Lately, I seem to know my way about, both geographically and otherwise. I know odd things, like who is the right-hand woman to the school board council representative for Ward 10. The names in the paper are coming to be recognizable, and to have personal connections (sometimes sad ones, as in the case of recently deceased journalist Randy Starkman). I feel, if not quite yet at home in Toronto, at least integrated into it. I have my finger on the pulse, but moreover, I am part of that pulse. We all are, the whole family.
And I've got mixed emotions about that. There's a part of me struggling against becoming Torontonian. Why? For one thing, it's April 23 and freezing cold. Snow is forecast for later today. And yet a week or two ago, it was tee-shirt weather! You'd think I'd learned my lesson in the UK, but no. I still get fooled; hope, if not warmth, springs eternal. I want to believe in warm weather in spring and fall, hot in summer, surprises only in winter. That's the way the world should work. Or at least, southern California.
I've done a lot this past week or 10 days. In fact, I've been a real culture vulture, or as middle child says 'arty farty'. We took advantage of living in the heart of the city, travelling to every show, concert, or film on foot, by bike, or by public transit. At no point did we have to park a car. A week ago Friday, husband and I saw Bob Newhart, live. Yes, really! Mr. Newhart is 82 and as funny as ever. Kudos. I am still pinching myself: I saw Bob Newhart, live! The next day, husband left for Berlin. This was unfortunate, as some weeks before, he had sent me a link to a notice about an upcoming jazz concert at Koerner Hall, a ten-minute walk from our house. 'Doesn't this look interesting?' he emailed. Yes, I thought, and quickly booked us a pair of tickets. Only a day later did he mention that he would be out of the country that evening. I personally felt that was information he ought to have included in the original message, but never mind, I found a jazz-loving friend to join me to see Joshua Redman with Brad Mehldau. It was a spectacularly wonderful concert, and evening.
Later in the week, I accompanied middle child's class to a screening of the film 'King Siri', part of the TIFF Children's International Film Festival, held at the classy new venue, the TIFF Bell Lightbox. And the day after that, I escorted the eldest child and some of his classmates to observe a Mock UN held at the university, to which high schools from all over Canada send students for three days. We listened to mock Roman generals discussing their strategies for waging the Second Punic War. (I learned, incidentally, that the Second Punic War gets more play in the history books than the first for featuring celebrities such as Hannibal and Scipio, as well as for being the one the Romans won.)
After a birthday (mine) lunch date with husband, I went back to the middle school to attend a 'Poetry Cafe' during which 72 children recited poems.
Seventy-two poems is a LOT of poetry.
That evening, we returned to the medium of film, viewing a charming documentary called 'Sound It Out', about the last independent record shop in the depressed, and depressing, northeastern English town of Stockton-on-Tees, a town where husband and I once worked. In fact, that was the job that introduced us to one another. So we were heart-warmed and charmed in extra measure, and not at all depressed.
And the NEXT evening, husband and I dragged (there is no other word for it) middle child to an all-Russian piano concert at the Glenn Gould Studios, at the Toronto headquarters of the CBC. The piano-playing, by Russian prodigy Georgy Tchaidze, was virtuoso; behavior of middle child less so. He promptly, and characteristically, fell asleep in his seat and could not be roused. He missed entirely the singing by soprano Dina Kuznetsova.
And then today I saw the most amazing, heart-rending, unforgettable show of all: the film 'Paperclips', about the US rural south, the Holocaust, teachers, children, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Go see it. Take my car.
To round out the Week of Culture, husband and I watched a DVD of 'Toast', an adaptation of Nigel Slater's autobiography, a book every parent should read.
And that's it from me, here, very much here, in Toronto.
