HOME ADVANTAGE

Five days in Toronto, a scouting mission.

Now as I sit in a cafe tucked off Church Street in Toronto’s gay village, I stare at a rainbow flag hanging above a window of a two-storey, cream-colored brick house across the street. Maybe this will be home. Not the brick house itself—to expensive, I’m sure—but the city’s designated rainbow quarter. When I visited this same area on a sleepy Monday morning in August, I wasn’t impressed. But then I was able to laugh at myself, too. Who else checks out the purported gay scene of a city on a Monday morning? I wasn’t looking for a bustling bar scene. I’d hoped for charm and quaintness. Instead I saw the same old Canadian bank branches trying to out-rainbow one another with their colorful facades and mainstream cafes, Starbucks and Canadian franchise Second Cup. I looked up at the aging high-rise apartment buildings on nearby streets and thought there was no way I could call this part of the city home.

On Saturday afternoon, I gave the area a second chance. Admittedly, any sense of good judgment was gone as snow covered the ground and continued to fall. I’ve never lost that childhood sense of wonder and excitement when flakes start to fall. I could have visited skid row and been impressed. Everything looks better with snow. It’s part of the reason I’m moving back to Ontario. I want to experience four distinct seasons and escape the rainy “winter” months of Vancouver. I popped into one independent cafe I hadn’t noticed in the summer and ordered an oat latte. That cafe is a rainbow crosswalk away from the one I’m in now. Both pass the test as possible writing spots for me. Passable if nothing more. I’ll have to make things work. The same goes for the entire neighborhood.

In truth, while walking close to one hundred kilometers during this visit, I failed to find a neighborhood that felt like I desperately needed it to be my future hub. I liked the quirky feel of Little Italy and the international vibe of Kensington Market, but there were no apartments or condos in these areas. Roncesvalles was a charming street close to Lake Ontario but, again, no apartments and too far from the heart of the city for a newcomer. Same goes to Leslieville and The Beaches. Even if I found a place, I’d be as lonely—no, lonelier—than back in Vancouver. These are neighborhoods for couples or single people with an established network of friends.

I have to be practical in picking my first place to live in Toronto. I know no one in this city of three million people. In starting over, I need to at least give myself a chance. As much as I shunned West Hollywood when I lived in Los Angeles, I need whatever boost I can get from whatever’s left of a gay ghetto in a city. In Toronto, it’s simply called The Village. This being yet another Monday morning as I check out the place, things feel gay-lite. But then, haven’t all gay hubs lost some of their vibrancy as LGBTQ people have found greater acceptance and spread their wings to other parts of cities, even venturing into, gasp, suburbs? I’m not sure what I was expecting to see but I found it comforting when passed one smiling twenty-something man wearing a jacket covered in turquoise feathers, someone’s boa project that got a little out of control. Whew, this is not the financial district!

An older gentleman has taken up a stool along the window, leaving one empty space between us. I heard him before I saw him. Upon his arrival, my gaydar beeped as he gushed over a young woman’s hair. “I love it. I simply love it! You look absolutely stunning.”

The woman explained, “It took me two days to get it right.” But then they said their goodbyes and the green-haired lady waved once more from the sidewalk as she dashed away. The man has been sitting alone for ten minutes now, seemingly content, no phone to browse, no laptop for writing or web development. It dawns on me that I could strike up a conversation. Should, in fact. There’s a spot to fill: first Toronto acquaintance. But no, I continue with my writing. The move is still a few months away; the urgency isn’t there yet.

It will come. First, I will have to ride the approaching wave of outright panic over all things involving the move. When I was thirty, moving from L.A. to Vancouver, I simply loaded up my Honda Accord, shipped a few boxes to a friend’s mother’s place in Washington state and that was that. No job lined up, no place other than a sofa to crash on. (Yes, I knew one person, instead of zero.) I didn’t have the sense to worry. Failure didn’t cross my mind. At that point in life, I hadn’t ever experienced it. I blamed my dating woes on the fact I hadn’t found my city yet. I’d simply been looking in the wrong place, banging my head against the wall trying to convince lifelong Southern Californians that a move someplace north would be good for them, for us. My persistent pitch was always met with blank stares. Too much sun, I figured. The move would be just for me. It was an adventure.

That was then; this is now. I can admit to being scared. There have been several occasions during this Toronto visit that I’ve had to quell panic surges. How will I ever find a suitable place to live? Why can’t I even get over my fear of using transit here (especially since I’m a mass transit geek)? What if I crash and burn here too? What then?

I left my bottle of emergency anti-anxiety meds back in Vancouver. Breathe. Small steps. Keep from looking too far ahead. For now, I’ve got to get back on a plane later today and see if my power-sanded bathroom walls look fresh when painted over in the flat white my realtor recommended. Plan B will be to hire a professional who can come in at a moment’s notice to redo my mess. My condo goes on the market in two weeks. I have twenty-five years of accumulated things to pare back down to what can fit in a Mini Cooper for driving across the country. That’s enough distraction.

I’m set on this move. I just need to channel some of thirty-year-old me. Confidence or naivite? Whatever it was, I’m going to need it.