As usual, the place was transcendent:

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is a major architectural flaw in the design of the Gardens. The main entrance gallery is situated right in between the other four galleries. So, you turn right, see two galleries, turn around and come all the way back to see the other two. It’s just not convenient.

But at least there’s enough to see on the way and back:

It’s not a big space, mind you. I guess back when they built it, people were a lot smaller. You could just see them shuffling in, foot, foot-n-a-half tall, little Edwardian frocks and brollies all puffed up in newfound Torontonian pride, reeking of horse manure and mud. The olden days…

These days all you have are people sticking their cameras into every flower they see. Well, no, hold on. You do get bums coming in to do whatever they’re coming to do in the washroom. And in the rain, everyone always runs in ridiculously soaked. Those in the know know that there are hot air dryers in the washrooms. *wink wink*

Unfortunately, the Arabica tree is gone. I’m gonna just come right and point the finger at the Gardens’ staff who are undoubtedly brewing a fresh pot of freshly grown-roasted-ground coffee right now!

I also noticed a distinct absence of Peyote. You tell me what that means.

Anyhow, as nice as the Gardens are, their healing effects wear off the moment you step outside. I’ve had the prelude to some kind of sniffles for the last couple of days and no amount of fresh medicinal succulents help any more. Great, and now the walls are waving around.

I’m just going to go an l; [p;f

fs

e/

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The imagined timeline floated in the haze of somewhere around mid-January.

Yes. Chilled drinks did factor into that vision, as did various activities combining snow and nudity.

Despite this, my pragmatism allowed me to recognize that winter would also suck in many ways. I knew that, for example, snow would feel great on my ruddy bits for only a few minutes at most. After that, the joy would be gone.

I make sure I don’t look forward with too much adoration. That way on my daily travels, when I expect the destination to suck, it’s kind of nice to arrive and find that it sucks less. A shitty day can so often be transformed into a less shitty day by the expectation (but clear lack) of an even shittier day.

In between sweat, I paused to gaze forward in time again.

The year was 2009. It was a cold, bitter January. Much to everyone’s horror, Bush had proclaimed himself president for a third term. The Clintons were forming an insurgent militia and Barack Obama, having won the election proper, was being held “for questioning” by Homeland Security.

Looting and pillaging were daily occurrences. Police and even the army stood back, trying merely to contain the borders of the swelling uprising growing from within. Almost all major city cores exploded with a shockwaves of violence that rippled outward, ripping up any vestiges of civility, kindness, and humanity.

Savage survival was all that remained.

I thought to myself, if it’s still standing in the midst of all this, where could one visit to take a bit of a break? You know, shoulder the automatic, dash through the gauntlet of unfriendly fire, then to the safety of the bullet-worn garbage bin. Something within walking range.

The first thing that popped into my mind was also the most improbable one.

Allan Gardens.

It would be smashed to bits. A makeshift city would no doubt stand in its ruins, the vile stench of humanity rising from it, piercing the brittle peace that sometimes floated on the air.

But what if, by some miracle, it still stood?

The route to run would be short and the snipers along it few. The park would present it’s own dangers, but nothing too bad.

I envisioned bandits hanging from the park trees’ sturdy branches on long, bungee-corded suspenders. These would allow them to snap back to the safety of their arboreal fortresses upon swiping stuff from unlucky passerbys. The Squirrel Men; a name dare not whispered.

But as long as I maintained radius, I would be golden.

Then, after some careful navigation around the strangely alluring empatho-sentient vine (how far science has advanced in 6 months!), I would crawl in through the broken window of the main pavilion, entering the inner sanctum of a lush, overgrown oasis.

It seems, in hindsight, my forecast was not exactly correct except for right at the end. The vine and me, well, that didn’t work out. But, the building’s still there and it’s good for all what ails ya.

Most visible improvements over my worst-case scenario include the absence of tree-bound hoodlums and genetically mutated plants (there was only one…) Also, one may stroll there casually and to be honest, a bullet-proof vest is mostly for show.

However, my overblown expectations of greenery in the middle of a wasteland weren’t ruined by reality. In fact, I believe my imagination was a bit weak.

First thing through the entrance is the smell of thick, fragrant soil. I’m talking top-notch, finely aged, and lovingly nurtured worm excrement.

The earth is always moist, though I’ve never seen anyone watering it. In fact, I’m not really sure who would stop me were I to take a squatty #2 in between the palm and the ficus. Despite this seeming lack of staff, the plants are meticulously maintained. Everything is brilliantly green and blooming every which way.

The elves, it seems, were also busy around Christmas time and there was no end to the shit strung all over everything. If you’re a fan of gargantuan balls hanging from twigs you’ll dig it. I did.

They’re now halfway through the process of extricating the excessive numbers of poinsettia that were stuck into every square inch. The word outrageous is perfectly descriptive of the sheer amount of plant material they trucked in. It was an orgy for the senses. If only they’d allowed peacocks to freely roam the pavillions, that would’ve added so pleasingly to the excess.

Stripped of most of the extravagance, though, the place is no less impressive. Each pavillion is an installation of plants that enjoy similar atmospheric conditions and the selection is pretty broad.

One has a waterwheel (alas, not powering any tiny machinery) that serves to keep moisture in the air. Orchids are kept behind dirty glass but everything else is available for manual enjoyment. Three miniature paths and even a bridge fit into a space not much bigger than your average urban McDonald’s. Smells better too.

This room is attached to what I call the “northern temperate” room. It’s kinda like your grandma’s garden in late fall; a little chilly, meticulously arranged, and contains a classical a sculpture pool. The peacocks would go great with tea here. Most of the plants seem somewhat redundant; many of them don’t seem that far removed from Canadian varieties.

Meh.

The palm pavilion is the main part of the complex. By complex I mean a big glass house of long, interconnected rooms. Here, though, complex isn’t so inappropriate. It’s a glass dome that rises a good ten (thirty-ish feet) from the center of a rounded room. Almost the entire vertical space is used up by fully-grown palms, banana, and other large plants. The humid room is lined with benches and it’s the best place to chill with a coffee and watch the snow fall outside.

Further along is the palm pavilion’s cousin, the tropical plants room. Almost everything here is in bloom, or in some sort of fruiting phase. The medicinal plants section is of particular interest to those seeking to expand their practical pharmacopeial knowledge. You can also play find the Arabica tree. Be sure to tip your spill-proof lid to it when you do.

The dusty trail of the cactus house is a fine denouement to the gaudy displays of the other rooms. Somber, dusky tones remind you that you are about to step back out into bleak reality — but not before twisting your brain on some crazy shapes! There is no doubt in my mind that these suckers were the inspirations for fractal equations. Mandelbrot was definitely trippin’ on some kinda cactus.

The gardens have a few other rooms, mostly for kids to learn that seedlings die and that plants come from the grocery store. Most of the time, though, they lie idle and locked with nothing in them.

All in all, you can’t beat the gardens even if you just want to warm up or take a tinkle (there is a washroom). When you’ve gotten a static zap for the fiftieth fucking time since four o’clock, a little humidty can be very soothing. Also, the place is an instant cure for snow blindness. Add to that the admission price of nothing and how do you go wrong?

You have seven days a week to hit the Gardens but only between nine and five. If I may make a suggestion, going in winter will just make you appreciate it more.

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