Toronto Report #1: White (and multi-colored) Spaces

I couldn't focus on reading fiction or anything with continuous slabs of paragraphs during the plane rides, so I ended up digesting Paul Auster's book of selected poems, Disappearances. Here's something from his prose poem "White Spaces" that struck a chord last week:

In the realm of the naked eye nothing happens that does not have its beginning and its end. And yet nowhere can we find the place or the moment at which we can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is where it begins, or this is where it ends. For some of us, it has begun before the beginning, and for others of us it will go on happening after the end. Where to find it? Don't look. Either it is here or it is not here. And whoever tries to find refuge in any one place, in any one moment, will never be where he thinks he is. In other words, say your good-byes. It is never too late. It is always too late.

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On Race

At the immigration office at the Toronto airport, I couldn't help but stare. It was the first time I'd seen so many people of different colors and shapes and sizes before. In Manila, everyone is brown or brownish yellow, and we gawk at the occasional white guy with an arm wrapped around a Pinay. Here, it's a Benetton ad every day: every time I sweep my eyes across an area I see people who are black, white, yellow, brown, pinkish white, brownish black, and all other variations. My eyes will probably get used to it soon enough, but it's still fun for now.

The lady at the immigration desk had a bottle of Naya mineral water on her desk. I took that as a good sign. She seemed surprised and impressed that I was going to U of T. As was the Indian taxi driver who asked me right away, "Are you from Philippines?" "Yeah. How could you tell?" He smiled slyly and said, "Only from your good looks."

It's funny, I've become acutely aware of other Filipinos in the city. My first night at my cousin's apartment (she's on the first floor, by the elevator/stairs), I heard two people going up, one of them asking, "O, magluluto na ba ako?" On my daily 15-minute walk to the subway, I pass by a Filipino store (that sells Chippy and Sweet Corn chips!) and always see Pinoys in denim jackets nearby. We eye each other and sometimes give a little smile -- I know, it's a fake sense of kinship based purely on being a minority in a multicultural city, but still, it's comforting. On a streetcar on the way to Kensington Market (full of ukay-ukay like thrift stores and fresh produce stalls), a woman beside me mocked her husband, "Naku, lumalabas na naman ang pagka-beho mo!" When I turned and smiled, she added, "O ayan, tinawanan ka tuloy ng ka-lahi mo."

Other things I've noted: 1) Each race has its territory in this city -- there's a Chinatown, a Koreatown, a Little Italy, a Greektown, a Little India, and other unofficially named areas populated by the Polish, Filipinos, etc. 2) Each race has its share of plain and stunning people, though most obese people I've seen are Caucasian. 3) Each race has its share of crazy and shady people -- I've seen a Polish guy having a polite conversation with his dog, a Chinese woman muttering to herself and wringing her hands, and a black guy who kept eyeing me at the subway bench as I was waiting for Maita, and who eventually asked, "Hey there, are you waiting for someone? Or are you waiting for me? Would you like to go up and--?" I said no and walked off to another bench.

Next: Toronto report #2: Getting around the city