Yesterday I was a little worried about my husband Peter. He was not at home yet at 5:00 and we had a dinner invitation for 6:00. Finally, at 5:15, he came rushing in with a large box under his arm. A leaf blower! On sale for $39.95!! But he had had to go to 4 Canadian Tire stores, using up 1/4 tank of gas, before he scored one.

Living in the city is more expensive than living in the country. Quite possibly it’s because we are doing more. Like us, most seniors have more free time, and less income. Money is precious. We all try to cut corners where we can.

And, with more time on their hands, many people really enjoy hunting for a bargain, scouring flyers for coupons, and rushing to stores for sales. Stores know this. Shoppers Drug Mart is a prime example.The management understands that we seniors will be shopping here a lot in the future. Every Thursday they welcome us as we arrive with our lists, and stand in line to get our 20% discount. Other stores such as The Bay have monthly deals for seniors. Hotels, car rental agencies, and some restaurants offer deals too, although sometimes they “forget” to mention it, pretending we are much younger than we look.

Here, in our new home in the city, we have had a year to suss out bargains. Besides our local Shoppers, The Bay and so on, we have found other deals. One of the big savings is eating out at lunch time. We have discovered a great Thai lunch place with specials: for only $10 we get soup, and a main course which is big enough to provide leftovers for the next day. The local pub has a different special every day of the week. If it’s chicken souvlaki this must be Tuesday. The nearby IKEA has Swedish meatballs, or salmon and vegetables for only $9.99. All you have to do is walk through the warehouse, avoid temptations, and get in your 10,000 steps.

Of course, the best meal deal is at COSTCO. How can you beat $1.50 for a hot dog with condiments and a refillable drink? And if you’re still hungry, you can wander around the store and sample rice crackers, chocolate-covered blueberries, sausage bites and granola. Then you finish off with a soft ice cream cone for $1.35. Seniors are not the only ones who take advantage of COSTCO. Families often sit down on Friday nights for “dinner” after they have shopped for their weekend supplies.

Saving on gas is another adventure. Radio stations regularly announce the gas stations with the best price. People often show up in their pyjamas after hearing that the price will go up 2 cents at midnight. Some gas stations always have the lowest price, and the longest lines. But when you’re over 60, you have time to sit in line-ups, as long as you have the latest sudoku puzzle with you.

Peter’s big mission in our new neighbourhood has been finding free parking spots. The parking is expensive on our main street where the banks, bakery, drug store and his favourite Sunnyland produce store are located. His go-to parking spot is at a local restaurant with a handy lot, which is mostly empty in the mornings until 11:30.When the restaurant opens up for lunch, he parks on a nearby street where the parking is free.

Yesterday morning he came home elated! He had been forced to park in a pay-to-use spot because he was late for an appointment. As he was reluctantly pulling out his wallet, his guardian angel was standing right there. She approached him with a parking receipt only half-used. After thanking her, maybe a little bit too profusely, he calculated the money he had saved, added in the Canadian Tire coupons in his wallet, and went in search of the leaf blower. When you’re 70, days like these can make your life pretty exciting!

Sue

A short walk from our new home in the city, through parkland, along residential streets, beside a bike path, and soon we come to – ta dah – Lake Ontario!

I have been a big fan of Lake Ontario from the time I was eight and my parents bought a “summer cottage” on lakefront property. My early years were filled with swimming in big waves, learning to row a boat, and riding on Rudy’s sea-doo. Have I mentioned Rudy before? That muscular, blue-eyed, blond-haired neighbour whom I thought looked like Marlon Brando? But I digress. There were problems with the lake: seaweed washing ashore after a storm, and dead fish littering the beach when the pollution levels got too high. But the lake was always there, a constant and powerful force of nature in the back yard of my youth.

I spent a lot of time sitting at the end of the dock, comforted by the waves; when I failed a subject at school, when our beloved dog died, when Rudy moved on…Then the family cottage was sold and my connection to the lake moved to Kingston where I went to university. The Queen’s campus was only a couple of blocks from the shoreline and I often walked down to sit on the rocks and study on warm fall or spring days.

After Queen’s, the lake and I broke up. I spent most of my adult life in the Toronto suburbs some distance from the lake, and the memories were dimmed by more immediate water bodies: swimming lessons for kids in a neighbourhood pool, visits to a summer cottage on a Muskoka lake, a couple of ocean cruises. I almost forgot about my lake; aptly named Ontario, the Iroquois word for “beautiful lake,” by Etienne Brulé, many years ago. Although the smallest of the Great Lakes, it is part of that system, the largest group of freshwater lakes on Earth, and a major route for transportation, migration, and trading, crucial to the history of Canada.

When my husband Peter and I decided to move to the city last year we didn’t think about being close to a lake. We were preoccupied with more practical considerations like access to public transportation and an extra bathroom. But after we moved, we began to explore the neighbourhood. And there it was – a short walk south from our house – My Lake!

In June I made a vow to have at least one swim in Lake Ontario before the end of the summer. But life got in the way and soon it was Labour Day weekend. I confessed my one weekend wish – to walk down to the lake and jump in. My brave husband agreed to go with me. We checked the weather forecast and chose the warmest day. As we put on our bathing suits, I began to feel like my eight-year-old self again, all excited and eager. I hurried down the path towards the shore, far ahead of Peter who was taking his time, hampered by his Mediterranean blood. Meanwhile I unzipped my beach cover-up and made a dash for the water.

Yikes! The water temperature was glacial!! I plodded ahead anyway and the water got to my knees. When I looked down, they seemed to be turning blue. I inched forward until the water came up to you-know-where. It was freezing! How had I not remembered this from my childhood? Or had the water temperature plummeted in the last sixty years? Peter, who had given up at his toes, stood by admiring my progress. I took a few more tiny arctic steps, submersing my arms as I went. Still unbearable. Finally, waist-deep, I was done.

I turned towards the shore, shivering and disappointed, as a show-off dog swam by. I surveyed the water from the warmth of the shoreline, thinking that my lake was still truly wonderful. And realizing that there are some things you just can’t do at seventy, even in the city.

Sue

Literally. When I tried to stand up after a recent theatrical experience, I thought my legs might be atrophied forever.

Peter and I love going to the theatre and we especially enjoy all the opportunities to do so now that we live in the city. I wrote about our fondness for the Royal Alex Theatre in another post a while ago. We really enjoy the Mirvish subscription series and have seen many diverse and entertaining shows and actors that David and his father Ed have been able to stage for Toronto audiences.

On the other end of the theatrical spectrum, we enjoyed being in the audience to watch our granddaughter Agnes onstage this summer. She signed up for drama camp and invited us to the grand finale, “The Music Man.” There she was, dressed as Ethel in her long skirt , gloves, and broad-rimmed hat, looking very matronly for a seven-year-old. When she belted out “Seventy Six Trombones” as she pranced around the stage with the other young actors, we were delighted. We got her to sign the program for us, in cursive writing, as she pointed out.

Last weekend, when we realized that summer was drawing to a close, we decided to attend a show we hadn’t seen in years, not since we were much younger and more flexible. We packed our pillows and snacks and headed for a night of Shakespeare In the Park. It was a night of adventure, far more than we had anticipated. First of all we got off at the wrong subway stop and had to walk through a very long off-leash dog park. It was getting dark and we had to watch out for tree roots and well you know what else is lurking in a dog park… as we hurried along.

Eventually we saw the signs for the play, “Much Ado About Nothing,” But we were late and the outdoor amphitheatre was packed. We spotted a space between two young couples and signalled to them. They shifted a little bit to let us in. We balanced carefully so as not to land in their laps as we inched past. Then we looked down at the seating – it was not seating at all but rather a grassy ledge with a cement back. We plopped down, wondering: “Where do we put our legs?” What we had thought would be leg space was actually the back seat of the people in front of us. And the show was starting.

We carefully tucked our legs underneath us while arranging our pillows against the cement back. Hmmm…how long was this show anyway? Neither of us had thought to find out. We focused on the stage as the narrator arrived, wearing very short shorts, speaking the modern vernacular, and waving her cell phone around. We were drawn in as other characters took the stage and gently led us from 2019 back into the Shakespearean story. The plot followed the original, although abridged and edited, with modern costumes and props. It was clever and we were enjoying ourselves.

But gradually we began to squirm.In an effort at disctraction, we opened our beer and snacks. The plot thickened. Sub-plots emerged. The wedding scene, with elaborate costumes and dancing, was visually beautiful. The comic relief was hilarious. But our legs were talking to us: “When is intermission so we can stretch?”

With no break in sight, we tried turning sideways, but then other body parts complained. We slouched down but then our knees popped up and we couldn’t see the stage. We tried stretching out but then we nudged the people in front. Despite all our discomfort, we were enjoying the show. After a while the actors made their final bow and we clapped and cheered in response.

Then we tried to stand up. We bent our knees one last time and pushed back against the cement wall. Slowly, slowly, our legs straightened and we were UP. Yea! We gathered our empty beer cans, turned around, and realized that our seats were now steps. We helped each other climb up to the top. Finally we reached the exit, far behind the rest of the audience whom we noticed were mostly younger. By this time it was very dark and the path was gravelly. More challenges awaited us as we made our way towards the subway in the dark on our still-wobbly legs.

After we arrived home, we analyzed the evening. All in all a success. But next time we’ll take a flashlight and more pillows. And definitely more beer.

Sue

The young boy gasped in horror as he stared down at his feet. There was his entire box of popcorn scattered on the dirty cement floor. Beside him a classmate pumped furiously at the ketchup spout, missing her hot dog entirely and creating a thick red lake on the counter. It was going to be an interesting day at the Rogers Centre concession stands.

Peter and I made our way past the mess to our regular seats. We have had baseball tickets for several years. From the excitement of “Joey Bats” Bautista, Edwin “EE” Encarnation, and the American League East Championship, to the loss of these players and other pillars of the team, we had stood by the Blue Jays loyally, even moving into the city so we would not have such a long trip to the ball park. (At least that was One of the reasons we moved). This year was labelled a year of re-building. We considered our new easy commute on the subway and decided to take a chance on the inexperienced team.

The first couple of games in the Spring were pretty close, giving us hope. But then in June there was a rout. As the opposing team scored run after run, we watched the CN Tower edge-walkers, filled up on nachos and beer, and generally waited around until it was the eighth inning and we could leave without feeling gypped. We skipped July, finding other activities in the country instead, and when our August game rolled around, we were hesitant. Should we even bother?

Then we saw the headlines: “Wednesday Is Camp Day at the Rogers Centre.” Well at least the kids would be a distraction. And were they ever! The entire 500 level was full of groups, dressed in identifying colours of lime green, fluorescent orange, red, yellow and Blue Jays blue. All of the little fans were hyper: they had been well-schooled in the cheers and they shouted themselves hoarse with screams of “Let’s Go Jays!” “Strike Him Out!” and their favorite: “Charge!”

When they weren’t screaming they were doing The Wave. And when they weren’t waving their bodies, they were waving their large foam fingers, or they were waving their camp-created banners. The banner contest had caught their attention and they had decorated huge rolls of paper with hearts, kisses, smiley faces; anything they could think of to say “We love you Blue Jays!”

When they were bored with cheering, they watched the jumbotron, hoping to see themselves or their friends live on the big screen. Or they watched as the announcer asked the big question: “What’s your favourite part of coming to the ball park?” The answer rose up from the young crowd: “The food!” And so, on cue, the kids begged their counsellors to release them to the thrill of the concession stands for a feast of chips, pop, cotton candy, gummie bears and ice cream on a stick. Good luck to any parents trying to feed them a healthy dinner after all of that.

Around the end of the seventh inning, the 500 level suddenly became quiet. Had the little fans all passed out from sugar overdoses? We looked up. The 500 level had cleared out. Camp day was over! We could sit back and watch the rest of the game in peace.

But no! By this time, the office group behind us had consumed several dozen beers and were getting loud. They hotly debated the advantages of wake-boards over sea-doos, they complained about fraud in the office football pool, they argued about the talents of their favourite bands. Finally they started in on the latest office gossip. Peter and I looked at each other. Time to leave. The Jays were losing and we had already gotten our money’s worth of entertainment.

Sue

We recently left our new city for an adventure in the north. As we boarded our first flight, we wondered how we would manage, trading in our new urban mindsets for a couple of weeks outdoors.

Our first stop is a city, but a fairly small one by our new terms of reference. One of the northernmost cities on earth, Anchorage supports about 300,000 people. The buildings in the downtown core seem short and utilitarian, dwarfed by the Chugach mountain range towering above, with no skyscrapers anywhere. The Saturday outdoor market is a big draw for both locals and tourists. Artisan wood products, jam made from local blueberries, and fresh-caught salmon (burgers) are some of the most popular purchases. It’s a far cry from the Eaton Centre.

Across from the market, the 12-mile Coastal Trail begins. Walkers, bikers, roller-bladers, love to spend an entire day weaving through forests and meadows, along the coast of the Cook Inlet. For some lucky visitors, the Aurora lights are a brilliant highlight. It’s not hard to spend the 18 hours of daylight outside in this northern gem of a city.

The Alaska Railway takes us south from Anchorage to our next stop. On the way we catch a glimpse of a moose swimming across an inlet. All eyes become fixated on the views from the train windows, searching for another four-legged swimmer. Occasionally someone sees a water spout. This could be an indication that a school of humpback whales is following along beside the train. Calls for breakfast in the dining car go unanswered as we all stare out the windows looking for signs of other wildlife. This is definitely not the GO train on its morning commuter run.

On board our ship for the trip south to Vancouver, we discover the promenade deck just one floor below our cabin. Here we spend every spare moment of the next week, getting our “steps” as we parade around the circumference of the ship, stopping occasionally to watch another humpback’s tail flicking out of the water, or a few sea otters whose close -cropped heads look like bowling balls bobbing along. The mountains continiue to frame our views and, although there is very little snow on the peaks, they are still majestic.

On a couple of excursions we encounter more wildlife. We visit a bald eagle preserve in rubber dinghies, swirling along, following the fast-moving current. It’s hard to take pictures while holding on to the sides, but we manage to photograph a few birds soaring overhead, and one or two sitting on nests and watching over their “juveniles.” At another national park we spy a black mother bear fishing in a stream for salmon. She paddles along slowly and quietly, sneaking up on the salmon while her cubs play in the trees overhead. “Sooo Cute!” we exclaim as we snap away.

A third excursion takes us to the famous Mendenhall Glacier Park. By this point we are really getting into these outdoor experiences and we grab our backpacks with serious intent. We are shocked by what we find at the glacier. I had visited this spot 20 years ago – in 1999 – and taken a photo. Here at the park we search out the same camera angle… and find less than a third of the ice. The glacier seems to be melting before our very eyes! Where there used to be a thick wall of ice, dramatically “calving” huge chunks into the ocean, now there is only water lapping at the shoreline, a beach of pebbles and silt all that is left of this great giant.

On our way home we make a brief stop in Vancouver where we discover a city much like Toronto, but one that definitely lives outdoors more. We spend the first day meandering through beautiful Stanley Park, similar to Toronto’s High Park, but much busier. On the second day we tour part of Vancouver Island and an old growth forest with trees still standing after 800 years. We visit friends whose outdoor patio is home to squirrels, birds and a few deer who come by at breakfast every morning.

Finally we board our plane for home, thinking about how much we have loved being outdoors. But our view of the glacier has shown us first-hand us that climate change is really here. More than ever, we need to treasure our forests, our water bodies, and our wildlife, while they are still around. We promise ourselves that we will start exploring more of the outdoors in our new city, even if we sometimes have to wear parkas.

Sue

This is my tenth post on Seventy In the City and not once have I mentioned all my medical issues. You must be shocked; we oldies tend to talk a lot about our illnesses and besides, I’m sure you really want to know about my thyroid condition, my carpal tunnel syndrome, my bunion which hampers shoe shopping, and my slight heart murmur. You don’t? Well that’s disappointing.

Anyway, what I Will tell you about is our hunt for doctors after we moved into the city and realized that it was not a good idea to keep our old doctors whose offices are almost an hour’s drive away. We could die in transit!

It seems that in a big city, like almost everywhere else in Canada, patients are short of doctors. Finding a good one, someone who makes you feel comfortable and secure, can be tricky. When we asked neighbours and friends in our new neighbourhood about their doctors, we got the same response: “Not taking any new patients.”

One day, on one of Peter’s walks to visit his “girlfriend” at Sunnyland produce store, he noticed a new medical building on the corner. This could be worth a try. Sure enough, a couple of the doctors in this building were taking new patients. But the sign-up procedure was extensive. First there was an interview. It was described as a meet-the-doctor visit but we knew it was definitely an interview. We needed to pass in order to get the position.

The question was – what was the doctor looking for? Did she want a sickly patient with interesting symptons that would present a challenge?

“Oh Doctor, I have this sore neck. It could be my jaw because I bit down hard on a nut the other day. Or maybe I’ve been playing too much golf. I think my mother had arthritis in her neck when she got older. Maybe it’s that. Or my thyroid condition?”

But maybe the Doctor wanted someone healthy who would only need appointments for routine procedures…

“Oh Doctor, I feel really great. I get lots of exercise. I only drink one, well maybe two, glasses of wine a day. No unusual lumps, except for fat of course, ha ha. Regular bowel movements every morning at 7:00, or maybe 7:30. Is that enough to pass?”

Then we discovered another problem. There were only Female doctors at this facility. Peter turned red-faced at the news. He had never been examined by a female, well that’s not quite true, but he was nervous anyway.

We dawdled for a while, considering our options. We checked out the doctors on the College of Physicians and Surgeons website and were relieved to discover no bad marks against either of them. Finally we signed up for the meet-and-greet. It was gruelling but we were both sent to the next step, a visit to the medical lab to get the whole truth.

We found the lab at a nearby subway stop. We walked in and searched for chairs in the crowded waiting room. We sat and sat and sat. It was ominously quiet; everyone thinking their own dark thoughts. Nobody was even looking at their phone! After what seemed like hours, it was our turn.

We were prodded, poked and pinched. The nurse took so much blood that I finally begged her to please leave a little for me. The x-ray technician put me through a circus act of strange contortions in order to photograph every angle. The urine sample, well you probably know how embarrassing it is to be carrying that little bottle back through the waiting room to deliver it to some lucky nurse. Not a good idea to try hiding it in your purse or pocket either.

Finally it was all over. We had both passed! We went out for lunch to toast our new-found doctors. And yes, we had a glass of wine. Or two.

Sue

PS For the next two weeks I will be taking a break from the city and going to a place where there is no internet service. You’ll hear from me again on Tuesday August 12th. Unless my thyroid acts up….

After living in the city for just 10 months, Peter and I feel we know a lot about the future of Canada. How did we learn so much at our advanced age, just by moving to the city?

When we planned our move we decided, what the heck, let’s make some other changes in our lives at the same time! So we gave up our newspaper subscription and went rogue – to the Globe and Mail. After only a short while, (and a couple of letters to the editor), we were invited to join the “Globe Insiders.” Soon we began getting surveys about various newspaper topics. And then came a biggie – an invitation to the Globe and Mail’s 175th anniversary event. There was to be an all-day conference on the future of Canada at the new Globe office downtown. We were as excited as little kids going to a theme park. We dusted off our business clothes and set out, on the subway of course.

Arriving at the new Globe and Mail building, we were greeted with breakfast. The food, along with the lunch and the snack breaks, was all supplied by a local organic caterer. We were served delicacies such as BC smoked salmon, lentil burgers, couscous salad, organic nuts arranged in tiny bamboo cups. When time allowed, we were able to eat our food out on the 17th floor patio, with a spectacular view of Lake Ontario. This was a first-class event for sure.

But the food and the view were surpassed – by the content. The keynote speaker, Jim Balsillie, inspired us with facts about Canada’s accomplishments on the world stage. He spoke about the Trans Canada Highway, the St. Lawrence River and Great Lakes canal systems, the CBC national news network, Canadarm, labour laws, health care, pension plans. He gave so many examples that I could barely keep up, feeling a great sense of pride as I tried to write them all down.

This overview of accomplishments was followed by several panel members outlining and discussing our collective fears for the future. There was a lot of talk about climate change in terms of Canada’s wealth of natural resources: the damage caused by the tar sands and our reliance on fossil fuels, the overuse of plastics and the much-needed ban on single-use items, the need to change our eating habits and lessen food waste. We were left admitting that, as individuals, we could, and should do more to protect all that we have.

Then a different panel dealt with technology and the problems it has created: the decline of quality public information, the increase in social divisions, the loss of personal privacy, and above all, the vulnerability of democracy. The upside to this story is our outstanding education system and the growth of talent in the technology field. We need to support our tech workers better and encourage them to stay in Canada.

The closing presentations showcased ways in which we in Canada are being successful in the eyes of the world. Several speakers, many of them refugees, described how they have made a big difference in our society. We heard from Esi Edugyan, writer and two-time winner of the Giller prize, Zita Cobb, founder of Fogo Inn and re-builder of the Fogo Island economy, Vishal Vijay, CEO of Every Child Now. Our tradition of accepting and integrating immigrants is a shining example for the world to follow.

Despite this inspiring day, Peter and I are certainly not experts on Canada’s future. But we left the conference feeling grateful; grateful for all we have in this country, and grateful that we moved to the city where we had a chance to learn so much, just by taking a short ride on the subway.

Sue

Aha – I caught your attention with that title, didn’t I? And you thought this was going to be a blog about old people!

I love to swing. On my new red swing from Lowe’s. When we moved from the country to the city, we bought some new backyard furniture. Richard, one of our helpful sons, helped us move the swing box from the car to the backyard. But it was raining and he escaped assembly duty. Then another helpful son, Greg, came to visit on a sunny day. He and his wife helped us assemble it, consulting the manual and matching up all the little numbers attached to each part, except that some of the numbers had fallen off and were stuck to other parts. With four university-educated people working on this, we managed to complete it in time for dinner – at midnight.

Life as a swinger is pretty predictable: coffee, a newspaper, and swinging at 8:00 am, wine, a novel, and swinging around 5:00 pm, hot chocolate, star-gazing, and swinging at bedtime. I am pretty good at the swinging life because this is not my first time. I had a brown one when we lived in the country, but it got a little rusty as swings do, after a life of rainstorms and summer heat. So when the moving van got full and we needed to give something up, I kissed the old guy good-bye.

Sometimes I fall asleep on my swing. But I have recently been a little careful because my husband Peter has been taking photos of me fast asleep, and posting them on facebook. At first people thought that my life was one long nap. Then one day he took a photo from the kitchen where he happened to be cooking, and now it’s worse. Now people think that I am napping while he is slaving over a hot stove! What a lazy wife, they say.

Once in a while Peter actually tries swinging too. But he has a different approach. He persuades his three-year-old grandson Ben into going with him and taking on the swing-pushing. Ben seems to love it, unaware that he is the victim of a child labour scam. He and our older granddaughter Agnes both get a kick out of the swing. Ben likes it because the back collapses and the swing turns into a bed. He has spent hours figuring out the mechanics of this and trying to do it in record time. “Now it’s a swing now it’s a bed now it’s a swing now it’s a bed.” Agnes swings with a little more creativity. “Let’s lie on this swing-bed Nana and tell each other stories.”

Occasionally people sit down and begin to tell me their troubles. Somehow the lull of the back-and-forth movement seems to calm them down. I have heard about financial woes, child-rearing, relationship issues and so on. I haven’t started taking notes or creating files yet, but I do occasionally suggest a second appointment. With wine.

Last week we went shopping at Lowe’s where there is still a floor-model of my swing on display. I saw a couple siting there, wondering if they should buy one. I debated about whether to tell them to go for it…this purchase would give their lives new meaning.

Even at seventy, we find life in the city is full of adventure.

Sue

PS: Last Tuesday, when I was taking a short break from city life, it seems the internet in my new location was also taking a break….sorry!

As Peter and I rode the crowded streetcar towards the Taste of Little Italy festival last weekend, we stood beside some older Italian ladies. Peter recognized their Italian dialect from his own province in Italy, and he started chatting with them. The ladies admitted that they had come a long way from a different neighbourhood to attend the festival. With my English ancestry, I thought I was going to be outnumbered.

After we got off the streetcar the first activity that attracted our attention was the Main Stage band. We moved in closer to listen, and we heard the Elton John song, “Crocodile Rock.” The arrangement was lively and Peter had a chance to practise his dance moves. But we kept wondering; how about “O Solé Mio”? Or “Nessun Dorma”? Or even an Italian wedding tarantella? As we ambled along the pedestrian street, we began searching for other things Italian among the street vendors. We didn’t find much.

What we did find, instead, were signs of our city’s diversity. Many cultures were represented in some way. Booths selling clothing items featured Japanese kimonos, East Indian saris, Turkish crystals used in jewellery, American-style beach wear, and motorcycle shirts. Activities for families were pretty generic: basketball hoop games, a kids’ midway with Disney-type rides, mortgage vendors, drag queens – wait a minute! I’m not sure how that show belonged at a family festival. At least there was a large crown of men gathered around, so any children passing by wouldn’t be able to see the barely-covered transvestites.

The food selection showed diversity the best. Visitors were eating Mexican fajitas, French poutine, Korean BBQ, East Asian edemame peas, Japanese ramen noodles, Arabic falafel. In fact, there were some foods that were definitely Not Italian, for example corn on the cob. Nobody in Italy would be caught dead eating corn off a cob. That barn food is fed to cows and pigs. We also imagined Italians would be horrified if they noticed the booth selling chicken-flavoured ice cream for dogs, with no gelato anywhere in sight. And Beer, the drink of choice at this festival, would be passed over in favour of Wine: Chianti, Amarone, or maybe a white Moscato.

Eventually, at the end of the street, we found a small Italian band, outfitted in Italian colours of red, white and green. The men were playing accordions, the women singing, dancing and balancing congé de ramo (metal water jugs) on their heads. Peter recognized their music from his own province of Lazio. Right beside the band was an Italian restaurant. With empty tables! While we waited for our meals of vitello parmesan and linguine al maré, we caved in and ordered craft beer from Ontario. But on the way out we bought the band’s CD. Peter’s Italian heritage was secured.

Our city is resplendent with festivals. Almost everyone has visited the Greek festival on the Danforth in August and tasted the traditional souvlaki or that delicious honey and nut pastry, baklava. The Polish festival is held in Roncesvalles in September. Now if you want polka music, that is the place to visit! The Caribbean festival, Caribana, takes over downtown Toronto in the summer. The highlight is the boundless parade featuring costumes of unparalleled splendor. There’s a little skin showing there too.

The Filipino festival, Taste of Manila, takes place on Bathurst Street in August, but we don’t need to go there. Having two daughters-in-law from the Philippines, we are well-acquainted with chicken adobo, anything made using mango, and many cultural traditions. Diversity is at home n our family. We have a daughter-in-law from China too so we don’t need to take in the Chinese celebrations to learn about the culture. But last winter we decided to celebrate Chinese New Year at a dinner in Chinatown where we ate nine courses and then waddled home. We felt we had truly celebrated the Year of the Pig.

If you have a favourite festival to promote, post a comment below.

Sue

Our decision to move from the country to the city required a choice. Would we want to live in a condo or a house? It didn’t take long for us to realize that we would really miss our back yard if we chose a condo, but we hadn’t thought that a house would provide such novel experiences. Our bungalow has some very unusual idiosyncrasies.

Because our new house is smaller, some areas have taken on extra roles. For example, the sun room doubles as a playroom for the grandkids and, when they want to do some “collaborating,” they retreat to a hiding place they have discovered under the stairs. The garage, which happens to be very large, not only holds both cars but also Peter’s workshop and the wine cellar. Peter used to avoid going into his workshop but now he seems to love it. The third bedroom has become an office space – for both of us. Together. The desk runs out from the centre of a wall, with chairs on either side. This way we can stare each other down, I mean gaze at each other lovingly, as we work.

In the dining room there is one interior concrete wall which doesn’t accommodate nails or hooks to hang any of our travel photos or posters. After some searching, we found our cardboard cut-out relief map of New Zealand and we bought Velcro strips to attach it to this wall. But the first time we went away on vacation, we returned to find the South Island on the floor. As we put it back up, we noticed that we had originally hung it upside down. Apparently Christchurch didn’t like being in the Tasman Sea. It wanted to be back in the Pacific Ocean. While we were away, the South Island had staged a rebellion.

Our new main floor bathroom on the front of the house has some very large windows which let in lots of light. But using the bathroom at night…well that’s a small problem. We found this out one evening when a guest forgot to pull the blinds as he was using the facilities. His daughter was outside waiting for him in the car. She rushed back in, screaming and laughing hysterically. “My dad’s using the toilet and everybody in the neighbourhood can see!” We now post a warning sign when we have visitors.

But the most unique feature of this house is the cacophony of sounds it emits. Along with some creaks coming from the wooden floors, the appliances all talk to us. The stove says: “ding ding the oven is up to temperature.” “Ding ding the cake is baked.” “Ding ding the cleaning cycle is finished.” The fridge speaks too. “Beep beep the door is open.” “Rumble rumble the icemaker is working.” The dishwasher says: “tweet tweet you forgot to turn me on.” “Tweet tweet time to unload.” The washing machine is more talented and hums a little 8-note jingle when the washing is done. The dryer, having no talent of its own, copies the tune.

The alarm system, however, talks so much we think we should start charging her rent. Every time we open a door she says something. “Back door opening.” “Garage door opening.” “Front door opening.” When we go out she takes on a very authoritarian tone as she warns us: “Arming Away! Exit NOW!!” We grab our stuff and hurry out, wondering whether she will ever let us back in.

Last Thursday night the best seat in our house was in the living room. This is where we have our comfy chairs and large-screen TV. And this is where we sat to watch the Raptors win the NBA basketball championship. Their win is a huge thrill; not just for people who are Seventy In the City, but for anybody, any age, any place, all across Canada.

Sue