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Janey · 12-21-2004, 12:59 PM

I apologize in advance for the length of this post, but I know in other places on this forum, people get upset if just a link is posted. So i'm putting both the link and the text in here. It hits the mark so much that I just had to start a thread about it!

I'm a Vancouverite who has been transplanted to Toronto, and therefore have a unique perspective on life here. Today I read an article in the Star, by a maritimer who actually wrote about her culture shock. I must say that I feel exactly like she did. Does anybody else have some toronto stories to share? Anything funny or bizarre? happpy or sad? At the moment, I am still constantly amazed at how hockey oriented this place is. At times I am exasperated by the rush of the rat race, then inspired by the friendliness and acceptance of the people who live here.

The story is here, it is very funny:

http://www.thestar.com/NASApp/cs/Con...d=968332188492

'The Second Cup is where?'
When you're from a place where there's only one coffee shop, and you move to a place with hundreds of them, the question really does make sense, you know

LINDSAY KYTE
SPECIAL TO THE STAR

I am a Maritimer, new to this city, in the throes of culture shock. Here seven months now, I still try to get out at the wrong side on the subway. I ask people, "How do you get to the Second Cup?" because where I come from, there is only one. I still pronounce the second "t" in "Toronto." Here's what I've encountered so far:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Language

Apparently, "supper" is "dinner" here and "dinner" is "lunch." You do not "get" a shower, you "take" or "have" a shower. And "The Danforth" is always referred to as "the" and never as "Danforth Ave." To misuse any of the above means you might as well have a badge and a cape embroidered with the word "TOURIST!"

There is no "double double for me and the wife" at Starbucks. There is, however, "a double-shot grande decaf non-fat latte with extra foam for myself and my life partner."

When giving directions, you never start with, "You know where the Pizza Hut burned down 10 years ago ..." Instead, you give directions in major intersections. "Go to Spadina, north of Bloor ..."

North and south? I'll buy myself a milkshake when I conquer left and right. I bought a compass to help me out, but when I pointed it west, it said north. When I walked north, it said east. Finally, someone pointed out that I was in a city of metal. And that I should put the compass on a flat surface instead of wearing it like a ring and throwing my hand at buildings like She-ra demonstrating my awesome power.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The People

I love my street, "The Danforth." Here, old Greek men sitting in lawnchairs call out what sounds like "Kook-la Moo!" and kiss me on both cheeks. This means "My cute little doll." Initially, I thought it meant, "You insane cow."

After first moving here, I thought all Greek people hated each other, which would explain the yelling in the grocery store. Turns out, the more you love in Greek, the more you argue.

The little old scarf-adorned Greek woman called Mama who runs my laundromat hates the way I do my two loads of laundry (towels and not towels). She frequently yells at me: "Put detergent in FIRST!" Though I stand a foot taller, I am terrified. Then I have to get change. From the change machine. That she sits in front of.

I put a $20 bill in. Upside down. Mama rips it out and puts it in the right way. Four million quarters come out. "I won the jackpot!" I joke. Mama glares. Every Monday afternoon, Mama's glares reassure me that I am not nearly as funny as I think I am.

Mary is the middle-aged Greek hairdresser who, when I asked timidly to make the freezing cold water a little warmer, looked at me with eyes like the hypnotic television test pattern from the 1960s.

"Hot-a water?!!! You make-a your hair-a dry!! Greeky Greek greek greek ..." She didn't actually say the "Greeky greek greek part." She was speaking the language. No good was meant towards me in it.

After getting water in my ears and shoving the towel so far up my ear drum that my leg started to twitch, Mary whipped out a stainless steel comb with teeth not even a millimetre apart and yanked it through my tangled hair. I started to pray to gods I made up.

Then in walked a Greek woman with dyed blonde hair who asked, "How much-a to get roots done?" I think perhaps Mary must hate it when Greek women dye their hair blonde, as she said, "$60" in a tone that implied she was selling her heritage for this mere amount.

The woman screamed, "$60! I can get it done down the street for 40!" Steel comb in one hand and my hair in the other, Mary screeched back, "Then GO down the street and get it done THERE!" My head was being yanked around like I was on the Scrambler at the midway and the stoned guy running it forgot about me.

Mary then angrily trimmed my hair in four seconds flat. As she rang it up, she smiled warmly. "You nice girl. Come back and see Mary."

I do often see Mary. In my nightmares. I sleep-moisturize my hair when I do.

Some Toronto episodes have been pure magic. I've been at a downtown karaoke where during "I've Had The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing, the host ran on to the dance floor and yelled, "Lindsay! Do a lift!" Entrusting my life to a guy who knew all the words to "Danger Zone," I flung myself at him, and he lifted me high in the air.

Also, at this karaoke is Charles, a white-haired businessman who dances all night by the stage. If someone raps, he does the running man. If it's heavy metal, he headbangs. He plays air guitar, air flute and occasionally air triangle. When the night is over, Charles puts his tie on, picks up his briefcase and becomes a businessman again. In Toronto, you can be whoever you want to be: Jennifer Grey (pre-nose job) or even a professional air triangler.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transportation

In Cape Breton, the bus comes once an hour.

So I was shocked to encounter Torontonians running like they were being chased by Teletubbies for the sake of a four-minute wait for the next train. During my first rush hour, I mashed myself on to a subway where my feet didn't touch the ground. The subway slowed, then stopped long enough for incredibly pointy-toed shoes to start tapping and people to open their briefcases, looking for a solution next to their paper clips.

When it started again, one big lady with a jubilant smile threw her head back and said, "THANK YOU, FATHER!! LET'S HAVE A BIG AMEN FOR JESUS STARTING THE SUBWAY AGAIN!!!!" Torontonians take subway rides seriously.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Restaurants

I once went to a Cape Breton restaurant that listed Chicken Parmesan under "Ethnic Dishes." I was ready for some adventures in Toronto cuisine.

My friend John and I went to a restaurant with grills in the middle of the table for the "all-you-can-eat-barbecue," which John ordered. You get little trays of raw beef, chicken, scallops, oxtail, etc. to grill yourself. This vegetarian was torn between being disgusted and the childlike delight of being able to set stuff on fire right at your table. Soon I was happily sizzling a piece of salmon, chanting, "Burn, baby, burn!"

My years of being what seemed to be the only vegetarian in Cape Breton went up in flames my first week in the "Big Smoke."

I ordered a dish. The waiter offered hot sauce, but warned it was "really spicy." Thinking he was mocking me because I'm not Korean, I dumped it on like it was ketchup. Soon, I felt my retinas detaching. I told John I was "having memories of things I never did." Always trust your waiter at a Korean restaurant.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Predicaments

Yay to the LCBO for giving out Air Miles. As I get my card zapped, I think fondly of loved ones who would have seen every country, hot and cold, if the liquor store did this at home.

From drinking to drinking wear, I saw a dress shop on Yonge St. with a dressing room that had black lights so you can see only your clothes and your teeth. No one's outfit ever made their teeth look fat.

Sometimes, big-city Toronto is not really that big.

When I applied for a part-time job at a café, the owner stated he only hires artistic people, even though we're always getting conflicting gigs and forgetting about customers because we've just been inspired.

The planets aligned. I leaned over and said, "I would say I'm involved in the arts. In fact, I'm singing on your stereo right now." He was playing my friend Grant Tilly's Halifax-recorded CD, one a bunch of us sang drunken back-ups on at 4 a.m.

Other times, it doesn't seem like you'll ever fit in. Once I decided to take a stroll to look at the two feet of Toronto lawns on the Danforth. I followed my nose to a bakery packed with customers holding loaves of braided cinnamon bread tied up with ribbons.

Never having been domestic enough to know the "So and So Bakery" makes the best bread, I happily grabbed a loaf and waited with crowds of Greek people yelling and buying truckloads of decorated religious candles.

As I walked home snacking, I wondered why these Greek people were all buying the same loaf of bread. And why a bakery sold religious candles.

Then it hit me — this must be special religious bread for the Greek Orthodox Church. Oh my God. I was snacking on Greek religious bread on the Danforth. Can you imagine if Mama from the laundromat saw me? Or Mary with her shears?

As you can see, I'm still learning "Toronto-ese." I still wave thank you to cars that stop for me at crosswalks. I still talk to other people's pets.

And maybe one of these days, I'll start dropping the second "t" in "Toronto" and you won't even know I'm not one of you.

Except, of course, when I ask you for directions in "rights" and "lefts."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lindsay Kyte is originally from Reserve Mines, Cape Breton. Upon moving to Toronto earlier this year to study acting, she began writing to friends and family back home a series of e-mails she called her "Toronto Adventures." The e-mails have been forwarded to hundreds of people throughout the Maritimes. This story is a compilation of her adventures.

12-21-2004, 12:59 PM	#1 (permalink)
Janey Junkie Location: Toronto	Toronto Stories I apologize in advance for the length of this post, but I know in other places on this forum, people get upset if just a link is posted. So i'm putting both the link and the text in here. It hits the mark so much that I just had to start a thread about it! I'm a Vancouverite who has been transplanted to Toronto, and therefore have a unique perspective on life here. Today I read an article in the Star, by a maritimer who actually wrote about her culture shock. I must say that I feel exactly like she did. Does anybody else have some toronto stories to share? Anything funny or bizarre? happpy or sad? At the moment, I am still constantly amazed at how hockey oriented this place is. At times I am exasperated by the rush of the rat race, then inspired by the friendliness and acceptance of the people who live here. The story is here, it is very funny: http://www.thestar.com/NASApp/cs/Con...d=968332188492 'The Second Cup is where?' When you're from a place where there's only one coffee shop, and you move to a place with hundreds of them, the question really does make sense, you know LINDSAY KYTE SPECIAL TO THE STAR I am a Maritimer, new to this city, in the throes of culture shock. Here seven months now, I still try to get out at the wrong side on the subway. I ask people, "How do you get to the Second Cup?" because where I come from, there is only one. I still pronounce the second "t" in "Toronto." Here's what I've encountered so far: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Language Apparently, "supper" is "dinner" here and "dinner" is "lunch." You do not "get" a shower, you "take" or "have" a shower. And "The Danforth" is always referred to as "the" and never as "Danforth Ave." To misuse any of the above means you might as well have a badge and a cape embroidered with the word "TOURIST!" There is no "double double for me and the wife" at Starbucks. There is, however, "a double-shot grande decaf non-fat latte with extra foam for myself and my life partner." When giving directions, you never start with, "You know where the Pizza Hut burned down 10 years ago ..." Instead, you give directions in major intersections. "Go to Spadina, north of Bloor ..." North and south? I'll buy myself a milkshake when I conquer left and right. I bought a compass to help me out, but when I pointed it west, it said north. When I walked north, it said east. Finally, someone pointed out that I was in a city of metal. And that I should put the compass on a flat surface instead of wearing it like a ring and throwing my hand at buildings like She-ra demonstrating my awesome power. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The People I love my street, "The Danforth." Here, old Greek men sitting in lawnchairs call out what sounds like "Kook-la Moo!" and kiss me on both cheeks. This means "My cute little doll." Initially, I thought it meant, "You insane cow." After first moving here, I thought all Greek people hated each other, which would explain the yelling in the grocery store. Turns out, the more you love in Greek, the more you argue. The little old scarf-adorned Greek woman called Mama who runs my laundromat hates the way I do my two loads of laundry (towels and not towels). She frequently yells at me: "Put detergent in FIRST!" Though I stand a foot taller, I am terrified. Then I have to get change. From the change machine. That she sits in front of. I put a $20 bill in. Upside down. Mama rips it out and puts it in the right way. Four million quarters come out. "I won the jackpot!" I joke. Mama glares. Every Monday afternoon, Mama's glares reassure me that I am not nearly as funny as I think I am. Mary is the middle-aged Greek hairdresser who, when I asked timidly to make the freezing cold water a little warmer, looked at me with eyes like the hypnotic television test pattern from the 1960s. "Hot-a water?!!! You make-a your hair-a dry!! Greeky Greek greek greek ..." She didn't actually say the "Greeky greek greek part." She was speaking the language. No good was meant towards me in it. After getting water in my ears and shoving the towel so far up my ear drum that my leg started to twitch, Mary whipped out a stainless steel comb with teeth not even a millimetre apart and yanked it through my tangled hair. I started to pray to gods I made up. Then in walked a Greek woman with dyed blonde hair who asked, "How much-a to get roots done?" I think perhaps Mary must hate it when Greek women dye their hair blonde, as she said, "$60" in a tone that implied she was selling her heritage for this mere amount. The woman screamed, "$60! I can get it done down the street for 40!" Steel comb in one hand and my hair in the other, Mary screeched back, "Then GO down the street and get it done THERE!" My head was being yanked around like I was on the Scrambler at the midway and the stoned guy running it forgot about me. Mary then angrily trimmed my hair in four seconds flat. As she rang it up, she smiled warmly. "You nice girl. Come back and see Mary." I do often see Mary. In my nightmares. I sleep-moisturize my hair when I do. Some Toronto episodes have been pure magic. I've been at a downtown karaoke where during "I've Had The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing, the host ran on to the dance floor and yelled, "Lindsay! Do a lift!" Entrusting my life to a guy who knew all the words to "Danger Zone," I flung myself at him, and he lifted me high in the air. Also, at this karaoke is Charles, a white-haired businessman who dances all night by the stage. If someone raps, he does the running man. If it's heavy metal, he headbangs. He plays air guitar, air flute and occasionally air triangle. When the night is over, Charles puts his tie on, picks up his briefcase and becomes a businessman again. In Toronto, you can be whoever you want to be: Jennifer Grey (pre-nose job) or even a professional air triangler. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Transportation In Cape Breton, the bus comes once an hour. So I was shocked to encounter Torontonians running like they were being chased by Teletubbies for the sake of a four-minute wait for the next train. During my first rush hour, I mashed myself on to a subway where my feet didn't touch the ground. The subway slowed, then stopped long enough for incredibly pointy-toed shoes to start tapping and people to open their briefcases, looking for a solution next to their paper clips. When it started again, one big lady with a jubilant smile threw her head back and said, "THANK YOU, FATHER!! LET'S HAVE A BIG AMEN FOR JESUS STARTING THE SUBWAY AGAIN!!!!" Torontonians take subway rides seriously. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Restaurants I once went to a Cape Breton restaurant that listed Chicken Parmesan under "Ethnic Dishes." I was ready for some adventures in Toronto cuisine. My friend John and I went to a restaurant with grills in the middle of the table for the "all-you-can-eat-barbecue," which John ordered. You get little trays of raw beef, chicken, scallops, oxtail, etc. to grill yourself. This vegetarian was torn between being disgusted and the childlike delight of being able to set stuff on fire right at your table. Soon I was happily sizzling a piece of salmon, chanting, "Burn, baby, burn!" My years of being what seemed to be the only vegetarian in Cape Breton went up in flames my first week in the "Big Smoke." I ordered a dish. The waiter offered hot sauce, but warned it was "really spicy." Thinking he was mocking me because I'm not Korean, I dumped it on like it was ketchup. Soon, I felt my retinas detaching. I told John I was "having memories of things I never did." Always trust your waiter at a Korean restaurant. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Predicaments Yay to the LCBO for giving out Air Miles. As I get my card zapped, I think fondly of loved ones who would have seen every country, hot and cold, if the liquor store did this at home. From drinking to drinking wear, I saw a dress shop on Yonge St. with a dressing room that had black lights so you can see only your clothes and your teeth. No one's outfit ever made their teeth look fat. Sometimes, big-city Toronto is not really that big. When I applied for a part-time job at a café, the owner stated he only hires artistic people, even though we're always getting conflicting gigs and forgetting about customers because we've just been inspired. The planets aligned. I leaned over and said, "I would say I'm involved in the arts. In fact, I'm singing on your stereo right now." He was playing my friend Grant Tilly's Halifax-recorded CD, one a bunch of us sang drunken back-ups on at 4 a.m. Other times, it doesn't seem like you'll ever fit in. Once I decided to take a stroll to look at the two feet of Toronto lawns on the Danforth. I followed my nose to a bakery packed with customers holding loaves of braided cinnamon bread tied up with ribbons. Never having been domestic enough to know the "So and So Bakery" makes the best bread, I happily grabbed a loaf and waited with crowds of Greek people yelling and buying truckloads of decorated religious candles. As I walked home snacking, I wondered why these Greek people were all buying the same loaf of bread. And why a bakery sold religious candles. Then it hit me — this must be special religious bread for the Greek Orthodox Church. Oh my God. I was snacking on Greek religious bread on the Danforth. Can you imagine if Mama from the laundromat saw me? Or Mary with her shears? As you can see, I'm still learning "Toronto-ese." I still wave thank you to cars that stop for me at crosswalks. I still talk to other people's pets. And maybe one of these days, I'll start dropping the second "t" in "Toronto" and you won't even know I'm not one of you. Except, of course, when I ask you for directions in "rights" and "lefts." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lindsay Kyte is originally from Reserve Mines, Cape Breton. Upon moving to Toronto earlier this year to study acting, she began writing to friends and family back home a series of e-mails she called her "Toronto Adventures." The e-mails have been forwarded to hundreds of people throughout the Maritimes. This story is a compilation of her adventures.