Here is where I stand

Sometimes its nice to stop and take in your surroundings. Dig your feet into the soil, wiggle your toes in the mud. Rub your heel into the scruff of the carpet, or feel the bite of cold tile as you tiptoe to the bathroom. Some days it pays to consider your feet, where they stand and for whom they are standing.

Yesterday as I was getting ready to leave work, an older employee who works in the rank dungeons of the hotel was also leaving. He was donned in his trademark grey bomber and corduroy cap. I nodded a casual farewell to him but he was too lost in his glassy stare to take notice. He just trudged past oblivious, like a tortoise passing through the edge of a forest trail. I realized right then that this man was probably coming off an 8 hour shift, his fifth in a row. And for twenty days of the month he stood unhappily hosing grime off of green recycling bins. And for two hundred and forty days of each year marched through the sunless depths of the hotel walking on the same dingy red tile surrounded by the same greasy yellow walls. And for the last twenty years he followed that same path, pushing those same bins until the punch clock stamped off his shift and he could stumble home with a blank and broken stare.

This was where this man stood, his life passing with each banquet function and out-of-town check-in. This was his life as it was mine. And in the infested basement of a hotel is where we stood together.

I am now sitting in the living room of my apartment. The sun is shining and there is a distinct sense of play in the air. As I type, motors push across Queen Street and I can hear children laughing, the product of too much sugar and skipped fourth period classes. I wonder why I sit here of all places, staring out a window in Toronto, watching pedestrians cross the street with purpose in their legs.

It would appear that everyone in Toronto has somewhere to be. Judging by the look of serious intent in their eyes and aggressive foot work through the lagging throngs, it appears critical that this somewhere be reached immediately. I sometimes imagine being similarly busy. A day stuffed with appointments, coffee dates and late night parties. With agendas and meetings and team building exercises. With midday Caesars and BBM conferences. I'm not sure why that feels so impossible, it seems easy enough.

My average day consists of sitting in coffee shops writing or reading or both. I enjoy walking through busy streets, watching people and taking in the bustle. Sometimes I'll take a notebook and jot observations while sitting in a park. On the odd day, I'll show potential renters my theatre space or go audition for a Crispy Wheat Thins commercial. Otherwise, I'm at a hotel stacking glassware while serving Chardonnay to Blue Hairs attending tea galas.

Perhaps I lack a certain ambition. Or maybe I haven't thought enough about the feet in my shoes and where they tread.

I've never known a place other than Toronto. My travels have never taken me off the Continent, and even within the Continent I've seen very little. The most exotic locale I've been to was Florida and I was only there because I won a drinking contest at System Soundbar. (a tale for another time). I do visit Montreal, by all measures a truly wonderful and magical place,but although it draws me to it, my pitiful french language skills keeps me from committing to it as a permanent residence. Halifax too proved gorgeous, but it was a little too quaint and charming for someone like me.

And so, Toronto, by default, has always been my home. It's where I've forged an existence and developed relationships with its many locales. I have favorite everything: martini bars, dance floors, doctors offices, vintage shops, smoking spots, makeout benches, disc golf courses, and ice cream cafes. I have three jobs. I have a gaggle of friends, and even more acquaintances. Family is right around the corner whenever I need support. I am embedded. I love it here, I truly do.

But I wonder if I'm like the man at the hotel and ubiquitous with my surroundings. This great Ontarian gem has been my only home and I'm not sure how to separate myself from it.

How much do you suppose we are a product of our surroundings? Am I a reflection of the shiny glass towers, concrete roads, dingy orange rubber pylons dotting the torn up streets? Does my eyes speak of Starbucks, my smile of billboards and condominiums? When I talk do I carry Toronto inflections? Do I have mannerisms and styles of my own or is it all simply borrowed from the city's hipster underclass to whom I'm constantly exposed? How much of me is the product of this place I've lived for almost thirty years?

Like most, I am painfully unaware of myself. And until now, I've never thought to think of my feet, and why they choose to walk where they walk. I have grown into my geography and I unwittingly carry its full cultural impact on me where ever I go.

My mother is an American citizen. She has recently acquired the documentation that would allow me to be a dual citizenship with the United States. I am a Canadian through and through and the prospect of living among the great gun slinging folk of the South scares me.
But then again....

I have started dreaming of sitting in a New York park overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I envision drinking in a Chicago Pub, the Bears having just lost another critical game. I imagine the rush of wearing my Blue Jays gear in a tide of black and white at Yankee Stadium. I picture taking in live music and not knowing where I am or who is even playing on stage. I wonder who I'd be when pressed against new backdrops full of different accents moving at a different pace. In short, to see how I stack up outside my comfort zone.

Perhaps what you are witnessing is the birth of a burgeoning sense of adventure. And it all began by looking at my feet and taking the time to look at where I stood. And knowing that wherever I wish to be is where I am.

Thanks for reading.
That Blogging Bastard

p.s. Girls part 2 is coming up next. Bring a hanky and a nice bottle of brandy. Enjoy yourself.