On my recent trip to Canada, I happened to run across the famous jazz (and other music) venue of Massey Hall, on the east side of downtown Toronto. It happened entirely by accident:
On the fourth day of our eight-day trip, my brother-in-law-in-law took ill and was basically laid up, leaving everyone else in our group to our own devices. With all the ladies, including the dear Mrs. S. going to an
Il Divo concert that night, I was by myself. I decided to scare up some grub and set out in search of a bottle of good red wine and some
schwarma, enough for me and my brother-ilil. (I can't get schwarma around where I live, and I figured it would be a slam dunk in a multi-ethnic big city like Toronto; plus I had seen some earlier in the day.) Due to some bad directions from the front desk personnel of our hotel, probably because they didn't know what schwarma was, I ended up at Eaton Center, which was okay, because I found a Liquor Control Board store and picked up a wonderful Niagara region baco noir. And if you've ever bought liquor in Canada, you'll understand this next part, where due to the store exit being completely different from the entrance (in this case, not even on the same floor), I got turned around inside Eaton Centre and when I finally got outside, I was lost. The good thing about Toronto though, is, you always know what direction to go in. (See? The CN Tower is good for something.) In a brief frenzy of adventurous spirit, I decided to take a different route back to the hotel.
In very quick order, I ended up in an obviously dodgy neighborhood. There was trash in the streets, and occasionally, people picking at it. A guy walking in front of me picked up what looked like a matchbook, told it a short story, then threw it down and jumped on it before walking off. I decided to turn left instead of walk behind that guy. I wanted to drink my wine, not use it as a weapon of self defense.
And, boom, there it was:
Massey Hall. Plain as day. Dark, but the signs were lit. It looked small, like it couldn't be "the" Massey Hall, but it was. Well I'll be damned. Truthfully, I didn't even know it was in Toronto. I looked around for the ghosts of
Charlie Parker and
Bud Powell, and at first I thought I had found them, laying under the upcoming events board, staring off into the distance, waiting for their next solo. Then I realized it was just two bums, hoping for someone to toss them a half-eaten sandwich or a loonie. With no sandwich to offer and wanting to keep my Canadian dollars in case I had to pay off a mugger, I headed around them and down the street that runs alongside the hall. There, I got accosted by a guy who was definitely not a ghost but looked quite spooky nonetheless. He was holding a disgusting brown-stained Styrofoam cup out at me. "Change?" he asked. "Don't change," I said, "I love you just the way you are," and I kept walking.
I made it back to the hotel without further incident, but I never found my schwarma. Got some Mamma's pizza ("Since 1957!") instead.
The picture above was taken the next day, before the bums and real jazz musicians had come out. (Thank you for your compliments on my hat.)
And later (after the photo session), Mrs. S. and I got a beef stuffed pita for lunch at the St. Lawrence Market, which isn't schwarma but was no less satisfying and enjoyable.
