There’s a city life outside of my elevated position … a lazy excitement and conspicuous electricity, palpable for the day ahead, even from up here on high, on the 17th floor.
The scenic elevator of my hotel is simply a panoramic view of other Toronto skyscrapers, and it stops being scenic from the third floor down, where it descends into the concrete mezzanines and entresols.
On the streets, we go with the flow … many of us to a subterranean world of consumerism which swallows us whole, and throws us out the other side – cleaned out, but with an expensive hot drink.
To the waterfront under the flyover, the works of art, the harbour walk.
Leaving the city streets behind for a glimpse of ocean life, riverside.
Condos, beach-like, in bright colours. Some with immense displays of shrubbery, hanging out on the balcony.
This is a meandering walk – at several stages I’m practically in and out of the water.
Eventually, the closer I get, the sound of engines begins to drown out all other life, arriving at Exhibition Place for a motor race.
Beneath the imposing Victory monument, the crowd and I take it all in with a Miller Lite, lounging around on outdoor furniture, as though this is a normal thing to be doing on a morning.
Racing cars blasting past at irregular intervals, the noise of powerful engines and screeching tyres drowning out all commentary and any attempted conversations.
In the afternoon, funny trucks are jumping over ramps, to a great deal of enthusiasm and applause.
While over at Thunder Alley, everyone forms queues to get plastic plates of plastic food and plastic cups of expensive beer … because this is what we’re here for.
In the indoor paddock, international racing drivers come and go, while their cars get checked over.
In the outdoor paddock, grown men in improbably small police cars, fighting crime like it’s a cartoon invention.
I leave when there’s no more to see, taking the long walk back to central downtown.
In a random place, Nathan Phillips Square: art, for sale.
It’s quickly apparent that everything’s for sale – Toronto Outdoor Art Fair.
Traditional paintings mixed with stained glass mixed with abstracts mixed with conceptuals. With a little milk stirred in, for good measure.
Some people say yes to this, others say no, backwards.
A multitude of skyscrapers look down on this new art riot, expressionless, emotionless.
Around the edges are the brains, locked up in perspex cabinets for folk to peer at, to inspect, and to get the time (the wrong time).
Easy enough to absorb this afterwards with a salad and a mediocre pecan pie, on the 17th floor of an international business hotel, while the yelps of people splashing around in the swimming pool down below drift upwards.
I have no drive to hit the town tonight, so instead I go up the CN Tower at dusk, because it seems like the right thing to do.
I don’t take a selfie, I’m not a wannabe model; I’m not part of a family. I’m just trying to stay grounded up here!
Up in a concrete tower, the highest wine cellar in the world (which makes no sense), relationships form and break down.
And then we all have to travel back down in the same elevator, and then we’re all forced to walk through the same gift shop, past the same moose, the same stuffed bear, the same streaks and smears of maple syrup; all of the prices reflecting a kind of theoretical art which can only be understood if you have a credit card.
Oh yeah, I got high. And then I came back down.
An Outside World 