On Saturday, Rachelle and I took the dog on a stroll down to Yorkville. It was a beautiful day and the Toronto International Film Festival was in full swing, so the city, and everybody in it, was feeling kind of excited and world class.
Between his two children, a father walked down the sidewalk holding their hands. They all had the open, vulnerable smile of tourists looking for stars on their faces. Wearing Tilley hats that seemed to open up to the sun, they looked blossoming Daffodils.
Perhaps fifty people, all jostling one another hoping to catch a glimpse of celebrity, were assembled in front of the Intercontinental Hotel. As they were watching the entrance, a limo on the street behind them smacked into a cab, creating a huge crunch—the sound of power. The crowd all spun around at once, with one woman exclaiming, “ Oh. My. God!”
At Bloor and Avenue, Heidi and I waited outside a church as Rachelle ran an errand. Beside us on the sidewalk was a beggar wearing nothing but shorts and a cast on his arm. Aided by a walker and a nurse, a very pale and very elderly woman made her way slowly down the street. She stopped in front of the beggar and began to look through her change purse, and as she did so, he told her that he had cancer. “Oh, my,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve just been treated for cancer myself.” He asked her is it was gone. “Yes, I hope so,” she said, handing the man a quarter, “ I really hope so.”
As this was happening, a woman waited to cross the street. She was stunning. Draped in the expensive shopping bags of the district, she tossed her perfectly blonde hair and smiled back at the people watching her. She wore a mini skirt and a tight, loosely knit white sweater through which you could see her matching black bra. When the light changed she began to hurry across the street, heading to the Park Hyatt Hotel. Her four-inch heels clicked against the pavement, and everyone watched, trying to figure out who she was.
On the patio at Pusateri’s everybody was dressed up, trying to look like they belonged. They spoke loudly of the films they had seen and the parties attended, wanting to give up the appearance that it was all “work.”
I asked the cashier inside what celebrities she had seen.
George Clooney.
I tried to get her to say that he was actually tiny, but she would not. Beaming, her eyes alight at the memory, she said, “Oh Lord, he was so HANDSOME!”
A young woman joylessly bused the lunch counter. She didn’t look like she enjoyed her job very much, and gave every indication that she felt the same way about her life. I asked her what celebrities she had seen, and rather sourly, like the memory was unpleasant, she said, “Megan Fox.” She told me that she was little more than five feet tall and that she looked WAY better on TV than she did in person. She allowed a small smile to animate her face as she revealed this last piece of news.