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.

THE LONG GOODBYE

I hate goodbyes. They’re awkward. As an introvert, I fret over them as I sense them approaching. Will there be a hug? Is this a handshake moment instead or is that just weird? What do I say? Every word matters...to me, at least. At larger gatherings, I try to slip out unnoticed. Don’t want to interrupt the flow. Don’t want to call attention to myself. And then it all spirals back to that hug versus handshake thing.

So maybe the timing of this one is a big mistake. It stretches back four months and there’s another four to go. Goodbye, Vancouver. Goodbye British Columbia.

I suppose the first serious thoughts of leaving popped up in June or July, back when I plummeted into my most recent round of deep depression. Mired in wicked, unrelenting despair, I knew it wasn’t the time for making big decisions. I was struggling to make it through life in ten-minute intervals, fighting what felt like another looming psych ward admission. Despite all the fog, what was clear was that I wasn’t thriving here. No longer working, I was becoming more isolated when the whole reason I’d moved back to the city after a decade in a rural environment was to become more connected. Epic failure. That “fool me twice” expression came to mind. I’d left Vancouver because things weren’t working. Why had I thought things would be different the second time around?

I always love my time in Ottawa.

In August, having weathered my internal storm, I flew to Ontario on an exploratory mission. I’d narrowed down my “next stop” Canadian options to Ottawa and Toronto. Ottawa is prettier, closer to family, an hour from the family cottage and much more familiar to me. Aside from a few blips, I’ve visited the city every year of my life. I’d come close to moving there a couple of times in the past. I really didn’t know Toronto at all despite living my first thirteen years in nearby Hamilton. Ottawa seemed the favorite, Toronto the dark horse. And yet, after an afternoon back in Ottawa, I knew it was too small. I knew I’d often feel disappointed, leaning on my aunt and cousins. Their social lives are well established. It’s one thing for them to make time for once-a-year visits; it’s quite different being around all the time. As I still hold out a shred of hope for falling in love again, I also knew that the gay “community” always seemed teeny tiny. Yes, it only takes one guy, but I need to at least start with a fair-sized pool. Ottawa was off the list.

It's Toronto or bust.

The list was no longer a list. One city. No pressure, Toronto. My first impression was positive. My hotel seemed to be on the edge of a sketchy area but, only a block away, things improved significantly. I walked for hours that first evening, strolling down busy Queen Street, observing how it took on a different vibe every few blocks, eventually finding my way to Lake Ontario. It was clear that the city lacked the shine of Vancouver or even Ottawa but what I liked about Toronto from the outset was the international feel. I like the bustle of big cities and this place felt alive. I spent the next couple of days trying to be cautious, for once looking before leaping. Could I really see myself living there? In a word: yes. It was worth a try. This would be where I’d try to restart my life, a scary yet exciting prospect for a fifty-five-year-old single gay guy who knows absolutely no one in the city.

Still, for a couple of reasons, I didn’t just want to ghost Vancouver. To avoid mortgage penalties, it would be best to target the sale of my condo for April 1, 2020 but, more than that, I wanted Vancouver and me to part on good terms. We’d had a rocky relationship. A friend of mine who loves the city and says he’ll never leave cringed when I described Vancouver as hollow—pretty exterior, nothing inside. Yeah, harsh. I wanted to spend my final months enjoying the city’s best.

In some ways, I feel like that guy who hangs around at a party after everyone has left and fails to take a hint when the host slips into a unicorn onesie and a pair of bunny slippers. You still here?!

I continue to run my favorite routes around Stanley Park and along other water-adjacent paths. I bike to Deep Cove, to a beach area near the airport and uphill to the University of British Columbia. I even did a 140-kilometer round-trip bike ride past my favorite views on the Sea to Sky Highway to Squamish. All this is what lured me here twenty-five years ago. There are worse places to fail.

I also wanted to use the city as a base to fit in a few final weekend road trips—Victoria, Tofino, Whistler, Seattle, Portland, the Oregon Coast. I’m also trying to get to some of my favorite restaurants one more time. That’s a little trickier because many of them are vegan and it always feels like I’m putting my friends through a traumatic ordeal when we go to one (if I can convince them to go at all).

The time remaining seems too long, yet I know it will wind down quickly, especially with me being away at least a month for more travel. There will come a point when I’m not so much living in the city as leaving it. Maybe it’s hit already. Yesterday I did my last workout at my gym. (My membership was up for renewal and they offered me a monthly rate three times what I pay on an annual basis to stay on four more months. Five years of business and the sales rep kept throwing in extra fees. “You might as well just pay for the full year,” he said. Nonsense!) The day before I had drinks with a guy I’d dated for a while. As we left, he said, “See you soon.” In my head, it was goodbye. We’re casual friends now, the kind for whom you need six-month gaps just to have enough to talk about. (For the record, I went with a hug, not a handshake.)

My condo doesn’t feel so much like a livable space anymore; not for me, at least. It’s transitioning into a sterile environment. Last week I had a couple of real estate agents in and I picked one to go with for listing the property after the holiday season. I’ve parted with forty shirts so far, stuffing them in the clothing donation bin. I awakened in the middle of the night, wondering if I should fish out a Ted Baker piece, one that I’d bought three years ago and only worn once. Then I envisioned myself on the six o’clock news: Guy Gets Stuck in Clothing Bin. Okay then. Goodbye, Ted.

Just how many veggie hot dogs can I

eat in the next four months?!

There’s still more paring down to do. I have a vanity full of half-used gels and shampoos, all a testament to my eternal quest for a product that will actually lead to shiny, bouncy, fuller hair. (Why did I think it would be a good thing for my head to smell like a grapefruit?) The back of my fridge is getting sparse as I’ve been reaching in and pulling out long-expired jars of chutney and salsa. I’m trying to plan meals to use up whatever I can. I do love cumin, but why did I buy the lifetime supply size of it? How did I get all these mustard containers? Honey mustard, Dijon, sweet onion and something now branded as “Classic Yellow”. Give the whole French’s marketing team hefty Christmas bonuses, I say! And then there’s my apparent fear of running out of a certain breakfast food. If I throw an oatmeal party, will anybody come?

Still four months to go. I’ve lived in twenty-three different places as an adult. By god, this may be the first move for which I’m not frantically stuffing odds and ends into garbage bags at 3 a.m. on moving day. I tell myself I’ll be ready this time. In may ways, I’m ready now.