You see, the Aga Khan is putting in an Islamic history centre, with a special nod to Ismailis, in the community of Leaside, a woody central-eastern patch of the city running along the Don Valley.

The Aga Khan. Not Aga Khan. The Aga Khan. With a title like that, I don’t see how one could resist going to see what this man will install in our city. Apparently it’s supposed to be the first of it’s kind anywhere around these parts, and it has been described as a “gem”. All out of the Aga Khan’s love for Canada.

I tend to walk until I come to a major intersection and then stop to look at Google Maps on my mobile phone to figure out my next turn. I guessed I must’ve misjudged the majorness of a few intersections because I soon wound up in a neighbourhood adjacent to the Science Centre. Having gotten there, on foot, from Yonge-Dundas Square, I was starting to feel a tad worn out. Plus I had the return trip to think about.

So I decided to call it a day, vowing to return. But it wasn’t a total loss. The highlight of that part of town is definitely the awesome vista from the Don Mills Road bridge over the DVP:

I’ve seen the Toronto skyline from a bunch of locations but this one is really outstanding. The edges of the Don Valley pick up where the skyline leaves off; it must look amazing on a clear night.

So, no Aga Khan Centre, but at least there was the bridge. Plus all the stuff along Bayview Avenue.

One of the things I’d been meaning to investigate further is the Rosicrucian HQ on that street. You see, it’s not the Freemasons we should all be concerned about, it’s the Rosicrucians. The order of the rosy cross. Their addition to the English language is the phrase “sub rosa”, which means “to be held in strict secrecy”. Their order dabbled in alchemy, is associated with some heavy names, and their main book The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz is about as weird as it gets. And why are they collecting all that ancient Egyptian stuff?

Neat. Almost as neat as some of the stuff I found at a local cemetery. Sorry, necropolis. (Way cooler.)

However, that’ll have to wait as I’m dangerously close to missing a pretty cool event that just won’t wait. We’ll have to cover death next time. Sorry. :(

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Take the Toronto City Centre Airport story, for example. I’m not sure many people would care about the tussle going on there. It’s a three-way shoving match between the city, the Port Authority which controls the airport and I believe has it’s own squad of shadowy assassins, and Porter Airlines which managed to pull in record profits pretty much every year since it started flying. Oh, and the island residents who basically bitch 24-7, 365 about everything (“The city’s too loud! The lights are too bright! The planes are too scary! Wah! Wah!”)

(big!)

Bill would gnaw at this, getting angrier and angrier right up until the commercial break. I don’t remember his stance on the issue, but I clearly recall the outraged timbre of his voice. The current topic of contention is the proposed tunnel to the airport which no level of government wants to pay for.  It’s intended to replace the current ferry service which, at a full 20-second trip (maybe 30) from shore to shore, seems kind of inefficient:

But whatever. I’m sure Porter contributes to this inefficiency from its growing wallet so who cares? Bill does. Passionately. Desperately. I bet the fact that Toronto got the 2015 Pan Am Games probably caused his head to just explode. They probably had to drag his headless, blood-soaked corpse out of the studio live on the air. That would’ve been some show. If only it was still on at a time when I could listen.

I can just imagine his reaction at the $2.4 billion cost. He either would have been rejoicing that his beloved Etobicoke was getting a pool make-over, or cheesed that the athletes’ village will be in what is currently a large mud pit bisecting the east edge of town (ON TAXPAYERS’ MONEY, AND DOWNTOWN GETS ALL THE BENEFITS!!), or both.

He doesn’t care that he sometimes contradicts himself. Bill shoots from the hip and asks questions later. If there’s time. I don’t think John Moore even owns a gun.

Now I have at least three more days of waking up to do. Quite possibly a few decades on top of that. With Bill gone, I’m left sleeping in almost every day, but I don’t know where else to turn. The radio dial to. And with it staying dark outside later and later now, the problem is becoming more urgent. “Nature Sounds I” just won’t cut it, but what’s the alternative … the buzzer?!

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Aside from the doily on top, I’m sure they chose this house because of its age.  It’s probably the oldest on the block, though there are numerous contenders for that honour in the neighbourhood.

My own apartment building is an old-style house not unlike the one pictured here, only wider (to accommodate ten apartments), and minus the personality.

It’s, let’s say, quaint. It feels warm and comfortable like my previous residence in rural Pickering in the same way that an old sock does. That smell of feet never really airs out and it’s drafty around the toes, but man it’s comfortable.

In the context of my neighbourhood, I think that my place is probably mid-range (price, size, etc.) A tall apartment building directly to the left of the “Bridge” house would be best described by the words “swollen” and “hovel”. If I were an upwardly-mobile young crack whore, I’d be setting my sights here. A little paint, some vacuuming, and that stank of bitter, life-ending self loathing comes right out.

But there are also places with “ROB THIS HOUSE” posted on every inch of the property; multi-million dollar reno jobs spilling over with gaudy fountains, ostentatious statuary, and semi-circular driveways on properties not more than eight meters (twenty-six feet) wide. They’re clearly just for show. Or clown cars.

Stuck between Casa di Rockbottom and the House of Betterthanyou are numerous alleys where the destitute make their home. Here, property boundaries are divided into areas for disposed bottle caps, areas for disposed Listerine bottles to which those caps belonged, and areas for inebriated homeless guys with sparklingly fresh breath who had recently consumed said bottles of Listerine.

I’m telling you, my neighbourhood’s a panoply of colour!

Unfortunately, the drafty window in my bedroom played a part in my decision to start looking for a new place. Well, that and the fact that the German superintendent is leaving soon. Who knew Germans could be so non-genocidal?

Now, I haven’t actually started looking so the ultimate decision about whether or not to move isn’t available. But I thought, if I’m out there looking through other peoples’ places; going through their medicine cabinets; stealing anything I may enjoy on my own shelves; why not take the readers of TCL along?

If you’re thinking of moving to urban Toronto or just enjoy descriptions of interesting smells, perhaps you may get something out of the series. It won’t be regular or anything, but I will try my damnedest to divulge the disturbing/kinky/amusing secrets of the places I visit.