Toronto, 2007

That day we walked. We walked until our feet and knees hummed with exhaustion, but we didn’t care. We were propelled by the thrill of seeing new things.

We walked through Kensington Market, stopping to eat burritos that defied my preconceptions about Mexican food in Canada. We walked down to Queen Street West searching for a bar I thought was called “Sweaty Babies.” We walked to galleries; I had my faith in art shaken in one and shored in the next. This is a common occurrence.

At “Sweaty Betty’s” – I’d misheard the leader of our expedition – we drank and cursed the lousy smallness of where we’d began the day’s trip. We rested, took pictures, and had a conversation with a peculiar man. He looked homeless or close to it, wearing a coonskin cap and a long white beard. He brought his own generic ginger ale – it was ok with the bartender – that he cut with water. He told us stories of his life that were simultaneously plausible and insane. He produced the latest issue of Harper’s magazine from his torn backpack and excitedly told us about a new publication from Lewis Lapham to which he’d already subscribed.

After a few beers we excused ourselves from the chat and hit the street again. We walked some more, then hopped a trolley eastward. We had dinner at a restaurant that served Indian, Italian, and Himalayan food.

Around midnight we walked through mostly empty streets back to where we’d left the car. Ahead, an open square illuminated with the white light of huge video walls. We passed through, squinting. We stopped for coffee and pointed the car south, onto an expressway that lifted us up towards the city and then gently curved away.