TO diary

"Years of practice," I replied to a middle-aged-sort-of-hippie woman as we embarked on a plane to Toronto last week.  She had just said she was wowed by how well I applied my makeup.  "Actually, I'm not wearing any," I laughed.  As if.  Yes, I always wear makeup when I fly, for some bizarre reason?  As we were waiting for the lavatory, we started chatting.  "Yesterday I dropped my 24-year-old daughter at a rehab clinic.  She had been clean for months, but just before we left a 'friend' slipped her a hit of meth.  I was enraged," she added.

This woman, it turns out, was an addictions physician, yet could not treat her own daughter.  Shades of the Cobbler's son.....For some reason, we hit it off and I spent the flight sitting, chatting and drinking wine with her instead of with B.  Heck, I can talk to him anytime, but this woman fascinated me.  Practicing on Vancouver Island, she was definitely a hippie.  Had a long ponytail and a great figure.  I will keep in touch, but it will probably go nowhere as she was on her way to Copenhagen to live with her dying grandmother until the end. 

We were visiting our son in his lovely place on Avenue Road.  Toronto, usually unbearably humid, was not and the weather was perfect.  I spent my afternoons on his charming back porch:

 



 





Went to dinner at The Keg and met a charming waiter.  As you know, I talk to everyone and chatting with this chap learned he had been a championship junior golfer.  Wow!  He had won tournaments -- you name it.  Had I not chatted him up, I would never have known.  His name was Graydon Ham. 

 

The next day we met old -- or should I say "ancient" -- friends of B's from a hundred years ago for lunch at The Royal York.  This guy had been the president of York for 10 years.  I was not impressed.  And his wife!  A graduate of Havergal and still dining out on it 60 years later.  Frankly, I would never have admitted having attended a private girls' school because every graduate I have ever known (and having grown up in Rockcliffe in Ottawa, I knew quite a few) was a loser.  And this woman was the typical private school type -- completely unaccomplished and breathtakingly boring.  Can you imagine, she still had her grey hair hanging in hanks!  Sad.  He, in a nod to reverse snobbery, pulled out his wallet, a picture of which I post here:

 

Have you ever seen anything like it?!  Dog-eared, taped and infused with elastics.  Gawd help him.

A word about Toronto's humidity:  Awful.  My hair immediately kinked and curled.  That is one thing I do not miss about TO.  I also do not miss the traffic!  The 401 is packed at all hours of the day and night!  Happily, my son inherited his superb driving skills from his father (RIP) and wove in and out of situations in which I would have sat for hours.  In fact, his father taught me how to drive a standard (have one to this day) and I am about the best at this I know.  My 2000 Civic still has the original clutch because I don't ride it.

Also taught son to make parathas.  Here he is with his first batch:

He's a coffee guy, but we are tea people.  Didn't he produce my late mother's tea pot for us.  I almost cried, thinking of her having used it. 

 

Then it was home.  Pit stop at Pearson: