In Toronto, we’re all tourists in a way
Most of us arrived from elsewhere, carrying suitcases packed with our aspirations
The wheels of the red, open-topped double-decker bus have barely stopped moving when two women step beside it, while a third raises her phone and takes a picture. The bus is one of several nearly identical ones operated by City Sightseeing Toronto, circling the city seven days a week, carrying tourists on a 120-minute, 24-stop loop. The two women with their backs against this bus are in their mid-40s, the third is in her 60s. All three have the same cheekbones and tumbling black hair, two sisters with their mom. The sisters smile for the camera as the giant video screens above them broadcast advertisements for Via Rail, casinos and TV shows. Still smiling, all three climb aboard and I follow them inside, then up to the upper deck.
There are17 people up top. We all sit a little higher than a storey above the sidewalk, completely exposed to the elements. Couples whisper to each other and everyone wears a quizzical expression, like none of us are sure why we’re here. I’ve lived in Toronto since 1999 and this double-decker bus, or one just like it, has passed me hundreds of times. Each time I see it I wonder what all those tourists are being shown?
Maybe it’s that particularly Canadian brand of self-loathing, the same thing that makes us want to cut down the tall poppies, but I truly don’t believe Toronto has enough going on to justify a two-hour bus tour. I really don’t. I’m still thinking about this when Emily, our blond, good-natured guide, turns on her microphone and gives us the safety rules. Then the engine starts up and we pull away from the curb.
Toronto is my city, my hometown and it is both of these things specifically because I come from somewhere else
The bus drives north on Yonge St. The first piece of Toronto that Emily points out is a clock tower just west of Yonge, all that’s left of Fire Hall #3. This isn’t a good sign. Ten minutes in and she’s already describing something that isn’t there. It’s a theme that continues as we find out that Yonge St. used to be the longest street in the world, but then part of it was turned into a highway, so now it isn’t. The cameras of the out-oftowners remain in their laps.
Which is not to say that I’m bored. I’m actually having a pretty good time, accumulating obscure details about the city in which I live. I did not know there is $20-million worth of granite in front of the storefronts on Bloor between Yonge and Avenue. Or that an anonymous buyer paid $28.6 million for the penthouse condo in the Four Seasons Private Residences. I’ve never heard the rumour that the stone sculpture of a couch behind the arc at 38 Avenue Rd. is supposed to be heated. Or that the Bata Shoe Museum was designed to look like a shoebox with the lid slightly ajar and that the OCAD building is supposed to look like pencil crayons falling out of a pencil box. But as the bus continues winding through the construction-laden streets, I start taking note of something else. Nobody is waving at us. Not the slim elegant women strolling through Yorkville, or the old Italian men sipping espressos on Bloor St. patios, or the school kids playing on the Henry Moore sculpture outside the AGO. As we drive past, all they do is stare. As if it’s not us watching the city, but the city watching us. It feels really unfriendly. Especially since the word “sightseeing” is painted in metre-high yellow letters on the side of our bus. But then, turning east onto Front, we pass a black-haired woman in her mid-20s. She glances up, smiles, then looks back down at the sidewalk. There’s something about her smile that strikes me. We’ve already passed her when I realize that her smile is one of recognition — and then it hits me that Toronto is a city of out-of-towners. This is a city where the vast majority of us have come from somewhere else. We all arrived here, carrying suitcases packed not just with our clothes but our aspirations. Everyone is a tourist in Toronto and that’s the most beautiful thing about our city. Way more elegant than any piece of architecture or district or museum ever could be. Whether you arrived here a week ago, or the day you were born, you decided to stay because Toronto felt like a place where you could accomplish your dreams.
I turn around and watch the girl go into the Sony Centre. The bus drives past the Distillery District, through the oldest part of the city, turns north onto Yonge and then it stops back at Dundas Square. I’m one of six people who get off, while another seven tourists get on. I walk away satisfied, completely. In two hours I’ve learned something vitally important thing. Toronto is my city, my hometown and it is both of these things specifically because I come from somewhere else. Andrew Kaufman is a Toronto novelist and freelance writer.