And the livin' is easy...

Toronto has some problems. The mayor is a joke, the landscape insipid, the great lake hidden behind a wall of condominiums, house prices outrageous. But there are some things the city does really well, especially in the summer. It holds more festivals and special events than you can shake a ticket at. On a warm fuzzy August evening, husband and I cycled the flat straight roads, many with bike lanes (or at least stripes of paint) to a large central public square named after David Pecault, who founded a highbrow arts festival (Luminato). Chairs were lined up in neat rows facing a towering projection screen which showed 'What's Up, Doc?', a movie far funnier than I remembered. (Spoiler alert: scene at the end, where Barbra says to Ryan, 'Love means never having to say you're sorry,' and Ryan says 'That's the stupidest thing I ever heard.') We drank beers (surreptitiously though; it wasn't that sort of crowd-- most people wielded lattes). And except for the beers, it was all free! Wow.

We didn't really want to cycle downtown en famille, though. So another day we took public transit. Very handy. On an early summer weekend with kids and bikes we headed downtown on the subway. Dodging quickly under the crumbling expressway (have to watch for falling concrete) and foraging behind a platoon of condo towers, we found the lakefront. After scything our way through some industrial wasteland we at last emerged onto Cherry Street beach, scruffy but cheerful, and continued eastward, along a rustic, car-free, and surprisingly un-busy bike path, to Tommy Thompson Park, and out the (at weekends) also car-free road to the lighthouse at the end of Leslie Street spit. It was a gorgeously warm long sunny afternoon and we stopped for ice creams and poutine (very Canadian) at a food stall on the beach. Then back to the subway, and home to the wagging, happy puppy.

And then there was the evening after my soccer match when we stopped along College Street, at 11:30 pm, kids, dog, husband and me, and sat on a sidewalk patio eating the most delicious gelato. Tiger Tails: orange sherbet with stripes of black licorice. Heaven in a cone.



Won the game, too.

rocky mountain high

Someone, I forget whom, enthused to us about Toronto when we first contemplated moving here. Among other attributes, he (I remember it was a he) commented: 'It's great!You can get anywhere really easily from here.' H'mm, I thought. Talk about back-handed compliments. Toronto is a great city because it is so convenient to leave.

But he, whoever he is, was right; I have certainly come to appreciate that from Toronto, it is, or can be, pretty simple to get to the places I love best. It has been over two years since I gritted my teeth and fastened a seatbelt that would be mine for twelve straight hours, flying from the UK to California. Toronto is very much in the middle of my worlds.

One place I love is the mountains, an asset Toronto notably lacks. 'Flat as a pancake,' one friend described it. So what a delight when I arranged to meet Princess Kate (a different one) at her conference in Breckenridge for a gals' getaway and birthday celebration weekend. A weekend in the Rockies! I couldn't do that from England. The flight to Denver from Toronto took only 3 hours, once I convinced Air Canada to let me fly nonstop, rather than via New York and Chicago.

And the Rockies are truly amazing. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is to be at high altitude with one's feet on the ground. We spent three amazing days, first with me catching my breath (even without paying $10 for 10 minute of oxygen at stations conveniently scattered about the resort), and then, once caught, hiking ever higher. End of September, and the leaves were changing colour with gay abandon-- that is, where there were trees at all. By my third day there we had breath enough to hike from 9500 feet to just under 12,000, up so high there were no trees, just rocky Rockies and traces of old silver mines.

And all just 3 hours from home.

Nobody say 'Alps'.

The sins of the mother

Youngest child has been issued an orthodontic retainer. Yes, I had one too back in the day, but mine was a plain old workhorse of an appliance, not a fashion statement. The orthodontist stuck a plaster of Paris mould in my mouth, I threw up, they manufactured a retainer that fit my teeth. It was vaguely pinkish, as I recall, and lasted for well over a week before I accidentally threw it away in my brown paper lunch bag. An unsavoury hour excavating the school dumpster ensued.

Things have changed. My daughter got to choose the flavouring of mould she wanted (mint, though cotton candy came a close second). No vomiting. She was asked to decide the colour and pattern of her retainer from a menu of designs (Exhibit A). Not content with the FORTY possibilities thought up by the professionals, she devised her own combination: rainbow plus glow in the dark. We waited two whole days before the work of art was ready to be collected. By now her excitement was positively feverish. Bearing home the treasured appliance she bubbled with pride and joy.

Just over a week later, the dog ate it.

Exhibit A:

What is it they say about those who forget history? Something to do with destiny...