It takes me a while to get shit done these days. Dishes. Vacuuming. Grading. Processing photos. About the only thing I get done on time is go to sleep, and even that is in question given the number of times I’ve woken up on the couch. So I guess even that skill has left me. And it comes as very little surprise then that it might take me about two full weeks to get my Toronto photos completed and up.
It has been ages since I was last in Toronto. Pretty sure that I was seven the last time I was there, so I doubt it even counts. But still, it felt very familiar. Very natural. Very homelike. Sure, there were lots of nods to the British connections on the subway, but I’m chalking it up to the ladies I was with. Once you’ve spent a few days with them – physically or virtually – coming together is like going home. Diverse personalities? Yes. But we all mesh well with each other, complement our strengths and bolster our weaknesses.
So what did we do? Photograph the shit out of a town. Walk for the hell of it, for dinner, for laughs, for fucking poutine. Ask cabbies what time they get off shift. Find Barbies in compromising positions. Form girl crushes on the maven of whiskey. Develop an intense love of blood orange soda and gin. Hooped it up. Laughed. Knit. Quilted. Laughed some more. Watched walrus porn. Slept. Danced. Embraced sickness.
In a word . . . lived.
Without this band of merrymakers, my life would be somewhat dull. They brighten my days with our chats on Facebook. Inspire me to looks at the world differently. Tweet the night away during debates. And remind me that women are a force to be reckoned with. Fuck yeah, birches!
Click on the video to see more of our debauchery (but sadly, no poutine).