A moment later I passed a man of around 70. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and wrap-around sunglasses, the sort of look a suburban 50 year-old dad with a rock n’ roll heart might sport at a concert. He sat alone on a patio eating an omelette and drinking a half-liter of white wine–somehow anachronistic, as if a postcard from another era. It was a perfect autumn day and he was unhurried, inhaling the sunlight and pretty girls walking by as if they were oxygen– the leaves turning purple and orange around him.

And from not far off, the sound of opera drifted unexpectedly through traffic. In a language imagined rather than understood, a woman’s voice, clear and controlled, rose and fell to a piano keeping pace. The music was coming through a church window, and upon hearing something so perfect in its accidental trajectory, I had to close my eyes and let the world become just that one thing.

A kind of stillness presides, an unhurried ease and absence of pretence. Nobody we saw was lost into the world of their iPhone like so many people in Toronto appear to be, all of them attempting to project a narrative of velocity and importance to the strangers passing by. No, the conversations here came slow and easy– almost humidly– as if each encounter were expected to last weeks rather than seconds.

While in a somewhat matronly dress shop I overheard the two middle-aged women who worked there talking.

“ John keeps crashing the truck into the barn.”

“Lordy!”

“I know! He hasn’t done any damage yet, but geez, it’s only a matter of time.”

“You gotta paint a big, red stop sign on that barn, I tell you. You have to stop that man!”

On the street a woman of about 25, pretty but wounded, approached us and asked for some change. She gestured to her loose fitting denim shirt, “I’m pregnant and hungry.” Seeing her moving toward us I had already decided that if I had change in my pocket I would give some to her, but if I had to dig into my laptop bag, I would not. This was the calculus I had made, the line I had arbitrarily drawn in the sand. After checking my pockets I apologized to her, telling her I didn’t have any change and she trembled, about to cry.  Rachelle then dug into her purse and gave her a couple of dollars, as regardless of this woman’s articulated circumstance, her need, for whatever reason, was more immediate and real than our own.

Cutting through a park near a church we passed a group of about a dozen people seated in a circle on the shaded grass. One man, probably around 35, sat elevated from the rest in a lawn chair that might have been bought at a Canadian Tire in the 1980s. He looked a bit like Jesus, this man, and the resemblance didn’t seem accidental. Leaning back in his chair, he nodded beatifically as the people around him brought him their troubles. A 50 year-old, a round and pale dad wearing a floppy Tilley hat, frustrated, was speaking with his hands, “It seems that the kids today are so remote from both their parents and God, all they ever do is play video games and I worry about this disconnect.” Canadian Tire Jesus put his finger to his lips, composing a thought, while the young girls sitting in this circle of faith watched him so closely, their eyes shining with something they couldn’t quite put into words.