White wine on a sun-setting balcony as the humidity fades. They talk about Europe, about where they’re going and where they’ve been. I don’t say much. Instead, I slurp my wine and daydream about Germany, though my time there was too short and the things seen were too few. I daydream about Finland and Estonia and Slovenia and I daydream about Europe in general. The buildings, the people, the languages, the food.
I go home on the streetcar, on the subway, smelling like wine and smoke and strawberry kiwi gum. I am in love with Toronto these days. On the streetcar I watch dressed-up people waiting in lineups, talking to valets. For the first time I feel okay with having no interest in any of those things. For me Toronto is old brick houses, long walks with coffee, quiet places of busy streets, my little green corners, surprising people with how long I hold the elevator for them. It’s finally good here.