26th March. Oh, events are sparse in the city of hogs. The legions of marginalized drag the rags of their soul in the dirty snow. The rich gallivant on Bloor Street, flashing Botox smiles and designer wigs and moaning about the scarcity of luxury shops. The trendy crowd gathers in “rough” cafes and pubs, drinking overpriced beer and bragging about Berlin, New York and London. The immigrants fry hotdogs in their street carts, the smell of onion and rancid oil hanging in the cold air alongside dreams of wealth, glory and respect. Huge cars, armors of the mighty Canadian spirit, whizz by, fast and loud like heavy slaps on the back of your head, filling the air with the sour dust of the ice-melting chemicals. Nose against the cold window I contemplate the black trees, their charred limbs cruelly decorated with empty plastic bags that flutter like bandages.
“It’s barren !! There’s nothing here, innit!?!” exclaimed last week, outraged, a friend visiting from England. And she lives in Birmingham ... Expecting the poster-nation of liberal-capitalism, she was appalled. She furiously recounted how someone in their hostel told them you need one full month to properly see the city.
The Eaton Centre, one of the local shopping malls, was apparently high on this proud Canadian's list of ‘impossible to miss’ local attractions. One guesses a solid week should be spent only within this cosmic crown jewel of retail... And then, our guests showed us their ‘Lonely Planet’ guide and even we, although accustomed to the local patriotic deliriums, were impressed. I have no idea who wrote that grotesquerie but it's art. The authors – on SRIs? - dare anyone in their right minds not to adore this land of beauty, kindness, wealth and emancipation. Their descriptions of Montreal and T’rono would made one think they are landing in a futuristic paradise; their descriptions of the social that they visit a post-racism, post-oppression, post-colonial, post-scarcity utopia. A land of milk, honey, avantgarde and multiculturalism. Of course, the authors had to make clear that the awesomeness of Canada’s social arrangements are endangered these days by the unstoppable flow of immigrants.
Caught in the middle of the intercontinental dick duel between Lawrence Olivier of England and James Dean of USA, Canada feels like the provincial cousin - cruel, insipid, full of pustules and boring stories about beavers and raccoons. No wonder you hear so many fire camp stories about a Canada that is bigger, better, shinier and tastier than you will ever see. Yes, we’re slowly taking a perverse liking to life in the barren lands.
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