Volume 6: Pete in Canada Part 9. Beaver Las Canada. 1 Continent, 2 Blokes, Infinite Weird Sh*t
Day 18 – Toronto
What do you do when you find yourself living in Canada’s biggest city, left with many free hours of clear headed thought caused by not being able to find a liquor store or pub? Apparently you either build something large out of old matches (go to any Ripley’s Believe It or Not for proof) or build a giant radio tower largely out of concrete somewhere downtown. The Toronto folks, decided the radio tower would be more of a challenge and went with that option. The result is the Canadian National Tower, allegedly the tallest freestanding structure in the world (I don’t know what the tallest unfree standing structure is), the first place we visited on this day. I use the word “allegedly” as the topic became one Brad and I debated with great passion (I don’t know why) ever since we set foot on the streets of Toronto. We’d placed a beer as the wager, with Brad betting in the affirmative, my good self the negative (oh, now I remember why the debate was so passionate, it was so hard to find a beer in Toronto). Brad thought he’d settled the bet when he opened his Lonely Planet book and it listed it as the tallest freestanding structure. This still didn’t ring true for me, as I was sure that the Petronas Towers in Malaysia were taller (large phallic architecture and beer, I’m a Subject Matter Expert in both). I also wanted clarification on “tallest freestanding structure” and any potential difference in definition of “tallest building”, a very important distinction given Brad had said tallest building, not tallest freestanding structure (tour life’s great, makes you ask all the big questions). Without access to the internet, Brad declared himself the winner, something he thought confirmed when we entered the foyer for the CN Tower and in large writing on the wall was written “World’s Tallest Building”. It was only month’s later that I found a website that said I was correct (which was wrong), at which time Brad reminded me of the insignificance of the topic and we would do better to reminisce about how there seemed to be an abundance of large breasted women in Montreal.
Once inside the tower, you ride an elevator that only takes 58 seconds to climb the 500+ metres to the observation deck (very impressive, given I’d been in hotel elevators in Europe which took a similar amount of time to climb just 3 floors). At the observation deck we enjoyed a couple of beers overlooking the city, taking in the view and hoping that the clear day which allowed us to see up to 160km might also afford us the privilege of finding Toronto’s 2nd liquor store which hopefully would be easily identified by a large neon sign saying “Open 24 hours”. At the top of the Tower you get to read all about the bizarre feats accomplished in and on the Tower, making them more bizarre when you consider they were somehow thought up by sober people. Great achievements involving the CN Tower:
The world’s longest rolling down stairs of human record
The world’s longest successful egg drop
The world’s longest annoying session of Yodelling (over 7 hours!)
The world’s longest time without finding the CN Tower’s elevator (some bozo walked up and down the stairs 17 times in a day)
The world’s craziest bet made at a pub to a bloke’s mates that actually came true (some clown climbed the Tower bare handed twice in one day, apparently he had to do it twice because he forgot his wallet the first time he got to the top)
Imagine if Canada had a space program? What great success it would have had if the above list of noble folk is any indication to go on. Another great effort achieved on the Tower was a thrill seeker jumping attached to a cable filmed on the awesome show from the 80’s “That’s Incredible”.
After the CN Tower we pretty much walked aimlessly around Toronto, with the only other discovery being Yonge street. According to the plaque on the ground it’s the longest street in the world. I can’t quite remember where the plaque was, but it shouldn’t take that long to find it on the 1,896 kilometre street. To make it easier I think it’s on the left hand side of the street. I’m also assuming that given it’s the largest street in the world, it also has the largest street number in the world, with some poor unfortunate soul having a 15 digit number on what is no doubt the largest letter box in the world that spans a number of metres just so all the numbers can fit on it.
Back at the hostel the award winning elevator was operational, taking us to the 5th floor patio for a barbeque dinner. We bumped into the same POMMY bloke yet again, fired up the world’s tallest freestanding structure debate again much to his amusement, before talking with some Irish and UK chicks whose names were soon added to those that I would forget on this tour. For a brief time a Japanese couple came onto the patio and said 2 words, “Hello” and “Goodbye”, before departing. It was sometime around this time Brad made a beer run to the liquor store with just 17 minutes left until they closed. I thought it was too ambitious to think the liquor store would still be open when he got there, but Brad took the challenge on by himself and succeeded in getting some beers.
At dinner we learned there was going to be a get together at a pub near the hostel to farewell one of the hostel employees, so we headed there after dinner. At about 1am the challenge to avoid falling asleep at the bar proved too great for me, so I headed back to the hostel while Brad flew the flag and stayed until stumps.
Day 19 – Toronto
Today I was awoken at about 10:30am by a team of repairmen fixing the award winning air conditioner that had been leaking water since we arrived. The repairmen took the liberty of liberally using their vacuum, drill and other various loud mechanical devices that no doubt was enough to wake anyone still in the room and anyone still sleeping on the east coast of North America. I’ll give you the whisper; starting the day being awoken by a loud drill after a big night on the turps is not ideal. The thing that pissed me off most was that hostels wanted you to check out at 11am, so surely you don’t start work until at least 11:01am, after all this a hostel, that while being in the dry city that is Toronto, would be filled with young people still recovering from a big night. The head stooge of this operation to fix the award winning air conditioner was an Australian, making me wish the Canadian government was more strict before handing out Working Holiday Permits.
Forced out of bed, we headed off to Ward Island (I’m assuming named after Ward Cleaver from “Leave it to Beaver”. Man, this country is obsessed with beaver) so Brad could get a good picture of the city as for some reason he didn’t take his camera with him when we had visited Centre Island. Ward Island is a pleasant little place, so much so that there is a 5 to 10 year waiting list for people wanting to move there. Whilst enjoying a pleasant stroll on the board walk Brad thought it would be a nice gesture to capture the moment with a picture of the 2 of us. Brad’s standard way of interrupting a passing punter to take a photo is to say “Scusi” (a lot more practical if you’re in Italy) with maybe one other word, usually “photo” or “picture” and pointing at his camera. On this occasion it was a 30 something Canadian couple who were the chosen one’s. After the first picture didn’t work out, the nice young woman, told us to get closer to each other. Her husband/boyfriend/extra marital affair told her not to worry with the instructions as we didn’t speak English. I don’t know why, but for that moment I was happy to be a non-English speaking tourist, so much so I refrained from finishing the exchange with a “Thanks mate, you’re a top bloke” just to see what sort of reaction that would have drawn.
At around 3:30pm we decided to head back to the city to potentially book some flights to Calgary. This was the one point of the tour that hadn’t been quite set in concrete. The decision to drive cross-country from Toronto to the West Coast, or simply fly. The short flight versus the 5 day road trip. I love a good road trip as much as the next man, but the concept had lost some of it’s sparkle as I’d suggested it to the chick from Toronto sitting next to me on the plane flight from Sydney and she’d informed that may have been one of the most boring drives one could ever do. Apparently all we would see is prairie after prairie. When someone from Toronto thinks something is boring, it must be as they’d built an entire city on the concept. There was also the rental versus buy, with Brad keen to have a car he could use while he spent the next year working in Canada.
This discussion, fortunately had a third party to help mediate. As we sat down in a shopping centre looking at a large unfolded map of Canada, some old bloke sitting on the same bench gave us something just short of a PowerPoint presentation on the costs/benefits of buying a car versus flying. At the conclusion of his presentation he gave Brad the phone number of some other bloke who sold cars or used to sell cars. As compelling as the old man’s presentation was, we eventually decided to book some flights from NYC to Calgary.
Dinner tonight was “London Style Fish & Chips”. It was only when the bloke serving me spoke and there was no cockney accent that I became uncertain about whether I was truly ordering London Style Fish & Chips. Oh, that and the fact he was of Korean descent was a fair give away.
After dinner we headed back to the hostel to see if anything was happening there. The hostel had updated its huge black board they used to indicate the day by day activities. Unfortunately, this now meant that the black board we had based adding another 2 days in Toronto was wrong. We wanted to see a baseball game, something highlighted on the black board, so we decided to hang around until after Thursday to see it. As the award winning black board didn’t have any dates on it, just day names, we had made the decision on what was now an out of date black board. Spending 2 more days then necessary in Toronto, how unfortunate.
It wasn’t all bad news back at the hostel. For days I had tried to contact Danielle from New Jersey, but every time I called her number I was informed the number was inactive. I logged onto my email account to check that I’d written the number down correctly. This time I made one distinct difference when writing her number down from the first time; I was sober. I had written down the last 3 numbers as 723, they were actually 732. Armed with the correct phone number I finally made contact and let her know we would be in the vicinity of her neighbourhood in the next few days.
Back at the 5th floor patio we bumped into 2 Aussies. One was from Adelaide, with his only redeeming feature being he offered me a Coopers Sparkling Ale. Baffled that he had beer, let alone Aussie beer, he had some how found the 2nd other liquor store in Toronto which apparently had the mother lode of all beers there. Not only that, they only cost him $2 per stubby. That was cheaper than most bottle shops in Australia (I’ll leave my passionate thoughts on how much I think Australians are screwed by alcohol taxes to my opening speech should I ever be elected to the senate in my local seat). The other Aussie, from Sydney, was working as a chef in the hostel to pay for his accommodation. He had come into Canada through Quebec, who are apparently quite laissez-faire (that’s French isn’t it?) in their approach to working visas as they asked him when would he like it dated.
The Sparkling Ale, which had ensured my drinking streak would not be broken, also served to motivate me to go on a quest with Brad to find Toronto’s Peel’s pub. We made the trek to the Entertainment District and begun a long search asking 3 people at various stages where it was located. They each gave a direction, so I was starting to become confident that we would eventually find it through triangulation. It was only when we asked the bouncer at Crocodile Rock that he chuckled and said it had been shut down. This was truly a sad moment, so Brad and I went into Crocodile Rock and enjoyed the $2.75 domestic beer special. It was only later that I gave that chuckle from the bouncer more thought. Peel pub in Montreal was called that because it was on Peel street. There was no Peel street in Toronto, which got me thinking that maybe Peel’s in Toronto may have actually been a strip joint (as in “peel your clothes off”). Sadly, it’s a question I’ll have to take with me to grave.
Crocodile Rock wasn’t pumping so we headed back to the hostel for a reasonably early evening.
Day 20 – Toronto
Today I started the day by shaving under the award winning bathroom lights by plugging my shaver into 1 of the 2 working power sockets. From then on the rest of the morning was spent being shot down by car rental companies. No fewer than 6 rental companies said they weren’t overly keen on letting us drive their cars to Vancouver and leave them there. When we reached the Avis store a glimmer of hope was given when they said it would be fine to drive cross-country. Unfortunately, the key part of the car rental transaction, namely the car, could not be secured as apparently they were booked out. Brad refused to give up the dream of the Canadian cross-country road trip, still pinning his hopes on the Toronto Driveaway company. This would’ve have also been the cheapest option as Toronto Driveaway was a company which let you drive cars for people who have relocated from one coast to the other, meaning the only cost incurred for us would have been fuel. At the time Brad called them they said they had nothing available but said try again in around a week. This was enough to give Brad hope, so he even floated the idea of ditching our NYC to Calgary flight in Toronto. This indecision was starting to cause some friction, so I played the role of Morgan Freeman to Brad’s Tim Robbins and tried to convince him to give up on hope (of the cross country road trip). Unlike Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption, I eventually convinced Brad to give up hope and we finally settled on the NYC to Calgary option. So keen to drive a car Brad in one last moment of frustration Brad even contemplated flying straight to Vancouver and renting a car there. We both agreed that wasn’t an option so finally confined ourselves to the fact our road trip would have to begin in Calgary.
Over lunch in some small outdoor café in the court of an office building a Quebecois waitress suggested we head to Kensington Market. After a long walk, passing through the dodgy streets of Toronto’s Chinatown, we were rewarded by meeting the longest freestanding structure of crappy merchandise. It reminded me of the Queen Vic market back at home, only this place didn’t have the abundance of WuWear that gives the Queen Vic market it’s special charm. Surrounded by so much dodgy merchandise we placed our hope on finding an equally dodgy custom made t-shirt shop (you know, the one’s that create gems like “I’m a lesbian trapped in a man’s body” which always seems to be worn by a fat bloke at any music festival I’ve ever been to) to create our tour t-shirt. Not for the first time today, our hopes were crushed. Today my ever growing beer gut would not be graced by an official Beaver Las Canada tour t-shirt.
Devastated by what was becoming a day of lost hope, we turned a corner and all hope was restored. There it was, like the tunnel behind the poster of Raquel Welch in Tim Robbins prison cell that had justified his hope, our metaphorical tunnel of hope; a Hooters restaurant. We planted our arses there and spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying 4 jugs (of beer). We spent this pleasant afternoon on the rooftop patio talking to a Canadian/Korean waitress name Gi. The 4 jugs (of beer) was enough to convince Brad he was a chance with this woman who no doubt would have been hit on each day more times than the number of visits the Ferries made to Toronto Island each day. After finishing the 4th jug (of beer), I went and used the facilities and found Brad at the cash register asking for her phone number. She “just happened” to leave her mobile phone at home that day, so instead told Brad to meet her at an adjacent pub at the end of her shift at 2am.
Walking back to the hostel gave me a chance to acknowledge that jay walking was something not practiced in Toronto, much like drinking. I also acknowledged that by the year 2030 95% of all pubs in Ontario and Quebec would be either English or Irish themed. Old Quebec was littered with them, Rue Crescent in Montreal had an English or Irish pub breeding program, while of the handful of pubs I found in Toronto the English and Irish invasion had breached the citadel of boredom surrounding this huge city. You draw on a map of Toronto the location of a liquor store and that map becomes a treasure map. Speaking of which, we found the 3rd liquor store in Toronto hidden away at the Union station, purchased a few beers and enjoyed a barbeque on the 5th floor patio talking to a Japanese girl.
All the walking we’d done, coupled with the 4 jugs (of beer) left us a quite tired. We decided to head back to the dorm for a power nap at 9:30pm, before heading out after midnight. Well, that was the plan, but when at 12:30am Brad couldn’t wake me he headed to meet Gi on his own. When Brad got to Hooters at 2am it was closed, so he went to the near by pub to find Gi. She wasn’t there, so he had a beer and begun the long walk back to the hostel. Walking in a foreign city on your own after midnight is not something I’d usually recommend, and after this night also something that Brad would probably not recommend. While walking home a bloke in a car pulled up and the driver asked for directions (fair enough, we knew how hard it can be to find a liquor store in Toronto). Brad couldn’t help him, so the car drove off. It was when the car drove past again and again the male driver stopped to ask for directions that Brad started getting suspicious. The suspicion was confirmed when the bloke then asked “Are you into the scene?”. Whilst never having a homosexual experience, it didn’t take much effort to release the “scene” that this bloke was talking about was not the “building of model World War 2 aircraft scene”. Although, his “scene” did have something to do with the battle of the bulge of sorts. I’m not sure of Brad’s exact response as I was too busy laughing as he told me the story, but I believe he politely declined the offer. Given Brad’s from Sydney it’s probably not an overly foreign experience being hit on by gay men, in fact he probably felt a little home sick after the experience. Tour life: expect the unexpected
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