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Feel the warmth
Actor Peter Ustinov once described Toronto as "New York, run by
the Swiss." Though he said it in 1987, the quip is still widely
repeated as shorthand for the low-crime, low-grime livability of
Canada's largest city. In fact, Toronto has snared the top spot in
the United Nations' list of best places to live four of the past
five years. The city, as I discovered last fall, is easy to enjoy,
if not outright love.
Actually, I didn't fall for it at first. It seemed too big and
too busy. It happened that I headed there at a time I craved
solitude and serenity. Tired from a demanding week and grumpy after
a late-night flight, I would've preferred to soothe away my cares on
a gently rocking houseboat moored along the shimmering edge of Lake
Ontario or camped under the pine-scented starry sky at a provincial
park. Instead, I had reservations in the heart of downtown.
The lobby of the Pantages Hotel looked like something from a
European movie: red leather chairs, gleaming dark wood and light
glowing from every riser along a staircase. There were no carpets
printed with swirling fleur-de-lis, or bellhops in starched green
uniforms, which I would have expected at a standard-issue high-rise
hotel. Here, the hallway to the elevators looked like a cross
between a submarine and a nightclub, and the TV in the elevator
played music videos. It seemed intriguing and strangely intimate.
The room turned out to be a suite, brimming with equal parts
technology and Egyptian cotton. The window looked to the north out
over the sprawling expanse of the metropolis. The minibar was
stocked with everything from caviar to devastatingly rich shortbread
cookies. My mood _ and my mind _ was already changing.
With newfound energy for urban exploration, I set out to
investigate Yonge Street. Even at midnight, Toronto's main artery
was busy. Blinking neon signs kept time with pulsing music spilling
from street-side eateries.
People, many of them young, streamed past on the sidewalk. A
constantly moving mosaic of different colors and cultures, they
talked and laughed and held hands. Since the '70s, Toronto has
welcomed immigrants from all over the world. This night, these
streets have a very vibrant, very global feel.
Over the course of the next few days, I dallied at Thai
restaurants so small there were only a few tables, and stomped up
stairs in a medieval castle so large that when I finally reached the
top of the tower and looked out, Toronto's buildings below seemed
tumbled into tin-foil origami.
Among Toronto's many ethnic enclaves is Greektown. Known for the
mom-and-pop tavernas that line Danforth Street, the area is home to
the largest Greek community in North America. Out on the patio of a
restaurant, I discovered that open-air dining has its charms, not
the least of which was observing the painfully sweet first date of
the Torontonians at the table beside me.
The next day I strolled through Mount Pleasant Cemetery. A few
cyclists coasted under magnificent old trees, but for the most part,
the solidly set cubes, obelisks and Celtic crosses were quiet
punctuation to the exclamation points that marked downtown. A paved
path took me past the graves of Greek families, then Italians, and
finally Chinese, whose portraits etched in the smooth ebony granite
made Toronto _ their Toronto _ seem ironically alive.
Traffic downtown varied between frustrating and completely
futile, and I decided to forgo the rental car. The subway and
streetcar system was easy to find and use, and was the cleanest
public transportation I'd ever seen.
One morning, along with my partner Deidre, I boarded a ferry for
a 10-minute glide from the Harbourfront to the Toronto Islands.
Centre Island, where we landed, is the largest of the 14 islands
that were part of a peninsula until a late-1800s storm ripped them
from the mainland. Like others onboard, I couldn't resist the urge
to watch the Toronto skyline recede as the boat slid out into the
Inner Harbour of Lake Ontario.
On the water, geese swam and two men fished from a tiny boat. The
home of the Blue Jays, the SkyDome gleamed white in the sun like the
top half of a giant sugar doughnut. Beside it was the CN Tower, an
omnipresent, sky-piercing pinnacle three times taller than Seattle's
Space Needle. Like the Space Needle, the Tower is the compass point
of the city. No matter where you are, you can orient yourself just
by finding it.
On Centre Island, elaborate flower gardens and trees sculpted
like giant gumdrops led to quiet waterways and a quaint, but closed,
amusement park.
A few days later, I finally got my original wish and got out of
the city. We drove about 40 minutes to reach Limehouse, a tiny town
whose quaint stone buildings amid rolling topography suggest England
more than Ontario. Some of the village's stone lime kilns still
stand along the Bruce Trail, Canada's oldest and longest footpath.
The trail traces the Niagara Escarpment for more than 450 miles as
it runs through Ontario, into New York and under the plunging
Niagara Falls.
We picked a steep trail strewn with moss and ferns called the
Hole in the Wall. The pungent aroma of humid earth surrounded us as
we made our way through the rocks via wooden ladders tilted at a
precarious 45-degree angle. Thanks to rain that left bare skin raw,
we had the trail virtually to ourselves for the couple of hours we
could stand the cold.
The clouds began to clear as we drove back toward Toronto, but
the wind still whipped saplings alongside the road. A sign touting a
farm market lured us away from the main road and back into the
countryside.
Near the entrance, men in light jackets grilled hot dogs on
demand. But I was too cold to wait while they cooked. Instead, we
huddled in a barn, where shelves were laden with an array of
homegrown produce. We chose a pint of fresh-picked raspberries.
Red juice stained my rain-wrinkled fingertips as I ate the
raspberries, nestled up to the car's heater, grateful to be headed
back to the warmth of the city.
(Robyn Dochterman is at
robdoc@startribune.com.) Somicom Multimedia Inc.
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