. It was pesto pizza. It was great) at a tiny Italian place just around the corner from here, and the next day bought olive oil, balsamic vinegar and grapeseed oil at another Italian take-out. In the past two weeks, I’ve eaten at one of several Thai restaurants in the neighbourhood and demolished an outstanding burger and a great curried-chicken wrap. (It is lovely to have no groceries, cutlery or can opener for several days, but the party’s over now. Speaking of parties, I also enjoyed a cupcake, chocolate icing on chocolate cake, for my birthday, from a cupcake store. There is also a chocolate shop which I’ve been avoiding, and a tea store that I am looking forward to visiting.) I have shopped at a place that sells boxes and trays and hangers to help get you organized, a kitchen shop, a bath and bedding shop, and I even bought a shirt and skirt, on sale. I’ve also done a lot of window shopping: a person with a lot of money could have a very good time here.

On Monday, after I had picked up the key to my new apartment, I rented a car for 24 hours and went downtown to the Greyhound express courier station on Front St., and collected my packages and luggage. Then I tried to think of all the other things I should do while I had a car, and to get as much of it done as possible. That included some shopping at Canadian Tire and Future Shop, and retrieving the luggage I had been using while I was at my friend Pat’s house. (We had a lovely farewell supper at her table, attended as always by about four of her six cats. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find my camera at that point.)

The Dining Area

The days since are a bit of a blur but I’ve nearly walked my feet off getting all the things I needed to get in order to subsist until I can figure out how best to get my stored belongings here from Saskatoon and Edmonton. There is still lots to do, but I have the important stuff at last—a home phone number, a local cell number, high-speed internet and television (go, Riders!). I took the subway to Staples at Yonge and Marlborough to buy a table for my computer, then took a cab home. Then I did it again the next day because I liked the table so much I decided I wanted two! (I have now put the phone number to Beck Taxi into my iPhone so I don’t have to look it up again.)

One evening I walked 2.5 k to a Home Hardware to pick up cleaning supplies, and another day I walked back up to the dentist’s on Lawrence and Yonge for part II of my root canal. I’ve done several hikes for groceries. So I am really beginning to feel as though I belong in this area, and today I even got some work done on my novel, so I am also feeling inspired. I’ve also seen two movies—mainly just to take a break before the TV got hooked up.

Home Entertainment Centre

The work area: ready to go!

As you will see from the photos here, I am what could be described as “sparsely furnished” at the moment, but I have everything I need to resume work as a writer and editor, so I am good to go.  In a few days, I will write a post about the places I’ve been outside this neighbourhood (no moss on me!) and a few more differences I’ve observed between Toronto and the West. I’m classifying this as a “during the move” post because I still don’t have the furniture, books, etc. that would allow me to consider myself completely “moved.” But I’m on track and feeling optimistic.

CN Tower in the mi(d)st