The hostel is huge. And loud. And strangely reminds me of an opium lounge. When I arrived last night, two hours late courtesy of Amtrak, all but the receptionist was lazing about, in a somewhat contemplative sort of manner, on plush couches and soft fabrics, as if in a vegetative state and couldn't quite figure out what to do with it at that point. Like the entire populace of the building just decided "Well, this looks like a good spot" and dropped down for an evening snooze. I saw faint traces of movement, eyelids flickering about, but I felt as if I'd merged into some sort of Chinese back-door warehouse where the air is thick with the seeds of opium poppies and everyone who sits down for longer than 10 minutes becomes aware of a strange form of telekinesis connecting everyone in such a state.
It was bizarre.
So I hastily made an exit in search of my room, promptly discovered all the electrical outlets next to a bed taken, said fuck it, and went upstairs to sit in the middle of a semi-abandoned hallway. The hum of noise was quieter, the rug somewhat comfy, and human contact was minimal. Perfect. After dallying on the internet (I need WikiNews on a daily basis or I go through withdrawal periods - Jessie can attest), I came back to the room, still empty of other guests, smelled myself, and decided that if I wished to acquire food somehow, I should join the ranks of my fellow homo sapiens and take a shower.
I've realized something just now, typing this: I enjoy food. And it sucks to be without it. Which is strange to say, considering I'm in the middle of downtown Toronto, right next to a plethora of streets chock full of restaurants, bars, clubs, pizzerias, taquerias, and hot dog stands (I saw 4 just on the way from Union Station). It's just that being alone, I have far less courage to muster up going into a dining establishment than I would be if I were with any number of others.
Coming in from D.C. to Penn Station, NY at 1:30 am is a bit like finding yourself in a twilight zone where everyone yells loudly for no good reason, makes threats to others in a comical "I'm so tough I'm gonna tell you just how much I can kick yo' ass" sort of fashion, and flips the bird in your face. OK, so I didn't experience that last one, but I'm still waiting for it.
But that was two nights ago. I found a small store still open, bought a chicken salad, avoided making eye contact for the next 6 hours straight, and then boarded the train for Toronto at 7:30 am. On the train, I was stupid enough to think that we'd make it on time, so I simply contented myself with my Cliff bar (from Montana; yummy) and dozed. Waking up some time later, and it turns out we're two hours late, the cafe car is closed, and customs is boarding.
This next phase lasts much too long, dreadfully long, so I'll just say the next time a customs officer requires some sort of assurance that you are in fact going to return to your country of origin at some point and not just become a permanent member of Toronto's homeless
community, flashing your return tickets would be the recommended action. My mind couldn't quite cope with the concept of me setting up shop in *snicker* Canada (of all places) for the rest of my life, so on the inside I just started laughing, while on the outside I made lots of stuttering noises and did my best to assure the nice customs officer with a gun that yes, I would indeed be returning to the US at the end of my stay. She gave me a strange look and apparently decided I wasn't worth the effort, because here I am.
Although I might be getting a follow-up letter from the border patrol at my parent's address in the near future; just to make sure.
What I'm trying to say, is, even though I'm surrounded by food, I've had only the bare minimum. It's the 26th, and since the 24th, I've had a chicken salad, a Cliff bar, 6 pieces of sushi from the only restaurant I found open (it's Sunday, and apparently that matters here), a hot dog from the street...the end. I need more.
In the room - I'm aware that my silent presence makes others feel somewhat ill at ease. I strangely enjoy that feeling, as it gives me a sense, not just of power in that I'm controlling the shape of the room (however uncomfortable or detrimental it may be), but also that my
existence is acknowledged. In a negative way, however, as I am just that one guy in the room who never talks and makes everyone else feel strange for doing so.
I've also no desire to make friends. Sure I'll chat if they ask me questions, but I'm not in the least interested in asking them any. It's strange, because if this were a mixed room, I would absolutely be more cordial to my roommates (if for no other reason than to prove that regardless of my beard and deathly odor, I really am a nice guy), but when it comes to other males my age, I usually just say screw 'em and put on my headphones. Is that so wrong? I kind of feel sexist.
I'm just not a verbal creature, unless I happen to already know the people.
I'm amazed at the diversity. Not just the French, either. According to Wiki, 49% of all Torontonians (heh) were born out of the country. 49%. Jesus.
It's also one of the safest cities for its size, and remarkably clean. I mentioned the homeless earlier, but really I saw just one, making his nightly rest on the sidewalk with steam coming from below, I assume to help heat him up.
Other things I've found in the first 24 hours:
- The bookstore is called "Chapters." Would you like a membership card? No, really, thank you. The search-help computers are a combination of giant Apple-style touch screen with metallic aluminum keyboard encased in a monstrous white cube. If I didn't know better, I'd say these were the Canadian Macs. The logo was absent, however.
- Bill Bryson's "I'm A Stranger Here Myself," wherein the author recounts his time back in America, is now "Notes From A Big Country." Oh, funny. Because his "Notes From A Small Island" was written during his time in Britain. Wow. I wonder if he knew that title change would take place? Did they consult him about the topic? Did he suggest it? The marketing for the Canadian market does require consideration after all.
- Canadian money is multi-colored. Well done.
- The coins are a blend of American and European. American in that there are four small coins, 25, 10, 5, and 1, with the 10 being smaller than the 5 in physical size, and the 1 being bronze while the rest proudly display their silver. European in that it has both a $1 and $2 coins, with the $2 having a gold border around the edge, ala the zwei-Euro-stueck.
-Center is Centre.
Oh, I also decided to do the genius thing of "syncing" my iPod while on the train, which, unbeknownst to me, replaces the entire content of your current iPod with the entire content of your iTunes library. Funny thing is, I don't keep any of my music in iTunes. I manually rip it from the CD, put it into the iPod, eject, the end. So apparently I saw the sync button, thought "Oh, this looks like fun, let's have a go" and promptly erased every single thing I have on it.
Oops.
So here I am trying to restock on music and movies for the train ride back down, which is excruciatingly long, and then hoping for enough entertainment value to keep me awake at Penn Station (again) for when I do the same thing, but going the other way now.
So. My stomach craves food. Early dinner, perhaps.
-Jay, out.
Toronto, Canada, 18:46
No comments:
Post a Comment