Toronto is Strange, Gritty, and Beautiful
Scribblings from the donut shop at the edge of the world.*
That odd, weightless feeling I get when I realize I have no idea where I am. When I realize I’m setting foot somewhere I’ve never been—never-ever in my life.
West Queen West, Toronto. I sit in a donut shop, writing away.
Toronto feels like an intersection of places I’ve been. And yet, it’s something else. There’s echoes of Oakland in the color and grit, echoes of Pittsburgh in the old brick and the heavy, heavy, humid air.
Aggressively “elevated” food and coffee abound, in a place that was once, a lifetime ago, a working class neighborhood. It’s a familiar story.
But that weightlessness of the unknown–for me, that feeling is new.
I’ve never set foot in this place. I’ve never breathed this air. I’ve never set the sole of my shoe over this exact crack in the sidewalk, passed by this exact scribble of graffiti on the wall, walked under this rusty bridge.
Much of my life is tracing familiar paths, seeing familiar sights. The routine grounds me. It’s like a neural pathway in the brain that I know well. The habit of familiarity feels like home.
And yet, it’s this subtle discomfort, this ache of newness, this step into thin air that transforms so much, changes meaning, gives new context, gives way for new pathways to form. It’s those experiences that give “home” its meaning.
They say you can never go home. I think the truth is more complex. Home is an idea. Home is a place in you.
And whatever “home” is, that’s going to change; it’s a fluid and ever-evolving thing. Home is a feeling, more than a place.
Sometimes I feel like Sherlock Holmes.
I go on these trips for my day job, making ads.
The trips are often rushed and lightning-quick. No sooner do I find myself in some new part of the world, when I suddenly have to turn back and go home. And in the rush and commotion of it all, I often feel that there’s still mysteries lingering, mysteries left to solve.
“You see, but you don’t observe,” Sherlock might say.
There’s strange textures and cracks and graffiti; there’s something lingering in the air here, something people are emitting. It changes its nature, changes its molecular structure. Something that makes the air different from home, I swear.
But we’re not here to contemplate the air. We’re here to do a job. And that’s okay.
It’s just how the donuts are made🌌
This post is brought to you by our sponsor, Curio Donuts.
This concludes tonight’s episode of C.K. Anomalies.
Hope to see you back real soon!
*While I wrote most of this piece in my journal at Dipped Donuts in Toronto, I’ve also also edited and expanded upon it as I sit here, at my home in San Francisco.