The day I Iost my way

The day I lost my way started off as a pretty normal one. I left home, went to work, spaced out for 6 hours, had lunch, spaced out for an extra hour, answered emails, said goodbye and left. I usually found my way back home using the CN Tower as a reference. Now, I guess everyone does so, since she is especially useful at night with her colored lights. But this day in particular, she was nowhere to be found, so I had no idea how to come back home. I walked to the right. I am aware of the fact that Torontonians, or rather, citizens in general have a basic knowledge of street names, directions, etc. I just never did, I had the CN Tower since I moved into this city two years ago. Walking to the right seemed like the correct thing to do, so that is what I did for half an hour, without finding my apartment. Seriously confused at this moment, I decided to ask someone about the mysterious disappearance. I approached a woman in her twenties, walking rather cheerfully down the road: "excuse me, do you know what happened to the CN tower?". She replied: "What do you mean?". Appalled by her ignorance I said hysterically: "IT'S NOT THERE ANYMORE, CAN'T YOU SEE?" She did not seem affected by my emotional ways and said calmly: "Well, I hadn't noticed, but if that's what she feels like, we might as well let her be."

I continued walking to the right, muttering. I found the Manulife center, and, given that it was almost 8 by then, decided to go up to the bar on its top from where I could find the missing 553 meters high tower. I entered the bar, walked straight to the counter and approached the bartender. It is a rule in city life that bartenders and taxi drivers know everything. I said politely: "Do you happen to know where the CN tower is?" To which he responded looking unsurprised: "Oh, no, not really. A man last night mentioned something about it going away, but I didn't pay much attention, I thought he was just a drunk man talking nonsense." I said now hysterically: "But don't you care?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked to the other side of the counter to serve beer to customers willing to make more banal conversation.

I found myself on the street. The night had fallen and a freezing cold wind slapped me on the face. Snow was imminent. Toronto was hitting me with its hardest blows. I walked and walked, not finding any street or building that looked familiar. After an hour or so, snow was falling on me, threatening to enter my eyes and freeze them. And I was still lost.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of Queen's Park, surrounded by statues, fountains, trees and beautiful buildings. I sat on a bench, contemplating the Parliament and I began to cry. I loved this city, it was beautiful, impressive, unpredictable, exciting. It had everything a city needed to have. Its citizens, like the citizens of any great city, shared its qualities. But that cold and harsh night, I could not understand Toronto nor its citizens. I felt like they did not show me its appreciation. I could not cope with the quality of those Torontians that did not seem to respond to my fit of madness. Toronto was irresponsive, it was ignoring my problems and feelings, mocking my desperation to understand what was the reason of the disappearance of the "tower that defines its skyline".

I strolled down University Avenue until I found a Tim Horton's, went in and ordered a double double and three Timbits. While taking a sip of my coffee I understood. Torturing myself with the thought of Toronto not loving me enough to show the CN tower and letting me go home would lead nowhere. The city had seemed selfish and capricious before, but I did choose to live here. I chose it knowing of this unusual events that made me uneasy and insecure, hoping to learn how to adapt one day. And this seemed to be the day when I had to read the city through the behaviors that confused me and show my love.

After finishing my coffee I was no longer worried about not finding the CN tower or my way home. I loved Toronto, and I should love the way it behaved. So I decided to enjoy its unusual behavior and use it as an excuse to stroll around its beautiful streets, going to every place and loving every part of it.

No means no

Yes, I have a turtle. Yes, I know they don’t do much and they just sit there, biting on lettuce every once in a while. But Terry has a sense of humor that is very similar to mine and we get along just fine. Sometimes I sit on the bus, apart from him and everything is just so banal. I can picture the bus crashing into a big truck and everyone panicking, running in circles, being cut into pieces, their blood mixing up with the pieces of metal flying all over. Bones cracking, blood flying, people screaming, chaos. But not me. I don’t move. I don’t care. Terry is in the shoe box he calls home, in my room, next to my lamp on my desk. Probably missing me, but not showing it. He is so much like me and people like me will never admit when they are missing someone. I come back everyday and find him there, and he comforts me after those long days of banality, full of nonsense studying that seems to lead nowhere. But not that day. I came back and no Terry. No box. No nothing. I ran to my mother’s room and demanded the truth in tears. He was dead. D-E-A-D. Mort. Muerto. Shindeimasu.
I ran to the kitchen, followed by my mother, grabbed the biggest knife I could find and held it in front of my chest. I was determined. My mother was screaming “Nooooooo!!”. And I said: "Right. No means no”. And then everything was OK again.