You can't go home again

Oh, my darling Toronto, I've been gone not six weeks and what has become of you? I returned last Thursday for a week to find my favourite bookstore gone, one of my most frequented restaurants trashed and burned, my former employer 1.5 publications and 20 people thinner, and my friends jumping at any sight of an unmarked van. Oh yeah, and then there was that earthquake...

That some of this was no surprise made the other bad news harder to bear. I found myself a tourist in my old town, naked without the bill-paying and other demands on my time that stymied me while a resident (still easier than wandering rootless in New York, where I am just a tourist with a local phone number). I would have felt better if I could have dropped in on Pivot for (not that) old times' sake, but they're off for the month. At least the Scream Literary Festival went off without a hitch, and that people are still drinking and fighting as ever. Next year I shall attend as a member of the paying public, and my liver will thank me.

The fundamental point here is that I loathe change, when I am not its agent. That cities are alive is what I love about them, and a bit of death and decay only makes room for new growth (if only the new wasn't so often in the form of branded collaborations and pre-fabricated real estate), and none of this would have been any easier to take had I been around to witness it firsthand. So maybe it's not the change, but the insult to my ego that my old room won't be preserved just as it was when I left it. Sniff.

Thanks to Jenny, Aaron, Elisabeth, Luke, Lindsay, Allison, Em et al for couches, hugs, frisbees, one-speeds, slow dances -- all salves to the scabby little wounds on my heart.