Oh Canada...

On the flight from Edinburgh, we passed over Greenland:



It seemed like decades before this plane would land and I couldn't concentrate on reading, couldn't decide what to listen to, couldn't sleep...just couldn't wait.

And then, all of sudden, the Atlantic gave way to Canada:



I was grinning like a fool the whole way down.

* * *

Back in the big T-dot-Oh-dot with a weary body and myriad intentions.

I've spent the week enjoying everything I've missed for the last 7 months - a disparate collection of certain favourites, comforts and points of pride:
- Tim Horton's and Second Cup
- Toronto's vibrant multiculturalism
- Ontario thunderstorms (like nowhere else...)
- Visiting shops I used to frequent; recognizing faces and being recognized myself
- The ease with which you can strike up conversations with strangers
- The best street-meat: spicy italian, mild polish, oktoberfest, grilled and perfectly charred
- Many cheerful you're welcome's for people who say thank you when I hold open a door, or step aside to let them pass, or pick up something they've dropped
- NOW magazine and the Metro newspaper
...and so many other details that let me know I'm home.

I've wandered my old neighbourhood - The Annex - a few times over:

Near Bloor & Spadina (Cobbs bread, on the right: best bakery ever - they give free samples)


The little kiosk at the corner of Bloor & Brunswick, right where it's always been:


Bloor Cinema: my favourite independent cinema in the city - one theatre, one huge balcony, cheap prices, great popcorn...


Ah Second Cup...how I've missed it. Nothing like a Chai Chiller to cool you off (and give you brain freeze) on a humid Toronto day.


Mel's: one of the best breakfast places in T.O., open 24 hours. Killer monte cristo.


Speaking of Montreal...montreal bagels! Cheap thrills I know but they can't be beat.


A goldmine of international and independent films: Suspect Video on Markham:


A new addition: the labyrinth painted on the street in Mirvish Village:


I'm staying in Bloor West until I move to Hamilton (more on that craptastic development later...) and the streets are just as lovely as I remember. So many houses are flying the flag, I assume in support of Team Canada.


I'm told this summer has been nothing but rain and thunderstorms.

For some reason in Ontario the sky just cracks open and drenches us with little-to-no warning. The sound of the rain is deafening; you can feel the cooling release almost right away, and then it's gone just a quickly as it came, with a grumble of thunder in the distance.


Sushi! Brittany and I chow down close to 11 pm at one of the many sushi places in the Annex. Miso soup, green salad, dragon roll, edamame...I almost squealed with pleasure.


The Greenroom is still comfy and chill, the greenroom specialty (glass noodle stir fry) still mouthwateringly delicious.


And the sangria is better than I remember. Good thing Dana suggested it.


After that we wandered 20 feet to Futures Bakery (Bloor & Brunswick) for a late night slice of cheesecake. It was packed full of people engaged in loud conversations, people whispering in corners, and people trying to read amid the clamour. Just like I remember.


The grand spectacle that is Honest Ed's on Bloor & Bathurst is still glittery and overwhelming as ever:

* * *

Yes I'm wrought with excitement to be back in this city - this city which I never really loved until I left. I have a new (and wholly unexpected) appreciation for Toronto after having traveled through Europe, for its similarities and its differences.

I notice things like the sidewalk planters stuffed with trees and flowers, the street sweepers, the magazine and newstands on every corner, the late night convenience stores, and the sheer diversity of everything from people to produce.

This weekend - the last weekend before my banishment to Hamilton - is the buskers festival, and I have yet to make it to the St. Lawrence Market and Queen West...

* * *

A phrase from the back of a book I picked up at Shakespeare's in Paris popped into my head last night as I caught a glimpse of myself passing by a darkened window shop on a quiet street:

I knew the person I was looking at was myself, and yet there was an alien quality to my reflection, an otherness that brought with it a feeling of exuberance and celebration. All at once I was looking at a stranger.

"I'm Coming Up Roses Now, Flying High..."

...No one can touch me as I wave good-bye
I'm tall as a willow baby, tall as a willow
I'm sure not sorry for that

You wouldn't believe the stuff I know and have collected

I'm hung up on breathing now, when I want
No one can hurt me, when I'm in trouble
I'm strong as I'm mellow baby, strong as I'm mellow
I sure am happy for that

Have you ever seen the things I own, and have neglected
They're all quite strange, and unconnected
And that's why they're strong

A mile is long when home is far away
(Coming up roses now, flying high)
A mile is long when home is far away, home is far away

I'm holding the fiddle now, playing hard
I've learned my lesson in self-composure
I shout and I bellow baby, shout and I bellow
Can you hear me out back

Can you feel the way I've grown, and disconnected

A mile is long when home is far away
The night is long the day is long, the night is long the day is long

A mile is long when home is far away...

* * *

Since 5 February 2008, I've been to 15 countries and about 50 cities, towns and villages.

Some of the most memorable things about backpacking aren't what one might expect. For instance, whenever I met people from Canada or the States it didn't take long for the conversation to veer into food nostalgia: "man, you know what I miss?..." and it goes from there. Hilarious. And yes, Tim Horton's was mentioned more than a few times.

Also, I'll never forget the first time someone told me that one of the major differences Europeans notice between Canadians and Americans is that Canadians smile more. It happened three times, in so many words.

I won't reiterate the highlights, those are self evident and this entire blog is a testament to how amazing the last six months have been for me.
But you know what I won't miss? hmm, let's see...

- sleeping on trains and buses

- hostels that claim a full kitchen, but only have two hotplates and less than one full set of dishes and cutlery

- fridges that aren't cold enough to keep milk from spoiling

- speaking of milk: I wont miss that long-life crap they call milk.

- the disturbing lack of glassware in hostels (yeah yeah breakage, whatever - tea from a plastic cup tastes like crap!)

- cities in which every single toilet costs $.75

- shitty supermarkets, and the fact that cold drinks cost more than something from the shelf

- showers that require a button to be pushed every 10 seconds or a cord to be held down the whole time

- cold water in general

- beds that are too soft, too hard, too old, filled with bed bugs...

- cranky/rude hostel staff

- encountering people who have clearly never stayed in a hostel before and can't comprehend the most basic of courtesies. Yes, I at one point had never stayed in a hostel, but I am not a moron.

- limited breakfasts that offer nothing but refined sugar in various forms.

- standing in line ups

- looking. I'm actually tired of looking, tired of being a spectator.

- making up excuses as to why I cannot go out with guys. I've gotten pretty creative but it's exhausting. My new line in Toronto will be "sorry I don't speak english."

Soon, all these negative things will fade into the background of the fantastic memories I have of travel, but at the moment I'm so tired of this lifestyle, however temporary, that the simplest thing, like a good hot shower, will make me freakin' ecstatic.

* * *

The Soundtrack:

Curve, Portishead, Radiohead, Tool, the Arcade Fire, Chili Peppers, Nine Inch Nails, Bob Marley, Amy Whinehouse, Jeff Buckley, Sigur Ros, Gorillaz, Massive Attack, Fiest, Hooverphonic, Faith No More, Mr. Bungle, the Tragically Hip...and countless mixed playlists of wicked tunes (heavy on the sixties and eighties).

* * *

Supplementary Reading:

Don Delilo Americana

Thomas Pynchon Vineland

Camilla Gibb Sweetness in the Belly

Paulo Coelho The Alchemist

Paulo Coelho The Witch of Portobello

Paulo Coelho The Devil and Miss Prym

Yann Martel Self

Lynne McTaggart The Field

Slavenka Drakulic Cafe Europa

Virginia Woolf The Waves

Elizabeth Gilbert Eat Pray Love

Bill Bryson Neither Here Nor There

Geert Mak In Europe: Travels Through the Twentieth Century

* * *

Periodic Homes-Away-From-Home:

- England: the last of my privacy - a cottage by the sea all to myself for six days.

- United Arab Emirates: family bonds.

- Spain: Starbucks (I know - shut up)

- Malta: ocean, fields and friendliness.

- Italy: Nutella and the bottom of a wine bottle.

- Belgium: I dare say, the best dark beer in the world.

- Netherlands: the best bookstore ever, and Bagels & Beans.

- Germany: one word - Rittersport.

- Czech Republic: the surprisingly-comforting ability to blend in with other Eastern Europeans.

- Sweden: pine, birch and oak; mountains, fields and lakes; basalt, granite and quartz.

- Switzerland: decent fruit smoothies.

- France: la langue.

I'm ready to come home - I'm actually excited. My Canadian money looks foreign. I haven't accidentally said loonie or toonie for months now...

So many amazing places and experiences...I'm running out of adjectives. I have even caught myself using awesome in a non-ironic way which is, of course, unacceptable.

I'll be getting a cell phone (my first cell phone ever, yes I've capitulated) and I'll be hanging out in Toronto for the next couple of weeks, until I start grad school at McMaster in September.

I kinda like this blog thing. I'll have to think of a new theme to keep it going...

* * *

Finally, I'd like to share a little poem I came across in Amsterdam (for those of you who've gone backpacking before, I'm sure this will elicit a little smile of recognition):

In Heaven: the chefs are Italian, the police are British, the mechanics are German, the lovers are French, and everything is organized by the Swiss.

In Hell: the chefs are British, the police are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and everything is organized by the Italians.

Grenouille! Confiture! Ca C'est Ridicule! Some of My Favourite French Words, Which I Try to Say as Much as Possible. Oui, Je Suis Un Peu Folle...

Paris.

Arrondissements, boulevards, monuments...
Crowds, traffic, souvenir shops...
Gestures, hints, traces...

I can't quite sum up Paris. It is equally majestic and welcoming, tragic and seedy.

Without a sense of what to focus on, I head off for all the famous monuments in hopes that some sense of the city will emerge and guide me for the next few days...

L'Arc de Triomphe from the middle of Champs Elysees:


And closer up:


The monument at Place de la Bastille, where the Bastille prison was stormed to free a whopping seven prisoners (it was more about symbolism than the prisoners themselves), effectively setting off the French Revolution:


The Hotel de Ville - the City Hall, with it's lovely gardens:



Other monuments I didn't bother taking pictures of:

* Place Concord with the giant 3000 year old Obelisk, a monument to Ramses II and a "gift" to Paris. In 1993, Benetton slipped an enormous pink condom over it for World Aids Day.
This was where Louis XVI and Marie Antionette were guillotined - the ground and water were so thoroughly contaminated with blood that horses apparently would not enter the square.

* Hotel des Invalides, where Napoleon Bonapart was buried below the ground, with an opening looking down onto his tomb so that even in death people would bow in reverence. When Hitler visited the underground tomb, he had mirrors arranged so that he could view it without bowing.

I went to Sacre Coeur, climbed the millions of steps crowded with people to visit a church in which I was rudely told to cover my shoulders (I managed to stifle a fuck you) and funneled into a prescribed path through the church, past two (not one but two) souvenir shops inside the actual church, which was crowded with people who needed to be shushed repeatedly.

I hurried out of there - it was so hot that I whipped off my scarf about 30 feet before the exit. Take that oppressive, patriarchal religion.

The view was pretty great though, and it's even better at night, although cameras can't really capture it.





I feel a small sense of accomplishment after having seen these places, but a sense of Paris only emerges when the crowds begin to disperse as I wander up through Montmartre. My first day in Paris was rather uninspired, due largely to my get-the-monuments-out-of-way strategy. I'm sure you're wondering 'what about that other monument, that tower thingy?'
Yeah, I'm saving that for last.

* * *

The next day I go around the Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint Louis, which was the medieval city center.

Ile Saint Louis is tiny and quiet with the exception of the main street - Rue St. Louis en L'Ile - which I weave through with my head tilted toward the clouds, gazing at the wrought iron balconies, flower baskets and detailed architecture.



And then there it is: Notre Dame (1163).


Truly a gorgeous Gothic building, with that stained-glass rose in the center and spiky spires poking over the top of Paris.


The garden behind it was the first public park in Paris - Square Jean XXII, created in 1848.

Along the Seine (which means sacred river) to Pont Neuf (the new bridge) built in 1609. It's "new" because it was the first bridge to be built of limestone rather than wood - afterall, limestone is considerably more difficult to destroy by fire. Thank you, King Henry IV.


Apparently, one night up at the Louvre Palace, Henry and a bunch of buddies got a little tipsy and thought it would be entertaining to invite the royal artists to the festivities. As the story goes, the artists did what artists do - they made sketches of the scene before them, which were later used as inspiration for the sculptures on Pont Neuf:


Yup, those are the faces of a bunch of drunken aristocrats...

I saw plenty of beautiful squares and courtyards in Paris, but Place des Vosges was so impressive. I loved it before I even entered the gate:


The uniformity of the surrounding buildings feels cozy and grand all at the same time, and the lawns are perfectly landscaped (side note: the French love their grass - nobody really lounges on it, most of the time there are fences and even little signs that say the grass is resting).




I had no idea how absolutely massive the Louvre is - holy crap! Some stats: it holds 35,000 works, less than a quarter of the entire collection (170,000). If you spent thirty seconds in front of every piece, you would be there for 4.7 months.

Before it became a museum in 1789, it had been the royal palace - the different architectural styles on each floor reflect the tastes of different kings:



I was on my way to see the Mona Lisa, preparing for the 700 people I would no doubt have to climb over just to catch a glimpse when I suddenly just stopped, in the middle of the corridor.

I don't want to see the Mona Lisa. All I've ever heard is how disappointing it is - how it's actually quite tiny, there's always a huge crowd, you can't get within 15 feet of it...so I turned on my heel and walked away, back up through the din of the lobby area - maps unfolding, people pointing with furrowed brows, humourless security guards - and up through the pyramid.

The pyramid. This is one of my favourite shots.


By the way, some university in Paris conducted a study where they analyzed Mona Lisa's face and concluded that it is indeed a smile - the lady is 83 % happy. It isn't a smirk afterall.

The garden I frequented most was Jardin du Luxembourg. It's close to the intersection of St. Michel and St. Germain, one of my favourite areas in the 6th arrondissement.


Cool sculptures, a huge fountain and gorgeous flowers.
Oh, and guys who pull up a chair on the path directly across from you and shamelessly stare, impervious to all your nasty glances. And then other nice men who just say hello and keep walking.



Again, the landscaping - even the trees are perfectly trimmed in squares of all things. There is a definite must-dominate-nature vibe throughout all of Paris's green spaces.




The fountain at Place St. Michel - Saint Michael banishing the devil to hell.



The marble columns, the detailed carvings, the water spurting energetically every which way.



I wandered into St Severin (13th C.) in the Latin Quarter, drawn in by the gothic exterior and huge windows.


Apparently it's known for having the most beautiful stained-glass windows. Can't really argue with that.


I also made my way over to St. Sulpice, not for the church so much as the church propaganda. St Sulpice has been inundated in recent years with Da Vinci Code fans who come looking for clues, dog-eared copies of Dan Brown's bestseller in hand for quick reference. The church has responded accordingly with a little display in the corner by the meridian line.


"Contrary to fanciful allegations in a recent best-selling novel, this is not a vestige of a pagan temple. No such temple ever existed in this place. It was never called a Rose Line...No mystical notion can be derived from this instrument of astronomy except to acknowledge that God the Creator is the master of time."

Ok. But the best part was an interview with Pastor Bernard Sesboue in 2006. Regarding The Da Vinci Code, he was asked what might explain its success, to which he responded:

"It contains all the ingredients which please: esotericism, feminism, sex mixed with the sacred, with perhaps behind it all a certain type of anti-christianity. Western society resents the Christian message because it has been the bearer of high moral standards throughout the centuries."

You know how interviews abbreviate the name of the interviewee after the first question? I love how before every response, in big bold print, are the letters B.S.

* * *

The streets are quirky, grand, colourful, green and above all charming. There are thousands of bookstores and plenty of organic/healthy restaurants - two things I've really come to appreciate, having noticed their absence in so many cities.




Very creepy cherub with no arms gesturing over a collection of cherub heads. The pigeon spikes don't help matters at all.


Some of the most interesting street performers...


And a Great Canadian Pub! (no great Canadian prices though...)


At some points, old and new converge and strike a kind of historically integrated balance.


So many squares, courtyards and gardens adorn the city streets...




The small boulevards are practically overflowing with greenery, the stylish buildings peek through on either side and it's actually quiet. Paris is wonderful for walking.



Even the Metro stations are artistic. This is the original 1900 designs which at first frightened Parisians - they thought it looked like a monster that swallowed people whole.


In addition to the grand, impressive fountains there are drinking fountains installed by Richard Wallace in the late 19th century. The design in meant to keep people from bathing in them. Heathens. (kidding - it's actually an interesting story).


Along the banks of the Seine (pH 9, by the way) there are stands selling books, posters, souvenirs. They started popping up after the war as a means of re-integrating the veterans into civilian life.


When I hopped on Bus 29 one day - my favourite route - I passed by the Opera Garnier, home of the infamous Phantom.


Ok, you know how excited I get in bookstores, so trust me when I say that Shakespeare & Co. is the best bookstore in Paris, hands down, for atmosphere at the very least.






I don't usually take photos of strangers, especially children, but here I couldn't resist.


That's Alexei, a fellow traveler from Hawaii.


* * *

Paris is amazing at night. I of course wandered by the Moulin Rouge...


...and through the touristy-but-still-charming streets of Montmartre near Sacre Coeur:





And then ... the grand finale:






The tower really is beautiful. I expected it to be black, but it's more of a greyish beige. The intricacy of the structure is amazing right down to the smallest details.


And at night...wow.

Since France is holding the Presidency of the EU for six months (beginning June 30 2008) the tower is decorated with stars and blue lights.



I lingered along the Seine until I absolutely had to go back. I lingered in the streets on my last full day in Europe. I lingered in sleep, as real images of places I've seen float up and begin to pool in the back of my mind, congealing memories; as imagined pictures of places I've heard about and want to visit are filed away like index cards, solidifying intentions.

I linger over my backpack, packing slowly before setting out to Edinburgh for the night.