Tales from an urban center with small town charm

I add now to my collection of small-town tales, a story from a visit to a very large city with my dear friend, Carol Lynn.

From browsing travel guides and websites, we learned that Toronto loves to boast the largest, tallest, most anything in North America – e.g. The tallest free-standing building, the largest southeast Asian market, the largest Greektown, etc. But we think Toronto must be the friendliest city in North America. Repeatedly, we were approached by perfect strangers who asked if they could help us find something. The workers at the hotel were kind and gracious, as were the servers at restaurants, etc. We had a great impression of the city – clean, quiet, safe and filled with well-groomed and polite people. (Although we’re certain some people must have a different opinion of Toronto, we choose to maintain our happy caricature.)


We stayed at a lovely Marriott Residence Inn – our nicest hotel of the trip. The room was truly tastefully decorated with every amenity and the breakfast buffet was impressive. We did have to get used to the idea of paying $30 for parking, but after discovering that free parking does not exist in Toronto, we conceded.

Opera on the Subway

We walked along the harbor and then took the subway to Greektown. A man was sitting next to me on the subway. He was a big, burly, black man with hair that was nearly shaved off except for a Mohawk strip down the middle. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, the guy had an Ipod and appeared to be really getting into his music. We were subtly (or not so subtly) staring at him wondering if this guy was a wanna-be hip hop singer or just mentally unstable. But then he started to make some gestures imbued with grace and passion, a look of sheer ecstasy on his face – like he was really being carried away by the music. When we exited the train, he started to sing, a gorgeous sound escaping his lips. Carol Lynn boldly tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you singing opera?” (She had recognized the signs and symptoms of a true opera singer). He smiled and said yes – he was on his way to a rehearsal for a Handel opera. Carol Lynn complimented him on his voice. He thanked her and mentioned that he had decided to stop worrying about people thinking he was crazy on the subway. Wow. After walking a couple blocks, Carol Lynn realized we might have been able to hear the guy really sing. We regretted not following him and asked several friendly Torontonians if there was an opera theater in Greektown. (There wasn’t, but they were amused by our request.) One woman – after an enthusiastic round of “welcome Americans!” – brought us a free newspaper in the hopes that we could find it. Although we didn’t find the theater, we did find a Greek bakery and enjoyed a delicious custard pastry served by a woman who called us “love.” (Thanks, love!)

A long walk

We then walked to the India Bazaar. I had read that it was the largest Asian market in North America and imagined a big market with all kinds of interesting things. Plus, it looked relatively close on the map. Periodically, we asked someone for directions and each time the person assured us that it was a 10-15 minute walk. At least an hour and several miles later (in the sweltering humidity) we arrived. On the way, however, we had some interesting encounters. For instance, I visited with an elderly gentleman sitting in the shade with his dog. When I complimented him on the dog, he told me that she loved the cold, but the heat made her very tired. She was 14 years old, after all. He explained that his air conditioner was broken. When the repairman came to fix it, he had discovered a nest of bees inside and refused to tinker with it. “That’s why we’re outside,” he explained.


We also wandered through various neighborhoods with residents from all over the world. We passed by a park where small groups of elderly Chinese men were intently playing a game resembling checkers. We saw a cluster of children (presumably from a daycare) that was the most multicultural group of children we had ever seen outside of picture books designed to be politically correct. We passed a block of stores devoted to Middle Eastern goods and stopped for a moment in an Islamic bookstore. When we finally arrived at India Bazaar (which turned out to be a couple blocks of shops carrying goods from India), we were hot and tired. We walked into a store jam-packed with stuff and strongly smelling like incense. Instead of music in the background, they had a yoga tape with the soothing voice of a man speaking English with a pronounced Indian accent. “Become very aware of your body. If you are wearing anything tight, loosen it. Now relax every muscle from the top of your head to your toes. Just breeeathe.”

Breathe we did – and promptly found a bus that would take us back to the subway station.

(Photos taken by Carol Lynn, the artist)

One more tale from small town USA

Based on my observations, I have come to the conclusion that dissertation writing ranks right up there with being forced to do hundreds of sit-ups at gunpoint. Therefore, doc students go to great lengths to make the process more palatable (that is when we're not avoiding the process altogether). Our latest attempt was a writing retreat at a lovely log home 20 feet from a lake. We (my writing group) spent four days writing, eating tasty, healthy food, and basking in the beauty of our surroundings. One day we went into town to get internet access and spent the morning in the local "bakery and beanery" where the owner kindly passed around his security code so we could use the wireless. Which brings me to another report of small town America -- while my friends were working on their dissertations, I was conducting my own informal ethnography.

I'm not sure how many people officially reside in this small Michigan town, but probably at least a few hundred. The locals are friendly and the town has not yet been taken over by corporate franchises -- not a Starbucks, a McDonald's, or a Walmart anywhere to be seen. When we walked into the bakery, we were greeted not only by the employees, but the customers as well. One of the customers, a middle-aged man named Marshall, quickly informed us that this bakery was baking 5000 cookies for the local church social. After ordering some treats, we settled in for a most enjoyable few hours.

We weren't the only ones -- Marshall and his friends stuck around reading the newspaper and visiting with the other customers for the entire morning too. The bakery workers also periodically came out from the kitchen to mingle. Whenever someone came into the bakery, he/she greeted everyone and then promptly went behind the counter to choose a treat. By the end of the morning, we were doing the same thing. (There was a much better view from that side.) The ambiance was definitely "mi casa es su casa." In fact, when we asked if we could hang out there, the owner replied, "You can do anything you want here" -- and seemed to truly mean it. We learned that there are two things that were forbidden, however. For instance, my friend asked if she could purchase one of the 5000 freshly baked church social cookies. The answer was a resounding no - not even one. The other taboo was leaving hair in the bathroom. I base this assertion on the following conversation I (and everyone else in the bakery) overheard between the baker's mother and Marshall.

Baker's Mother (upon returning from the restroom): Marshall, did you comb your hair in the bathroom?!

Marshall: Yes

Baker's Mother (in a very perturbed tone of voice): I thought so. The sink looked like somebody shaved in there!

I thought this was going to be my favorite conversation until I went across the street to the "Five and Dime" where everything (according to the storefront) was between 5 cents and a dollar. I wandered through the store looking for plastic knives. Meanwhile, the cashier - an older gentleman with six strands of hair carefully combed in a circle across his shiny, bald head - visited with a customer. When I made my purchase, the other customer started talking to me.

Man: I have this neighbor. He's very nice, but doesn't have all his marbles. I have these big ole' red plastic birds sitting on my fence. They look like overgrown cardinals. Well, one day this neighbor comes to me and asks, "Just what are you feeding those birds to make them grow so big?"

The man chuckles and I join him as the cashier meticulously documents my purchase on a hand-written triplicate receipt.

On that note, I met my friends and we returned to the cabin, happy that we had a few more days before returning to urban sprawl. And glad to have spent a few hours in a place where everyone knows your name -- or at least would like to.