We left the hotel this morning and headed into the city.
Toronto is huge. The highways are six lanes in each direction, all clogged with commuting cars. The city blocks are lined with stores and restaurants and people of every imaginable type and nationality. There’s construction everywhere.
Toronto is noisy and busy and blustery. Winter blew in from Lake Ontario and barreled down between the skyscrapers.
On the outskirts of the city proper, new highways head north. The city is building itself outward, mile by mile. Toronto keeps stretching her limits, like a sprouting tree, branches and roots extending north, east, and west.
We drove back to the hotel late this evening, a single cell among many on this concrete artery. Above, bright stars spread evenly in the sky, came closer one by one, and resolved into airplane landing lights. As far as I could see, an unending stream of planes was heading to the airport. We were all life in the great city’s bloodstream.
I’m writing this post on a bus and this is definitely a first for me. Not riding a bus, no. The writing part I mean.
I’ve ridden this bus (complete with wi-fi and dumb movie) plenty. I have an almost Pavlovian response to this bus because it takes me to Boston, to the airport, to adventure.
This particular bus ride is the first leg of a road trip to Toronto with my sister. We’re setting off from her place tomorrow morning. I suppose, since I’m blogging daily, you’re coming too.
The driver has turned off the lights. The movie’s just started. The moon’s following us. Let’s ride.
We had an open weekend, so we went down to Boston to be with family. My sister lives there. Dad and his wife were visiting from Florida. We buzzed down to do what we do in the city: walk our feet off, look at city things, and eat like there’s no tomorrow.
It was a fast-and-furious trip, bookended by work and camp on Friday and a concert on Sunday night. And somehow I managed a one-hour nap in the midst. How?
Some highlights of our 48 hours:
:: This gorgeous chicken dish that L made for our first evening together. You could do worse than soak a bowl of rice in the citrusy aromatic sauce from this dish.
:: Oh, and she also made this beautiful, wonderful, summerful roasted chickpea salad. Make it! You must make it!
:: I stood a long while in front of this face, and wondered at the strangeness that he was staring at me from all those years ago, and imagined what he would think of me watching him.
:: We went back to L’s house and had a siesta. What started out as reading became a nap. Wonder of wonders!
:: Oh, and then a wonderful dinner at Journeyman. Nine delicate, flavorful, gorgeously presented tiny courses (plus a cheese course, of course) and a couple bonus ones here and there. People may scoff at this sort of eating as pretentious or elitist or even just silly, but there’s something very civil about sharing a slow meal made up of a multitude of flavors and textures, accompanied by a satisfying bottle of wine. There’s no rush. There’s lots of laughter, conversation, and amusement (what is that? how do you eat it?), and moments of surprise and even glee when you take a perfect mouthful. Let me just say, if you ever go there and they offer you a dish of Chicken of the Woods mushrooms, tiny roasted potatoes, and a sauce made of pureed buttered toast, ask for two servings.
:: As if we deserved more deliciousness, Sunday morning found us in Chinatown, at our favorite Dim Sum spot. Everything we had was delicious (particularly the steamed scallion dumplings and the red bean buns), but we waited the whole dang time for the sauteed Chinese broccoli cart to start circulating around the room. It never did. What gives? Chau Chow, you owe us broccoli.
:: Later that night, back in Vermont, we went to see Iris Dement sing in a small concert hall. It’s been many years since her heyday in the early 90s, but her unique high, quavery voice was as strong as ever. She sang us two new songs that she’d written set to poems by Anna Akhmatova.
:: Back home by 10 pm, tired, but filled to the brim with family, food, wine, art, music, and poetry. Thank you L, thank you Boston, thank you weekend!
You know how sometimes a day goes just the way you imagined?
Or maybe not just the way you imagined, but even better than that?
I had one of those days, last summer, when we went to see Nick Lowe in concert.
I thought I might write about it then, but the days got away from me and it seemed weird to write about something we’d done a month or two earlier and then, whattaya know, it’s winter and then it’s spring and here we are, seven months later, and the bright, lucid perfectness of the day has faded into a softly-focused, rounded-corner, old photo of a day. No less perfect, but less specific. In another seven months, what will be left?
Here’s what I’m remembering, so that you can picture the day, and so that I will, too.
It’s a post-card, blue-sky summer day, and H and I are sitting in the station in White River Junction, waiting on a train, laughing at the signs in the station.
The train will be an hour late, but then it’s only 24 minutes late, and we feel like it’s early because its lateness is earlier than we’d expected. And we get on board and there are seats galore and the sunshine is streaming in the windows and we’re about to enter that matchlessly lazy zone where you’re in transit and there’s just nothing you can do but BE, read a book, buy a snack you don’t need in the cafe car, and watch the river and the backyards fuzz by the windows in a blur.
And the conductor who punched our tickets tells us our stop is coming, and we prepare to arrive at a station where we’ve never been before, and we, along with a handful of others, disembark in the mid-morning sun, blinking, like coming up from underground, and start walking towards town.
Our walk takes us up a hill, along a painted yellow fence that protects Emily Dickinson’s house from the road. And I briefly entertain the thought of stopping for a tour, but we have another agenda, and that is finding the bus that will take us from Amherst to Northampton.
Up the hill and it’s hot and the sun is glaring and we spot a bookstore, which is welcoming enough on its own, where I can ask about the bus. Minutes later, H has found a book of British slang she wants, and the friendly clerk at the register who sells me the book also knows which bus to take, where the bus stops (within sight of the store) and when (five minutes), and H and I are out the door, new book in hand, catching the bus, paying our fare, snagging seats at the back.
And the bus deposits us in the middle of Northampton and we’re famished and the only thing that will satisfy is a burger and fries and lo and behold there’s a burger place, where we end up sitting by the open front windows, reading H’s new book and watching people drift by.
And then we have the afternoon to waste, because the concert doesn’t start for hours (though we want to line up earlier than that because it’s first-come, first seating) and waste it we do, window shopping, talking, hanging out in a cafe.
Later, we line up outside the Iron Horse (sixth in line) and listen to the people around us talking about concerts they’ve been to and concerts they’re going to, music they love. And the line accumulates behind us, which feels more than satisfactory. It feel like we’ve somehow earned our spot, though, really, it’s nothing other than by virtue of being able to take the day off so that we could arrive early.
And the doors open at the appointed time and the waitress offers to seat us at a little table for three to the side and I’m the sort of person who usually says, “okay” at someone else’s suggestion, but, instead, I point to the table for six that’s right in the center, touching the stage, and ask if we can sit there. “Sure. If you don’t mind sharing the table.”
I don’t mind in the least.
And then we’re ordering snacks and drinks and craning our necks in the direction of the front door because M is supposed to be coming through that door any minute (he’s driven down to meet us) and then finally he’s there and walking towards us and we’re all where we’re supposed to be, together, all at the same time, on a warm August evening.
It’s become perfect and the concert hasn’t even started yet.
And the opening act, Kim Richey, is fun and she sings some gorgeous songs that I didn’t write down so now can’t remember but I do remember the feeling of hearing them and wanting them to go on and on.
And then she’s done.
And then he comes on stage. And he’s older than he used to be. And so am I. But his voice is true and pure and he’s got that mischievous grin and he starts playing and singing and then we know, yes, this is going to be great.
And it was. He couldn’t possibly sing all of the songs I wanted him to in one concert, but he sang a lot of them.*
And we were right there, and he finished a song, and he looked down at our table, at our upturned faces, and he lifted his eyebrows and said, “Thank you,” and it seemed he was saying it right to us. So I said, “Thank you” back.
He won’t remember that. He won’t remember how we sang along, practically every word, practically every song. You could tell he was having fun, but it was just another stop, another concert on the tour for him. But I won’t forget what music can do. Or what being in the place where you want to be with the people you love feels like. Or how you know a favorite song from the very first note. Or how it feels to drive up a dark highway late at night, homeward bound, songs on the radio, songs running through your head, reliving the day, already forging an imperfect perfect memory that will last and last.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Lowe. May there be many more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ *August 20, 2013, Iron Horse Music Hall set list
Where’s my Everything?
Heart
Long-limbed Girl
Raging Eyes
Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day
She’s Got Soul
I’ve Let Things Slide
Has She Got a Friend?
I’ve Trained Her to Love Me
I Live on a Battlefield
A Dollar Short of Happy
Cruel to be Kind
Raining, Raining
Traveling Light
Stoplight Roses
Sensitive Man
Somebody Cares for Me
House for Sale
Without Love
I Knew the Bride
When I Write the Book
(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace Love and Understanding
Tokyo Bay
Alison
I knew the trip was going to be good when Cindy suggested we meet in Portland, Maine, travel up the coast, ferry across Penobscot Bay, and land at Nebo Lodge Inn on North Haven Island for a weekend in July.
Long-distance friends who haven’t seen each other in years, we were casting around for a destination that would serve our mutual need for the ocean and good food. And when Cindy saw this brief mention in Bon Appétit, and then passed it along to me, our vacation weekend fate was pretty much sealed.
A great place to stay booked and at least one fabulous meal scheduled, filling in the rest of the details was easy. A week before our trip, we were still passing each other links for bookstores and bakeries. With just about 72 hours together, including sleep and driving/ferry time, we’d come up with enough interesting things to do, eat, and see to fill a week.
But here’s the thing: time became magically, summerly slow. The more we did, the more we were able to do. The hours elongated and we found time to do almost everything we wanted.
Our first morning, we made a beeline for Scratch Bakery, in time to get our hands on still-warm, fresh bagels. With our coffee, tea, and bagels, we sat out front of the bakery, talking, watching people come and go, absorbing the coastal sunlight.
All that morning, as we wandered over the cobblestone streets and into the shops (and bakeries and bookstores) of Portland, time was our ally. We almost began to take our bonus minutes for granted.
Until we were a bit further up the coast, that is, at a favorite lobster spot, when we realized we were an hour and fifteen minutes away from the ferry we’d planned to take to the island. The ferry that was leaving in forty-five minutes. The ferry we believed was the last one of the day.
We made it to the island. And to our room, named “Butter”, with its three windows that provided a beautiful breeze, morning sunlight, and a peek of the harbor. Pale yellow curtains and bedspreads. Everything else was white, clean, and calm. A summer still life.
And time again slowed.
We changed for dinner. We ate, drank, laughed, talked. The place was hopping. Locals, and folks like us. It felt like the only place to be that night.
The next day, we packed in all we could: a leisurely breakfast, a hike, time on the front porch for reading (which quickly became time for chatting), a bike ride, iced tea and cookies on that same front porch, more time for reading, a relaxed dinner at the little place by the harbor. After dinner, I headed to the beautiful community center and watched a movie, while Cindy returned to “Butter” and her book.
We stalled time as long as we could. Night came. Then morning. Cindy found one more pocket of time for a final hike up to Ames Knob while I wandered the Inn, taking pictures and watching the ocean light.
On the early ferry, we sat in companionable silence, watching the island recede and the ferry’s wake ripple, each pulling apart the still-warm banana-coconut muffins we had taken from the breakfast table at the Inn minutes earlier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This photo is in response to this week’s theme for the 52 Photos Project. You should participate, too! Read about how it works here. You can see a gallery of everyone’s photos for this week’s theme here. To see a list of all my blog posts for this project, go here.
On our way out to Michigan this December, we stopped for the night in Niagara Falls, Ontario. City of lights, mist, honeymooners, casinos, and steak houses.
It’s not our usual type of haunt, but we discovered by accident four years ago, on a similar trip, when we were in search of a room and found bargain basement rates at these near-empty high-rise hotels in late January, that you can get a room, 25 floors up, with a huge window overlooking the falls.
And from that window, you can watch all night long, as the natural light goes down and the city lights come on, watch the garish colors projected onto the falls themselves, watch the mist rise up in reds, purples, greens, blues, yellows.
If you tire of watching the falls and lights, here’s a game you can play:
Watch the right-hand lane of the road that runs parallel to the river below the falls. Count how many cars are parked illegally along that road, pulled to the railing or sidewalk, hazard lights blinking. How many cars can you collect before the police car arrives, politely pulls up behind the last car in the row, turns on its lights, and waits until the driver notices and leaves? Watch this process repeat until each car is convinced to move along and the roadside is empty. Now, guess how long it will take until a new car decides to stop and be the first to park along the now-clear edge. Use your mental powers to try to convince cars to stop. Can you capture three, ten, nineteen? Keep watching, and giggling about this with your daughter until your eyes get droopy. The game will go on without you.
If you’re sleepless for any reason, you can watch the falls lights turn off at midnight.
Hours later, still awake, watch the sun creep up over the river and illuminate the mist from behind.
All night long, that water has been rushing over the edge. Even when you couldn’t see it. Even when you aren’t there. Even when you’ve checked out of the hotel, gotten into your car, and found the road leading west.
The Niagara River
As though
the river were
a floor, we position
our table and chairs
upon it, eat, and
have conversation.
As it moves along,
we notice—as
calmly as though
dining room paintings
were being replaced—
the changing scenes
along the shore. We
do know, we do
know this is the
Niagara River, but
it is hard to remember
what that means.
We woke to the sound of sweeping, and when we went out, we stepped into a sparkling city of alleyways, piazzas, and canals.
The first thing on our agenda was to grab a quick breakfast (fruit, water, and bread) at the shop around the corner from our hotel, and then proceed to the Palazzo Ducale (the Doge’s Palace), by way of the vaporetto down the Grand Canal.
The Palazzo Ducale was the historical residence of the Doge, and the government seat of the Republic until Napoleon took charge of Venice in 1787. Today the Palazzo is a museum and a very popular tourist destination. Our plan was to arrive early, before it opened, to avoid the lines.
Photography isn’t allowed inside the Palazzo, so I only have pictures of the exterior and the courtyard, and while they’re stunning enough, I wish I could show you the treasures inside: the grand staircase, the gilded detailing, the terrazzo floors, the tapestries, the walls and ceilings covered, edge to edge, with paintings and frescos by Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese.
But most of all, I wish I could show you the Sala del Maggior Consiglio (the Hall of the Great Council). This is the room where the council met, in all its numbers, to decide the law of Venice. At the time the hall was built, it was the largest room in Europe (today it’s still among the largest in Western Europe).
Its size and opulence are stunning. Breathtaking. You can get some idea of it yourself by watching this panoramic video. First, let the video tour you 360º around the perimeter of the room, then click the ^ button at the bottom of the video window to tilt the view up to the ceiling.
Every inch is covered by massive, gilt frames, inset with paintings depicting the victories of the Venetian army against those of the mainland. How that heavy ceiling remains aloft, unsupported, is completely mystifying.
In a city of wonders, built on the sea, I suppose defying gravity is just no big deal.
