A Better Place Like Home

The ROM: A cultural reservoir

I know it’s been a while, but things have been rather busy for me. After a few interviews, I’ve accepted another corporate slave position requiring none of the skills I went to school for, but I just returned from the best five days of my life In Toronto with Michele. Life is a trade-off. It’s the only lesson I can accept to date. (Thank you high school economics.)

I had never been north of Tennessee, and it was my first time in a “real city.” Miami is a suburban wasteland with an urban pocket by the bay, so it doesn’t really qualify. Toronto has real sidewalks, subways, and skyscrapers galore. But as much as I’d like to, I can’t just sit here and write about everything new under my sun because it would no longer be a romance blog. It would be a “wow Miami really sucks” one. I will say that it was pleasant to experience reliable public transportation, people that didn’t go out of their way to look tough(except for the Canadian customs officer who swore I had grenades in my carry on ) , food that didn’t come from a chain restaurant or
Cuban bakery, and diverse scenery basking in its antiquity.

There was also a severe lard butt deficit. In five days, I saw maybe two people who could be considered “obese.” Talk about a mind-fuck. They have a real museum too, with armor and dinosaur fossils and all that great stuff you see on TV. The most we have here is a really crappy science expo for fourth graders that moonlights as a stoner lounge every Friday when they play Pink Floyd laser light-shows in the planetarium (not that I am complaining). The Royal Ontario Museum was to me like Duff Beer is to Homer Simpson. It’s that good. Next time I hope to spend a whole day in it.

Oh boy, I did what I said I wouldn’t. Half the article is composed of me bragging about my trip. But it works out because the contrast will explain why it was so hard to leave. This was my first time visiting Michele on her turf, and this time, I was the one clawing for a final glimpse on my way to customs. It was a surreal shift of perspective. Now I know what she’s had to go through on three occasions in Miami. That’s not to say that it doesn’t suck watching her leave too, but one can’t follow past security. There’s nothing one can do without landing on the “no fly list,” so you have to accept it. The passenger reserves the right to walk back, and staying on track drains every drop of will from the well. Your stomach feels like its river- dancing, your life back home is as tempting as a sludge bath in the Gulf of Mexico, and you subconsciously hope that a snowstorm delays all flights.

There’s more to it than “I miss my girlfriend.” Though that is the fertile crescent of it all. We had a hotel room to ourselves. It gave a taste of shared residency. And that’s what all the waiting and saving is about: A life with her in Toronto. We’ve thought about it, and it just seems like the right move. I have no reservations about leaving South Florida behind, but she actually loves her city. As her father said, “ Imagine hating the place you grew up in.” Why would I want to stay? We are flexible though. There’s always a chance California comes knocking with a fat check.

Anyway, for those four days and nights, I had it, and it was better than any fantasy I could conjure. When it was time to part, I felt like I had been offered a trial membership in Eden only to be tossed out while unloading my suitcase and recovering from jet lag.

This is the part where I am supposed to offer some practical nuggets of wisdom to alleviate the cold empty silence. But for the first time in my life, I’ll admit that I don’t know everything. Perspective keeps me going. All of this amounts to less than a year. The distance will be a mere footnote when we look back from the future. But the present is persistent. Aging like the universe, It inflates until specific points are obscure distant beacons. How do you deal with it? I came home and poured myself a scotch. If you have suggestions, feel free to share.