The Truth About Toronto
There we were, walking down College St., the busy Toronto thoroughfare. It was Halloween, and my friend, Guy, and I were on a mission to procure some red lightbulbs to lend his apartment the appropriate “spooky glow” so integral to a successful Halloween party (spoiler alert: the party was SICK).
It being Halloween, there was a distinctly ominous vibe in the neighborhood. More accurately, I think I was just a bit weirded out, Montrealer that I am, to see so much English signage – or perhaps I was still just feeling the effects of the 6-hour drive down the 401 from MTL. Whatever it was, I was feeling an eerie vibe. I was bracing myself to bear witness to any number of supernatural occurrences – a ghostly apparition, perhaps a UFO sighting, or maybe the audible cry of a lone, howling wolf (“but there aren’t any WOLVES in downtown Toronto!” I would surely exclaim).
So Guy and I make our way down the street; our destination, the Shoppers Drugmart, in sight. We begin to cross the street along a crosswalk when Guy sees something moving towards us. He points at it, and we both freeze. It’s white – a blinding white – almost glowing – and it’s moving with a deliberate rhythm – much faster than we are. But it wasn’t a ghost.
No, my friends, it was far more menacing: it was a mid-1990’s Acura Integra, customized to include an obnoxious “fart can” exhaust. Freshly waxed, the whip’s white paint was like porcelain. But not Ming Dynasty porcelain, more like freshly-cleaned Crane urinal porcelain. Still, it was shiny.
The mid-90’s integra was the kind of car that would usually come, straight from the factory, equipped with a neon-lit undercarriage, and a rear spoiler only slightly smaller than a park bench. I don’t want to stereotype or racially profile the owners of these cars, but I’ll simply say that drivers of tricked-out integras tend to be young, male, reckless drivers…but also extremely good at math. Fine, I’ll say it: they tend to be Asian.
The acura was careening towards the crosswalk, and Guy, projecting all the confidence of a Toronto urbanite, high on lattes (or whatever Torontonians drink – lord knows it isn’t beer) said simply “watch this.”
And then it happened; the Acura, all exhaust backfire bluster, light show, and booming bass, screeched to a halt at the crosswalk in front of us. I was shocked.
I looked at Guy, who turned to me and said “That’s right Dan, in Toronto – EVERYBODY stops at the crosswalk.” I was floored. All these years, I had convinced myself that Torontonians were a cold, soulless tribe; people who were obsessed only with money and status. I was sure the city was simply a bastion of douchebaggery – where people were cutthroat and had little regard for their fellow citizen – that is, unless said citizen played for the Maple Leafs. I was wrong.
What’s more, in Montreal, it’s a positively rare thing to see someone stop at a crosswalk. It’s not done.
So there you have it. Toronto: it’s not so bad!
