My Own Private Paris

Last Friday I had a nice telephone conversation with a good friend of mine with whom I had lost touch. A lot has changed since our last conversation -- most notably a move to France with his family -- but we easily slipped back into a free-wheeling exchange that touched on art and politics and culture and philosophy.
I loved listening to him talk about what is like living in Paris, and in a small way I envied him. The baguettes sound heavenly. So do the field trips to the Louvre that his daughter takes. (No visits to pig farms or the kitchen of the local McDonald's for her.) The good thing about envy, though, is that it often passes.

The fact is that I love Toronto and I love its rhythm, especially on summer-like days like today. In a quick lunch hour walk I saw a world of interesting people: a street preacher in a wife-beater t-shirt harranging pedestrians; a busker playing his bagpipes while tourists filmed him on their camera phones; young black men trying to get passers-by to buy a copy of their Black History newsletter; double-decker buses filled with visitors to the city; an outdoor yoga class held in Dundas Square; an army of attractive young women handing out sample granola bars on one side of Yonge while a smaller group of attractive young women handed out information about Ontario tourist destinations; and throngs of people happily meandering down the sidewalk.

It may not be Paree, but it's home.

Northern Griot, Urban Sharecropper: Part 2

Upon reflection, I realize that calling myself an urban farmer is not exactly accurate. After all, my container garden is on someone else's balcony, not my own. I get the use of the sunny exposure and they get a share of whatever vegetables and herbs I grow.

Anyhow, this is the end result of the afternoon's labours:

Northern Griot, Urban Farmer: Part 1

Spring is here, so it's time to start my container garden again. I usually grow a variety of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. This year I am also trying my hand at zucchini.

As you can see, there's a lot of ground to cover, so to speak.

Music Critics, or a Tale of Two Buskers

As often as possible, I try to take a lunch hour walk. It is a chance to get some fresh air, exercise a bit, and recharge for the afternoon's business. It is also an excellent opportunity for some people watching.

Thursday is an excellent case in point. In forty short minutes I saw a man wearing elf ears and a Pinocchio nose riding a bike, a klezmer band on the corner of a busy intersection, and numerous young ladies dressing as if it were August. The most entertaining thing I saw, however, involved a baby and a busker.

It happened on Queen Street. A mother was pushing a stroller a little bit ahead of me when a street busker started playing a piece of classical guitar music. All of a sudden her baby sat up in the stroller and turned her head towards the musician. She was obviously mesmerised so her mother turned the stroller around and took her daughter to watch the busker for a little while.

On Friday, I was walking up Bay Street. A different busker started playing his instrument just as a mother was passing with a stroller. The busker let out a fearsome drone on his bagpipes. The baby in the stroller sat up and ... screamed.

The Sound of Summer

Summer does not officially arrive for another month-and-a-half, but today I heard the sound that to me indicates that summer has arrived. That's right -- today I heard the music of an ice cream truck as it patrolled the cul-de-sacs and crescents around my apartment building.