…continued from previous part.

Did you know, dear reader, that in some Asian countries the international snap-a-photo gesture is considered a dire signal?

If you don’t think you know the gesture, make a fist, extend your index finger, and curl it in like you’re clicking the shutter on a camera. Right there you just insinuated to said Asian persons that you would like nothing more than to see them dead. Or that you’re referring to death. But with the language barrier, why chance it?

The index finger refers to the person’s body as it doubles over in its final moments; death, most likely at your hands. Poison? Sword? Gun shot? All perfectly valid.

The number four, in Chinese, is also unpopular because of its resemblance to the Mandarin word for death. “Suh” – you’re either asking for four bananas or telling the shopkeeper to die. All in the tone.

So there we were, the four of us, three Japanese women making the deathy-deathy gesture while holding their cameras under my nose, and me, nose askew in a failed attempt at avoidance. I’m sure I explained the repercussions of taking bad photos with other people’s cameras so that was already hanging heavy on my conscience. Then this happened – and they were relentless. God.

All I can say to my fellow Torontonians is that I’m sorry. I took their photos.

I don’t speak Japanese. Glad I don’t. Thankfully I didn’t understand what they were chattering about afterward, but their stifled chuckling seemed not so complimentary. As I loitered around a nearby fire boat I could sense their disappointment while they continue to take more pictures (in the same spot!)

Well, I guess that’s it. In a few short weeks Toronto will be bereft of the Japanese. After that … well, I don’t want to think about it. Probably nothing more than a frozen wasteland at that point.

I’m going to suggest all us downtowners hunker down until the winter of our (and their) discontent passes over. It won’t be easy, I know, but what’s done is done. I want to remind everyone that we have a fairly extensive underground network that should server us until this crisis is over.

So there you go, dear reader. That was the point where Toronto took a turn for the worse. I mean, who knows, maybe this will all blow over. Just … no extensive optimism, you know what I mean?

Then again, considering the circumstances of the trip, it’s quite likely that the women I met were nothing more than subconscious projections. Only time will tell. Next time, however, I won’t be so cavalier about things. Next time, no photos. For all our sakes.

…continued from previous part.

Where was I again? Oh yeah, I’d been spending a Sunday afternoon staring intelligently into the sun.

At the rink I was asked to take a photo of someone with their camera, but I was sure before I took it that it would come out awful. Look, just because I’m carrying a unit don’t mean I know how to work yours. Or even necessarily want to touch it for that matter. Those awful Sonys with their awfully massive focus reticles – what the heck is in focus out of the three quarters of the screen they cover?! Don’t even get me started on the automatic exposure. *pfft*

Anyhow, I managed to extricate myself from the situation before plis-you-take-picture-me-there man (bloody immigrants!), managed to hunt me down for another pose. Upon his eagerly gesticulating insistence, it took me, like, two minutes to kinda get his Sony to shoot directly into the sun, with him in front of it as a darkened blob on the LCD. I wasn’t about to go through that again. RTFM, sucker!

That might’ve been another reason why I ended up by the docks. To get away from that kind of responsibility. Imagine when they get home, “Oh yeah, here’s the photo that nimrod took. Look at this shit, that my asshole or something? Fucking useless Torontonians, I’m going to interweb this until I’m blue in the face.” Presto, Patrick singlehandedly quashes tourism in the city. Toronto City Life becomes Toronto City Killer, I’m forcibly ejected from my flat, and Ollie leaves turds of disgust on my garbage pillow in the alley. Damn.

In the solitude of the docks, this is not a concern.

I think it was at this point that I got that far-out feeling. Not only were the ice heads still gliding gently across the ice, but the boat also added a river Styx vibe to the place. And tucked in farther along the shore, a frozen beach:

Cold, yes. Serene, also yes. Can’t have one without the other, I suppose. Or so I supposed. For no sooner had I emerged from the canopy of neglected metal protuberances than I hit upon a roving pack of vacationing photographers. !!

This time there was no salvation. They were three Japanese women proudly brandishing Sonys, thrusting them at me menacingly with smiles and slight bows. I knew this would be the final encounter.

Continued in next part…

You know, I pick up my best material on the weekends. I decided that this is the lifestyle I must adopt in order to be at my optimal performance; Saturday time. Sunday’s good too, but Saturday has more going on. On Sundays, it’s about heading out with a head full of exceptional sleep and mood enhancers and flâneuring the shit out of the streets. Groovy.

I do realize that the camera tells no lies. “Always be white balancing”, is my motto of late (humbly borrowed from Glengarry Glen Ross). But I decided to balance her indoors instead. Yup, it’s a she.

So, the resulting images came out looking like things would through my sunglasses. That actually helped because I spent almost the entire journey staring directly into the sun. I saw vague blurs rise up out of the icy mists occasionally, sometimes they were people, sometimes children. Once in a while, I caught sight of buildings through the crystalline haze.

Haha! Woaw! Getting ahead of myself. No, the afternoon part was actually pretty nice. The temperature was back up to a balmy –4C (25F). Oh no, no sarcasm, dear reader. On Saturday it was a might chillier but without the wind, it’s not a problem. Something about being able to maintain a micro-climate around your skin or something. So while buildings are blocking the wind, you’re golden.

The wind chill factor, and the Humidex value for that matter, are both bullshit. Are they telling me what it feels like? No no no … I tell them how I feel. Jeez. And these guys predict our weather? Oh don’t get me wrong, I know there’s a whole formula behind it, but that tells me nothing about how it really feels, you know? Because the kind of cold down by the docks, even on such a day, tends to be reasonably painful, and no egghead in a lab coat is telling me how reasonable I’m being.

I think I just ended up at the docks because I wanted to take some sulky mid-winter pictures, to take a breath and get to know the city again. The breath was short and guarded lest the miniature high-velocity shards of ice rend my throat asunder, but the getting to know of the city ended up going considerably better than this sentence. The frozen sunset at the docks was something I hadn’t yet experienced — I can objectively report that it’s a trippy place to be.

It’s one thing to look out over a frozen lake from the ferry docks and witness head-shaped chunks of ice with facial features sliding along. It’s when you go a little farther west that things start to get a little more far-out.

Continued in next part…