Turn off the lights, turn off the lights

So you know all that global warming stuff? No need to worry, I found the solution! Toronto. That's right, Toronto is going to save the Earth. Now before you think I'm going crazy, all I have to say is: You weren't here for Earth Hour.

The one-hour around-the-world event was probably barely noticed in many major cities but in Toronto, this was a highly anticipated spectacle, complete with a countdown that immediately induced a desire in me to kiss someone and start drinking champagne.

For weeks leading up to these 60 minutes of darkness, newspapers printed stories about how Canadians will spend Earth Hour ("I'll have a candlelight dinner with my wife," or "We'll watch hockey in the dark" or something like that).

Canada was proud to claim more Earth Hour participating cities than any country, Ontario was proud to claim more participating communities than any other province, and Toronto was proud to claim its airport was the first to sign up for Earth Hour - which made me visualize a bunch of air-traffic controllers working by candlelight and made me grateful I was not flying anywhere near the T-dot at the time.

Yesterday, when Earth Hour would take place from 8-9 p.m., the entire 10-pound weekend newspaper was covered in Earth Hour logos. Every section of the newspaper - from 'condos' and 'living' to 'wheels,' 'sports' and 'ideas' was dedicated to Earth Hour.

The paper's approximately 50 environmental reporters delivered tips on saving the environment that went on for pages, such as 'Buy a smaller house, it uses less energy' to 'Do not use a green bin only in the kitchen, put it in the bathroom so you can also recycle paper towels and toe nail clippings.' (trust me, I could not make this up). By the time I got done looking through the paper, I felt guilty about having the reading light on.

There was a also a concert for Earth Hour in downtown Toronto featuring - you'll never guess - Nelly Furtado. With her "Turn off the lights, turn off the lights" verse still echoing in my ears, I had no choice but to turn off the lights and go to sleep.

Gimme my Timmies and no one gets hurt

Someone once told me that when they visited Canada, they were convinced every corner had a Beer Store and a Tim Hortons.

I'm sure the Beer Store will make a good blog entry soon, but let's talk about Tim Hortons, also known as Timmies. Named after a hockey player (shocking, I know), the Tim Hortons chain is to Canada what Dunkin' Donuts is to America.

Only, so much more. It's a way of life.

Tim Hortons inspires dedication among Canadians that is tough to describe. And with more than 2,750 stores in Canada, it truly feels like it's on every corner. Come to think of it, I could have sworn I saw a few corners that had more than one Timmies.

Tim Hortons, among many goodies, offers Timbits - aka 'donut holes' or 'munchkins' in other places. Tim Hortons has inspired common catch phrases among the Canadian species, such as "Gimme my Timmies and no one gets hurt," which have led to clothing and accessory lines.

Tim Hortons has also inspired more than 500 Facebook groups, including "Tim Hortons Rules of Ordering and More," which has more than 5,500 members. It includes valuable ordering advice, such as this one: "First of all it’s called a Bacon or Sausage Breakfast Sandwich. “McMuffins” are carried at McDonalds not Tim Hortons."

A group called "We Love Tim Hortons" allows you to send Timbits to your Facebook friends. Another Tim Hortons group has fans' comments, such as "their coffee is like crack, so addicting" and "Why can't Timmies come out to Vegas?" Someone from Singapore wrote: "Oh Gosh, I miss Timbits sooo much!"

So my friends, if I do develop a Timmies addiction and go through Timbits withdrawal, I hope you can come to my rescue with a Tim Hortons intervention.

Run, Canucks, run! (Canadian species, part 2)

In downtown Toronto, there is a running store called "Time 2 Run" that has apparently been closed and been up for lease for more than a year. This is very puzzling to me, as the Canadian species are often spotted running right in this area. You would think that next to a snow plough or a hockey store, a running store would be the third safest bet.

There don't seem to be many Canadian species, as the streets of downtown Toronto always seem deserted to me. But when I do observe the rare species, they are running - whether it's snowing or there is simply a foot of snow left from the day before - they seem to be in year-round marathon training mode.

I have juggled several theories about this running obsession. Perhaps it's a way to keep warm, just like hot yoga. Maybe it's how they loosen up before a hockey game. Maybe they are all criminals running away from the Canadian Mounties. Or maybe that's just a preferred mode of transportation here, which would also explain why I don't see many people walking around downtown, riding the subway, etc.

I think I'll have to go on a jog soon to further investigate this. Who knows, this is why Toronto may seem so empty to me. If I follow the runners, maybe it will lead me to some super cool part of the city where Toronto's hip and fit people hang out.

The hottest thing in Toronto

I started doing hot yoga here - it's basically yoga in a studio where the temperature is cranked up so that you're sweating even before you go into your first upward dog. I think I may enjoy hot yoga because it's one of the rare occasions when I'm not cold here. Hot yoga is all the rage in the T-dot so I can't help but wonder whether others are into it for the same reason.

Some of the participants in my class seem hard core - one of them takes the breathing instructions so seriously that she sounds like a steam-powered train throughout the entire 45-minute ordeal. And while I have it's-not-flip-flop-weather-yet-so-i-can't-be-bothered-to-get-a-pedi feet, other participants sport toenails painted in the same pink colors as their Lycra yoga tank tops, leaving me convinced that such matches are no coincidence.

I stick to simple goals for each hot yoga class, which have progressed from 'Do not faint on the first day of class' to 'Don't fall loudly on the mat while doing the bridge pose'. For the next class, my goal will be not to cheat and to actually close my eyes when the instructor says to do so. (I currently prefer to squint and observe how others are doing instead).

One day, perhaps I can have a goal of actually attempting to clear my mind when the instructor says to do so. As a hot yoga virgin, I currently feel it's still acceptable for me to use this time to debate whether I should get a Tim Hortons ham-and-cheese or egg salad sandwich for lunch.

The Canadian Species - probably part I of many

Much like those Canadian snowflakes discussed earlier, the Canadian species seem to have adjusted to the frigid Canadian winters. It is the only explanation I can come up with for why on a winter day in Toronto, every other person is not wearing a jacket, not to mention scarf, hat and gloves.

Going out for a smoke? The Canadian species don't seem to require a jacket for this - in fact, many of them roll up their sleeves. And either the bars' coat check staff here are really incompetent and lose half of the city's outerwear, or these Canucks are just warm-blooded.

Because on the walk home at 2 a.m. - or whatever lame hour the bars close here - the streets are literred with Canadian species wearing sweatshirts, long-sleeved shirts or the occasional T-shirt. All this when it's below freezing and I'm still shivering in a jacket that resembles an oversized sleeping bag stuffed with down feathers.

Identity crisis

From a major highway in Toronto, one can see signs for "New York Fitness." Minutes later, an apartment complex is proudly called the "New York Towers," with individual buildings carrying names such as "Waldorf" and "Chrysler." At a construction site in downtown Toronto where a new condo is being built, British flags and Big Ben are everywhere as the project claims to be "London on the Esplanade." And Torontonians often call a new outdoor plaza in Toronto's shopping/theater area the city's 'mini Times Square.'

Toronto apparently has an identity crisis. Yes, it's safe and clean and has 4 million people and the condo construction is booming, but what exactly is Toronto about? The city doesn't seem to be sure, so instead it tries - not so successfully - to be like other, much cooler cities - aka New York and London.

I wish it would just give it up and instead build its identity on its own attributes, such as "Toronto: you can eat off our clean subways." Or "Toronto: the urban capital of the North Pole."

I don't care if you put "I Love New York" on every dumbbell in that dumb gym, I'm not gonna believe I'm in the Big Apple. You can call that new condo a flat, hire a doorman with a British accent and serve tea and cucumber sandwiches during open house, it still won't be London. And just because you stuck a big billboard near your shopping street - heck, even if you put the Naked Cowboy in there - I doubt it will induce a Times Square deja-vu.

Get your own identity, T-dot.

The white stuff

Canada gets a lot of snow – hardly worth a blog entry. But it’s how and how much it snows that’s worth a few words.

It snows so much that people have no place to put the snow. Most driveways currently look like the Holland tunnel. Some cars are buried in snow so much that I'm pretty sure the owners just said 'Forget it, I'll wait 'til it melts in August.'

The other day, the snow was mixed with this crazy wind so that it snowed upwards. I was looking at it through my sister’s place and kept asking: ‘Why is the snow falling up?’

Then I ventured outside and there it snowed horizontally. Gigantic ice-embedded snowflakes kept smacking me in the face at a 180 degree angle. I guess it's like the survival of the fittest - in Canada, snowflakes have had enough practice over the years and only the strongest ones have survived.

I pulled my toque (translation: winter hat) over my face and wrapped my scarf around me, but it was no good. I may have to go shopping for one of those ski masks robbers wear.

My heart will go on. And on and on and on. . .

Canadian radio stations have to follow broadcasting laws that require a certain percentage of the content be played by Canadian artists – I believe the minimum ranges from 20 to 35%.

Now, mind you, Canada does have its share of musicians – Alanis Morissette, Bryan Adams, Celine Dion, Avril Lavigne, Crash Test Dummies, the Tragically Hip and so on.

But still - enough is enough. I mean, Alanis is still pissed at her ex, Avril’s getting on my nerves and – is it summer of 1969? Because I’m losing track of time here.

And then there is Nelly Furtado – the Canadian-born promiscuous girl/man eater seems to have taken over the airways here. Of course, she is also Portuguese, but who cares, she has enough Canadian in her to meet the broadcasting requirement. Don’t get me wrong – I like her - but if I continue to hear her 30% of the time the radio is on, she’s ll get as annoying as Celine Dion’s speeches.

We like to party

Canadians like to party. And by that I mean get absolutely pissed drunk. Maybe it's the fact that there was 25 cm of snow here this weekend so hey, what else is there to do? Maybe it's the excitement that house parties don't need to shut down at 1 or 2, or whenever most bars close here. Maybe it's the fact that booze keeps you warm when the high temperature is -6. That's right. That's a minus in front of that high. Whatever it is, there is something about these winters that seems to make everyone in Canada drink like a frat boy.

Need Coke with that rum? Nope - in Toronto, they often just drink the rum. How about a gin and tonic? Here, straight up gin seems to be the drink of choice. A whole bottle of it. Per person.

Such activities are often accompanied by Canadian songs that have lyrics such as "I'm not at my desk, I've been drunk for a week."

Toronto: where everybody knows your name

Toronto’s population is 4 million but it feels more like 40.

I know about five people in this city and last night, I ran into four out of the five. At the Raptors game.

First, my sister saw a friend there she actually met through my friend – although this was no surprise as he has a Raptors’ shrine in his pad and she uses her season’s tickets enough to describe every regular in section 312 of Air Canada Center. (“That guy always wears a sweatband” or “I don’t know why these fat guys are here, they don’t usually sit here.”)

Now, we had already established that this friend of hers was friends with my friend from high school, which was weird enough. Then he said that she was actually also there tonight, in another section. So I saw her. And she was there with another high school friend I knew. So I also saw her.

And that was just the beginning. Three rows behind me, in the 20,000-seat Air Canada Center, my friend’s sister was sitting. Literally three rows behind me. So that’s what, four people already? It keeps going.

After the game (I’m pretty sure they lost, but I was just happy they scored 100 points so I could get a free Pizza Pizza slice today) we went to get drinks. We weren’t even completely out of the building when my sister ran into another person she knew.

“Wanna grab a beer with us?” she asked her friend – who, mind you, did not even attend the Raptors game but we still managed to run into him.
“Sure,” he said and switched directions.

Apparently Canadians don’t need much convincing to drink beer. And Torontonians are apparently used to running into each other as I was the only one who kept screaming “Are you kidding me?! You gotta be shitting me!”

Ok, so we’re up to what, five run-ins now?

Then we went for drinks, where the first friend (The Raptors shrine guy) was with another friend. So that friend calls up one of his friends. He shows up and my sister looks at me and says:
“I know that guy. I played basketball with him.”

So yeah, either my sister needs to be the Toronto mayor or this city feels small.

Hablas espanol?

When you live in between two places and work from home, you clearly fall out of the norm. I took an online Spanish placement test and, in addition to struggling with the words I had to fill in, I struggled with the meaning of the sentences.

“I have to go to the office tomorrow.” said one sentence.
“No I don’t,” I thought. “How do you say ‘basement?’ in Spanish?” I asked my sister.

“How much does a cab cost from your house to the airport?” another question.
“How would I know, I couldn’t afford one,” I thought. “How do you say 'I just walk, take a subway, a shuttle bus and an AirTrain?'"

“Do you have a car or a bike?” This one really pissed me off.
“How do you say ‘neither?'"

Here comes the snow plough

The man who drives the snow plough here can't win. If he doesn't show up, people are pissed because they are buried in piles of snow. And if he does - like on this particular lovely March day that involved about 10 cm of snow - then he clears the street but dumps the white stuff all over your driveway, possibly leaving you even more pissed off.

It happened to me today - I put on snow pants, gloves and similar gear necessary to battle the white stuff on the driveway. Minutes later, I was freezing and sweating at the same time, the overalls from my pants had loosened up and were halfway down my ass and the whole look of overly baggy winter clothes in horrific colors and patterns was complemented by my runny nose and my hair doing uncontrollable things. But I shoveled anyway and was proud to see the dark driveway slowly emerging underneath the white stuff.

And then the snow plough guy came. And again. And again. Three times he drove that monster around the block and three times he dumped mountains of white stuff on the freshly shoveled driveway. I could have sworn he kept backing up more each time, so as to pick up more speed and dump more of the white stuff. I even tried to confront him with an intimidating stare, although I don't know how intimidating I looked with my earmuffs all crooked and my rose running.

Canada: We Recycle

Canadians like to recycle. They recycle everything – not just paper, plastic and the usual suspects but they also recycle food. Supposively, Toronto officials walk around and inspect people’s garbage bins to ensure recyclables don’t end up there. Who knows what the punishment for violators is – life without hockey, perhaps?

My parents, being the proud law-abiding Canadians that they are, ensure that everything is closely examined for its recycling potential before its fate is determined.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo!” they scream if they suspect something wrongfully took the path to Michigan, where Ontario sends its garbage.

Now you would think the Recycle v. Garbage decision is an easy one. But this is a tricky task – supposively, a food-clad paper towel should make it into the recycling bin, whereas a booger-clad one probably should not. Then again, they have proudly pointed out that diapers are also recycled in Canada, so I'm probably wrong.

Recycling bins are a subject of major excitement here. All the households are about to get new recycling bins and must choose one of several sizes. In the suburbia where my parents live, this generated at least an hour-long discussion, including a guess that a particular neighbo(u)r will definitely get the largest size because of how much he recycles. I’m not sure if that was mockery, or perhaps envy for his superb recycling skills.

I'm freezing my ass off. Literally.

It’s fucking cold. Not just outside – in my room, in the bathroom, everywhere. I better not have to piss like a racehorse here because first I need to heat the bathroom. Otherwise, the toilet cover is so damn cold that I can’t sit on the damn thing. But hey, I'm keeping positive again. Maybe this will lead to strengthened quad muscles and then they could catch up to my calves.

Animal kingdom

“What the f….?” I could have sworn I heard some howling. Wolf-like howling. Apparently I’m not going crazy because my sister smiles and says “Yeah, it’s wolves. It’s like the North Pole.” No shit. I look outside and - while it’s still gray of course, it’s bright from the snow because that white shit is everywhere. And now there are wolves, too?

Later that day, my mom walks in the house from the driveway.
“I almost ran over the raccoon,” she said, a comment that doesn’t elicit any responses because of the apparent frequency of such run-ins.

Minutes earlier, my dad had an animal spotting of his own. A spider was crawling on the living room ceiling. He returned from the basement with his ‘spider killer’ – an approximately 20-foot tool he assembled by connecting those long pipes from vacuum cleaners and attaching a cloth at the top. Its purpose is to kill spiders. And with one quick move, the spider is dead. And I’m wondering what animal encounter will be next. Wolves. Racoons. Spiders. Oh well, I think, keeping my ‘keep it positive’ theme going. Better than rats in Manhattan.

Fried dough

144. That’s how much I weigh. It sounds high but keep in mind I’m 5-10 and I got calves that span 16 inches at their largest point –my boyfriend recently measured them to confirm this. But I have to remember this weight because my first breakfast here involves a platter of fried dough. Literally fried dough. With jam. Of course I eat it. A lot of it. Because, hey, it’s fried and it tastes damn good and it’s in front of me. And shortly after, there is croissants and Eurocrem and god knows what else. But there is no fifth-floor walk-up or 15-minute daily subway walks. So I better watch it. 144.

It's fucking gray here

I’m at LaGuardia, waiting for the Toronto flight and regretting I forgot my sunglasses. I like to look out the big glass windows and it’s so sunny that it’s too bright.

But no worries. An hour later, I land at the YYZ and it’s gray. It’s always fucking gray here. It’s a good thing I’m not here year-round or my seasonal-affective disorder would kick in and I’d jump off the CN Tower.

“It’s a nice day today,” my parents had announced just a couple of hours earlier about the weather, which puzzled me even further. I guess when a typical day involves subzero temperatures and enough snow to bury a short person, a blizzard-free day with minus-some-single-digit-number temperatures is considered a nice day.

Later that day, I attend an event on a floor high enough that it was probably the same altitude as my flight. There is fancy decor and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Except it’s ugly. There is no gracious Empire State Building; no sparkly Chrysler Building or lights from the GW. It’s just gray mixed with white snow.

Sure I’m bitching, but that’s the point of this blog, right? Of course there are plenty of those nice Canadian things as well. As soon as I emerged from the PATH –the underground system that allows you to walk through most of downtown without ever coming up for air – I whip out my Toronto map. I don’t even have time to unfold it and a man comes offering to help. He doesn’t seem to be sure of the street, but that doesn’t stop him –in true Canadian politeness, he’s spinning around, looking up, reading numbers, analyzing buildings - spending a good few minutes doing the same task I was gonna perform had he given me enough time to so much as open my map. But hey, it’s Canada and they’re polite. So I tuck in my map and thank him.