Bloor Street, Scallops, and Red Shoes

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

It's fun to think that Holt Renfrew's visual merchandisers knew that we would be strolling by their massive Bloor Street store the day after an intimate evening with Sarah McLachlan and as such, ensured that her contribution was added to their whimsical Accessories Event window display just for us. And even though that is not the case, it was an ordinary little miracle that punctuated a weekend escape to Toronto quite nicely.

Arriving at Massey Hall with mere minutes to spare after feverishly but patiently navigating Friday evening traffic was also a miracle. As I finally relaxed and settled into my well-positioned seat, my own piece of auditory history if only for a few hours, I looked around at the majestic pillars rising out of the burnished wooden mezzanine. My gaze floated upwards and I studied the scalloped beams and soaring ceiling, noticably weathered from, among other things, a century of being tapped and stroked and pounded by every note and chord imaginable.

Sarah's contribution to these auditory archives was delivered with exquisite character and passion, and did not disappoint. She is a true performer, not only when accompanied by instruments and back up vocals (more on that in a moment!), but she is very personable, engaging us by answering questions submitted by the very audience for whom she was performing. I think we were all rooting for the guy who had the courage to ask her out for drinks and was lucky enough to have had his slip of paper find its way into her grasp as she was reaching into her hat for the next question!!

In addition to having the opportunity to bask in the Sarah experience, we were also introduced to three of her backup musicians: Butterfly Boucher, Luke Doucet, and his wife, Melissa McClelland (the engaging owner of the title shoes whose Segovia continues to leave me spellbound, via my iPod) These performers provided an unexpectedly enjoyable addition to an already terrific concert, and it was so refreshing to see a headlining act switch places with her backup singers, and let them shine as she assumed an accompanying microphone. But I suppose it isn't at all a stretch for a musician and lyricist from Canada's East coast who admits to the world (ok, to Toronto) that she is unable to live without music in her life. That's just the kind of person and performer she is!

Manuel's River, Newfoundland

The sound of snapping twigs under my slow footsteps is like a metronome keeping time for my thoughts. It feels safe to set them free in a place like this, free to flutter about amongst the layers of spruce branches to mingle with the various flies.. house... butter.. damsel...


I discover a quiet place to sit and think... someplace where my wandering thoughts are supplemented by the throaty calls of the blue jays and the gentle rippling of the water at the river's framework.


Evidently, I am not the first person who sought refuge from a chaotic week and discovered it nestled in this pristine setting. I wonder if someone placed this rustic bench here for that reason or perhaps to remember someone who used to enjoy spending time here. What I love most is how it blends in.. how it was not originally a part of this family of trees and grasses, but it seems to belong here just the same.. and exists in harmony, for the benefit of those who are fortunate enough to encounter it.

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

A Competition of Intriguing Proportions

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

It is a little after six and on the sidewalk of Newbury Street, a man of impeccable style is striding amongst various other men, most of whom display the same tantalising and stylish of presentations. Every one of them is due somewhere as time has now exceeded the decadent summer shopping hours, and is now headed deliciously towards the decadent summer dining hours. In a perfect world, they all have dates. Good ones. Special ones. First ones.

Our man happens to be en route to an evening of the latter sort. Consulting the onyx face of his Bulova, he increases his pace ever so slightly. He knows where he has to be, but he knows not, for certain, what awaits him. As he follows the familiar street, his mind trails back to his Macbook where he last saw her: a perfect set of 2x3 images portraying a vivacious eruption of auburn draped sweetness. He had coordinated online matches before, and was well aware of the possibility that she was not as she had virtually appeared. But all of his attempts had been relatively successful thus far, so he was comfortable in trusting his judgement on this one. Besides, she had tenably described herself as a maniacal bird watcher and jazz aficionado who enjoyed running and playing chess. Even if their on-line interludes hadn't been as mesmerising as they were, he would have been headed towards such an appointment sooner or later. Not meeting a potential woman like this would have been a travesty for which he would never have forgiven himself.

"Meet me at the tortoise" she had stated, teasingly refusing to elaborate. He was intrigued by her playfulness and was up for the challenge. It wasn't even a challenge really as he was confidently aware of the destination to which she was referring. 

He veers across the street and makes a quick but necessary detour into Winston's Flowers before continuing on his way. As he pauses at the intersection, he hears a spirited voice behind him shriek "Red punch buggy no punch back!" He smiles as he spots the recognisable contours of the vintage Volkswagen Beetle turning onto Newbury Street and remembers playing that game when he was a child. Except...

"That's not how you say it," a young girl's voice challenges. "It's punch buggy red. Where are you from anyway?"

"I'm from Canada," the Beetle spotter announces proudly.

"I'm pretty sure they say it my way in Canada too," the girl states. "That means I can still punch you." 

Safely averting the brewing confrontation, our man arrives at Copley Square, posies in hand, heart on sleeve. He spies a vacant bench in the intended location and takes a seat, allowing himself to relax just a little, unwittingly realising his oscillating nervousness. He has a good feeling about this one. He gazes at the pair of bronze sculptures nearby, a competing tortoise and hare, which he knows was created by Nancy Schön to commemorate the centenary of the Boston Marathon. This is where he is supposed to be at this very moment.

He evaluates each of the passersby intently, trying to determine which one might be his date. This is the rush that he most enjoys about meeting someone for the first time. Will she look the way he expects? The way she promised she would? Would they click in person as they had in kilobytes?

He is pulled back into the moment by a sultry voice to his right. "I see you figured out where you are supposed to be," it confidently swirls towards him. He rises to his feet and finds himself standing before a tall redhead in a little blue dress and a big, bright smile.

"But of course," he declares, offering the bouquet of flowers and returning her genuine smile. "You'll have to toss out something more intricate than that if you wish to perplex me."

She accepts the flowers with one hand and his outstretched arm with the other. "I think I'm up for the challenge," she grins, and strolls with him towards their eventual dinner reservations.

Central Park, New York City

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

People watching could be a vocation in New York City. Perhaps it was me in my frivolous, globetrotting euphoria but it just seemed like everyone that my eyes touched in New York City was telling a story. I was intrigued by the plethora of personalities that were instantly accessible to me, so much of their character seemingly effortlessly revealed in their dress and their mannerisms. I revelled in the eclectic offering of locals (or at least people who were obviously accustomed to urban life) and watched curiously as they weaved their way in and out of their errands and their inclinations...some of my favourites:

In Madison Square Park, my attention is abducted by a bohemian explosion of bright orange bandana-embraced hair that grazes the waistband of a belted pair of faded bluejeans. She is wearing a rose-adorned fitted shirt, her long fingers grasping a braided leash leading a white, wiry dog that stands no taller than the top of her brown canvas high-top sneakers. At the end of her other hand, walks a girl amidst a cascade of blond hair and an earth-friendly tote bag with the words "Save Japan" stamped at its hem. Her flowing blue and white frock makes her the perfect complement to her partner, and yet I decided, from observing their casual intimacy, that more intricate complements existed between them than are visible today in the park.

In Union Square Park, an oversized Gucci sachel weighs heavily, but apparently unintrusively, on the slim, silver-bangled arm of an art collector. Okay, I don't really know whether or not she is an art collector. Perhaps she is a bath product entrepreneur browsing the visual supermarket for something new to frame and hang in the guest room of her elegant Fifth Avenue condo. Sunglasses perched patiently on top of her long, multi-toned locks, she casually browses through a stack of shrinkwrapped paintings that are leaning in a canvas cradle at the park's art fair. She is contemplating every single image and seems intent on buying it before flipping to the next creation and starting the process all over again.

In Washington Square Park, a man wearing Asics and a fedora is dwarfed by the marble arch overhead as his fingers expertly scurry along the well-used keys of his beloved piano. There is a reclaimed meat bucket sitting to his left and to his right with the hopes of collecting revenue from his efforts and a decal on the side of the piano reads "Manhattan Mini Storage". Some of the passersby are indifferent to his talent and his tenacity, but some pause briefly to listen and some even give him monetary appreciation. But two students in particular seemed to have allowed his melodies to affect their afternoon and have claimed a spot on the white tiles, swaying slowly beside him with their arms wrapped around one another.

Tucked in between two pillars on Broadway Street, one person is barely visible at all, his (or her) cream coloured hoodie and grey pants all but blending in to the surrounding cement.

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

How the Rockefeller does Central Park:

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

I am sitting here at my computer on a routine weekday evening gazing at this picture thinking "was it all a dream?" Okay, not really.. I know full well that my recent adventure to the Big Apple was rivetingly pure wide-eyed, adrenaline-fueled reality. But it was such a quick intense blast of New York magnificence that it almost seems dreamlike. My quiet little home city would have building envy if it knew what I was up to over the weekend.


Up to 70 floors, to be accurate - 67 by way of high speed elevator (complete with glass ceiling!), 2 by escalator, and the last by cement steps. The very highest platform comes with the best views because not only are you looking down over everything, including other sightseers, but your eyes are refreshingly unrestrained. There is no safety glass surrounding you up there, only a cement "railing" that reaches mid-waist - permissible, I suspect, because if you were so inclined or so unfortunate to scale that wall, you would only fall a few feet down to the lower viewing platform. And while I shudder at the thought of falling anywhere while standing 85 feet above the Avenue of the Americas, I was exhilerated and content to be standing there.


It was suppertime when I took this photo, this evidence of a venue that I was finally able to check off my NYC "must see" list: the perfectly rectangular mass of greenspace that is Central Park tightly nestled within a sea of concrete and rebar and glass. I love how it seems to just exist comfortably, unintimidated by the stature of its surrounding neighbours, proudly retaining its natural (albeit artificially originated) woodland escape kept safe from adept and opportunistic developers who must drool over this thankfully protected mass of real estate.


I located an empty spot at one of the few benches on the deck and sat down to drink in the view. I had been mesmerised by what I saw as I peered over each side of the tower's petal-like edging, but this one was my favourite. It's just so surreal; I'd taken a rickshaw through this same park during a previous trip, but it's a different place entirely from this angle! It even sounded surreal: the noise constantly created by all the traffic and other activity taking place at street level swirled up softly, magically filtered by the atmosphere with only a few sirens escaping from an otherwise peaceful cadence.


So contrary to popular convention, if it sounds like a dream, looks like a dream, and feels like a dream... it still just might be real!