Toronto Noir

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In 1834, York, city of mud and canons, became Toronto, city of trauma and free refills. Depending on what side of the CN Tower you stand under, Toronto is histrionic or claustrophobic, gelling or uncool. It’s the 1967 Stanley Cup champion Maple Leafs; it’s a fading World Series Blue Jays souvenir cup. It’s gaggles of language-starved landfill stalkers who text and Facebook and spit wads of bubble gum onto the world’s cleanest tarmac.

With its simple gestures, a stolen blue bike, a red balloon caught by a fraying string on Oakland Avenue, Toronto bids for more than the Olympics. Frustrated and frustrating, it teems with forensic experts and film-set extras trying to interpret our troubled conscience.

Even though it’s North America’s most multicultural metropolis outside of Miami, it’s more commonly known for its cold winters, strong beer, and variety of transportation options. Perhaps that’s why it’s so disorienting. As Gail Bowen notes in “The King of Charles Street West,” Come in and get lost is strategically emblazoned on Toronto’s landmark five-and-dime Honest Ed’s. The Toronto Transit Commission has moved over twenty-five billion people since 1921, almost four times the world’s population. And while the transit monopoly searches for its next light rail train, others search for their next breath, meal, or kiss.

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