Toronto the Magnificent

Every once in a while this city reminds me of why I like living here.

When I got on the subway today to head to work, I sat down opposite two guys. One was an older gentleman, dressed in a natty slate gray three-piece suit, with a black fedora perched on top of long graying hair pulled into a pony tail, and bushy graying sideburns. He looked like an actor portraying a '70s mob lawyer, or a low-rent Satan who would try to buy your soul for $20 and a ham sandwich.

The other guy was a nondescript middle-aged man in a light sweat shirt, with a gym bag on the seat next to him. For the entire time I was on the train, he sat with an angry expression on his face and his arm resting on the gym bag, surreptitiously giving '70s mob lawyer guy the finger. No a word was spoken between the two of them, and in fact I'm not sure '70s mob lawyer guy even noticed he was being flipped off.

Then, when I switched trains at Bloor/Yonge, I walked up the staircase to the southbound platform. At the top of the staircase sat a busker playing a rather good bluesy, almost Stevie Ray-ish, version of Hallelujah. What made him the Most Awesome Busker Ever (Non-Accordion Guy Division) was the fact that in the chair next to him sat a kid of about five or six, presumably his son, intently strumming along on a red toy ukelele.

Now that's how you start a day.

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