magnificent anonymity: small comment on urban life

I'm in Toronto, blogging on the subway. This is awesome.

This week I’m staying with my now-ex-roommate and surrogate sibling, Ian, at the condo he and his girlfriend moved to just a few weeks ago. It’s up on Finch, which, to my surprise, still feels like a city. Save wider intersections and a noticeable proliferation of car culture, the sidewalks are still full of people, the subway goes here, and Korean food is open late. Toronto is big.

Contrary to the cold, hard, individualist reputation of big cities (usually promulgated by people who haven’t lived in them), I now find Toronto familiar and friendly. In fact, urban life here feels even homier to me than does small-place life. Avoiding becoming a combatant in the sustained urban versus rural conflict (or the Vancouver versus Toronto one!), I think there’s something about the anonymity and energy of folks in big cities that sparks rich interactions rarely found in smaller (maybe medium-sized?) places.

Tuesday I was sitting at the Green Beanery, bustling in the student hub of the Annex, when an older woman with a globe and mail tucked under her arm stopped by the table of two young women where one woman was trying to breast feed a seemingly perturbed baby. “Tickle the jaw,” she said, “sometimes it helps.” The women giggled over the fussing infant. I loved this. Advice from one mother to another, passed along orally in the local (fair trade, organic) café. Frack, public space is so important (even though cafes are technically privately owned, this is as close as we get on this city block).

Yesterday I was on the phone with a friend when a guy next to me overheard me saying I’m feeling munchy. While I was still on the phone, he reached over and offered me some dried cranberries. I don’t even like cranberries, but this gesture made me so happy!

Now on my way to the RCM atrium to spend a rainy day reading/gawking at the boots and piercings of music students. It’s my fave place in the world to hang out and pretend to be someone else (and visualize what my life may have been had a made a few different turns). I wish I had my flute case to set on the table so someone might talk to me about Verdi. Wishing everyone great chance encounters. Share an umbrella with a stranger!