#EdGoesToRonto- The Quarterly Update

As of Saturday, I'll be pretty much bang-on three quarters of the way through my time in Toronto. Six months completed, with only two months to go. That's quite hard to comprehend for a number of reasons, not least the thought that I won't see a lot of my newly-found friends for a good number of years. I say newly-found, as it really does feel like yesterday that I was flying out here in August, full of excitement that has barely dipped beyond peak level the entire time I've been in this fantastic city.

To this end, I've made a vow to myself that could be difficult to keep, but we'll see how it goes anyway: I'm determined to come back to this city, by fair means or foul, within the decade. So, if I haven't been back to Toronto by 2024 (let's say December 31st 2024, give myself six months extra leeway), then you can all get in your hovercrafts and yell at me. Deal?

This blog is something of an in-betweeny issue, not quite near enough to the end of my Year Abroad to start getting misty-eyed, nostalgic, and sycophantic, but enough has happened in the last few weeks that this will hopefully prove an entertaining read.

In addition, I'd like to place on record my thanks for everyone who sent me kind comments about the blog I wrote about my Dad. I've saved every comment in a Word Document, and I'm sure that if I'm ever feeling low, the reminder that I have such wonderful friends will assist with the healing process!

***

Last week was Reading Week, and, in the realisation that the furthest I'd been outside of Toronto was, er, Greater Toronto, I desperately wanted to visit somewhere else before I left Canada. Montreal was the ideal candidate- reportedly great night-life, a distinctly different, and indeed European feel to the city, and just far enough away that you could get a Megabus for about $40 return.

So, it was time for #EdVaAuMontreal, the sister-hash-tag of the now famous #EdGoesToRonto. I travelled on my own to Quebec, which was met in some quarters with raised eyebrows. I was pretty unperturbed by this; I'm content with my own company, and, what's more, you tend to make more friends if you travel on your own- this hypothesis, thankfully, proved true.

I've spoken to a few people before about this, but last semester I took a course/module in 'The History of Quebec and French Canada', and it was honestly the most interesting module I've ever taken at university. It was also probably the most demanding, down partly to the fact that I was starting from a position of literally zero knowledge, so I either had the choice of total immersion, or total failure. Thankfully, a somewhat inspirational professor prompted me to choose the former path.

The history of Quebec and French Canada, I wrote in an exam, was characterised by several moments of great rupture, instigated by ferocious language debates, race, and a vehement desire in certain vociferous quarters to be independent from the rest of Canada. Despite these moments of headline-grabbing rupture, I continued in this exam, Quebec was a place of peaceful coexistence.

Now, I'm not sure how correct this was, as I haven't had the breakdown from the exam, but I'm pretty sure this assumption was on the right lines. I'd also gleaned the impression, from friends and from my own cautious xenophobia, that the people of Quebec were somewhat aloof and unfriendly towards English speakers- as, I suppose, they had every right to be. Someone told me that my Englishness would even see me get beaten up. I should have stayed at home and gone to Millwall away instead, clearly.

Thankfully, these fears were utterly unfounded. The people of Montreal were even more friendly than those in Toronto, who, in turn, are friendlier than English people, so my three-night trip was essentially a waltz around the cobbled streets, practising my French to patient Canadians after three rusty years, and eating lovely food and drinking beer at a cheaper price than Toronto. Much as I love you, Ontario, this needs to be rectified.

It felt brilliant to be able to wander round a city, fully appreciating its history, and even casting a wry smile at the street names and subway stations. Its history seemed to be everywhere, but that may be because I was actively looking for it. They've even got a piece of the Berlin Wall inside the shopping centre, given as a gift to the city of Montreal, and acting as a nod to Montreal's fortified past. I probably know more about the history of Quebec than I do any other time period or place, owing to the rigorous exam and essay schedule of my afore-mentioned course, so it would have been a great shame had I not visited the subway stations named after Lionel Groulx and Henri Bourassa, a pair of, to put it mildly, French-Canadian arseholes.

Inside Montreal's underground city

I didn't witness a city with visible ruptures. Of course, there are two communities that predominantly mingle- those who see French as their first language, and those who see it as being English. But it was far from a ghettoised, fragmented population. If anything, I came over all jealous, as I often do when it comes to languages, that these people have essentially grown up in a place that has encouraged bilingualism.

For some reason, I expected the people of Montreal to 's'en fous' (not give a ****) when it came to the Winter Olympics. I now realise that this was perfectly idiotic, but seeing the collective celebrations in the face of the Istanbul-esque comeback of the women's ice hockey team wiped that away.

Something that did depress me, as a fervent sport-lover, was the state of the Olympic Park, built for the 1976 Summer Olympics. It's thought of by many as the first really expensive modern games, but the park's legacy seems to be completely bizarre. It's been turned into a zoo, a crap Insectarium, and some fairly ordinary botanical gardens. I'm no fan of West Ham United, but at least our Olympic stadium in Stratford is being used for sport. Whoever's idea it was should probably be hanged for crimes against legacies, if there is such a thing- as should whichever quango or committee decided to build the most hideous office tower right in amongst Vieux Montreal, with its bakeries, cobbled streets, and of course, opposite the beautiful Notre-Dame Basilica.

Every city has its croissant to bear, I suppose.

***

Speaking of ice hockey, I've fallen in love with the sport since I've been here, and yet, ironically, it's one of the few North American sports I haven't yet attended. I was speaking to my British housemate during the Winter Olympics about its appeal, and, admittedly under the influence, we couldn't understand how anyone who liked football and rugby didn't like ice hockey. It's like a 6-a-side game played between Leeds United of the 1970s, and Wimbledon's Crazy Gang of the 1980s. It's got pace, violence, and perhaps most importantly, a goal carries much the same weight as a goal in football. It seems like a sport made for Britain, with the obvious exception of one thing: ice.

Canada IS ice hockey. It pervades their culture like nothing else. When I was travelling downtown one evening, I ended up on the same subway as Toronto Maple Leafs fans, and it was the closest I've felt to being back in Small Heath or Bordesley Green, on the way to St. Andrew's.

Obviously, with its popularity, tickets come at a serious price, and are also hard to come by. Hockey is said to have the most affluent, middle-class fan base of any of the sports over here, attracting scores of bankers and young professionals, despite the Leafs not having won anything of note since the 1950s. Hold on... affluent fanbase... used to be big and are now crap... haven't won anything this millennium... do I support the hockey equivalent of Aston Villa?!

***

About three weeks ago, my British mate Matt texted me asking if I wanted to go and see the World Cup. For a brief split-second, I was planning on buying a ra-ra skirt and dancing on the Copacabana, but then a second text came through saying that we weren't going to Brazil, but the trophy was on display in downtown Toronto.

I assumed that we'd have had to book to go and see it, like some sort of audience with the Pope, so I tweeted CBC, the broadcasting company where the trophy was being housed, asking if there was any chance that two English people could go and see the trophy. Lest we forget, England have lost the World Cup more times than Canada have won it.

It was the first time I've ever been star-struck by an inanimate object. I've seen the Sistine Chapel, the Eiffel Tower, and the Berlin Wall, but the World Cup?! That's something else. For the brief seconds that we were allowed near it, various thoughts went through my head, ranging from 'this must be like being at the Earth's core' to 'how the feck do I try and get this out of its display case without anyone seeing?'

We were also shown a hologram promotional film which was so very FIFA and depressingly corporate. They showed the  1986 Maradona wonder goal but not his handball; they showed the 2006 final but not the only memorable thing that happened in that game; and they left out the event which should be shown in every single World Cup montage- Mwepu Ilunga of Zaire rushing forward out of the wall in 1974 and booting a Brazilian free-kick halfway up the pitch. If you haven't seen it, please watch it.

Fuleco. He's the one in the middle.

Sanitised and clichéd it may have been, but it did obviously contain some iconic clips, so even my cynicism briefly dissipated, and I had Three Lions stuck in my head for days afterwards. And if a picture of me with the World Cup doesn't get you hot under the collar, I'm not sure anything will.

Oh, and we met Fuleco, the World Cup armadillo.

***

So yeah, like I said, this blog was a bit inbetweeny, and dare I say pointless ('now he tells us!') but I get a bit of non-blogger's angst if I leave it too long without penning an entry. Two months to go, and I'm determined to make the most of the rest of my Year Abroad, so much so, that I've begun to resent having to do any actual work...

KRO.