Canada Day, July 1st, is Canada's Fourth of July, complete with fireworks and a statutory holiday. I got up early, surveyed the brilliant sunshine outside, and immediately went online to find out what events our fine city of Toronto would be hosting to celebrate the day.
Ken and I took the train to Harbourfront. The event listing stated that the celebrations being held there were free. Yes free! And I can tell you exactly why it was free. Because nothing was happening. There was nothing going on except hordes of people milling around, browsing at the outdoor mall (which is open all summer long) and providing record business for all the local hot dog carts.
The only entertainment we came across was the buskers, each of whom had such a massive crowd gathered that it was impossible to even see what type of act was occurring. There was a stage set up at the centre of the grassy area by the outdoor mall, but it was empty.
The grassy area isn't even made of real grass anymore. It used to be. Granted, the grass was kind of scruffy, and there were a lot of bald, dusty patches, but at least it was quasi-natural. Now there is a spongey carpet of fake grass in its place. It doesn't look like real grass, or like any surface that properly belongs outside. It just looks weird. I'd almost rather it be concrete, because at least that's just itself, and not a creepy, ill-advised fake of nature.
We gave up on the crowds after a short while, and started walking north. We didn't have a plan in mind, but a helpful bird provided a purpose to guide our wanderings. The bird shat on Ken. It wasn't a big goose plopper, just the wee, delicate drop of a sparrow. However, it dripped from Ken's shirt onto his pants, grossing him out to the Nth degree.
At first he tried scrubbing it off with some water from our water bottle and a page of the Employment Weekly free newspaper, but that only succeeded in smearing the newspaper's black ink all over his beige pants. He then determined that he must buy a new shirt and pants and change into them immediately. Fortunately, the Eaton Centre mall, deemed a tourist attraction, is open on stat holidays, and we were only a few blocks away.
Old Navy to the rescue. Ken walked to the cash in brand new clothes with the tags still dangling under his arm and at his waistband. I had to peel the sizing sticker off his butt. We saved his dirty shirt to bring home and wash, but his old pants went in the trash. It was a blessing in disguise as far as I'm concerned, because those old pants, with the chewed up cuffs and the red ink-stain on the thigh, should have been condemned months ago.
Another benefit is that we discovered that Ken looks great in green. I've never seen him wear a green shirt before, but that's what Old Navy had in his size, so that's what he bought. A lovely, summer-leaf green. Thanks, bird!