So this post is mostly a little Canadiana for you all. Canadians are very familiar with the fact that Toronto is the city that many of us love to hate. It is our biggest city, the economic center of the country and has always occupied a peculiar place in the Canadian mind. When travelling Canadians will pull it out when comparing International cities, two and a half million people and the (formerly) tallest free-standing structure in the world (Stupid Burj Dubai.) At home Canadians tend to dislike Toronto, there is always some reason that it is not as nice as where they are from and Montrealers, well it’s best we not go there. Torontonians tend to just be oblivious to it all, confident in the knowledge they live in ‘one of the world’s most livable cities’ source.
THE CITY REDISCOVERED
Published: August 8, 1982
MARGARET ATWOOD is a novelist who lives in Toronto. Her newest books, ”Dancing Girls and Other Stories” and ”True Stories,” a collection of poems, will be published by Simon & Schuster in September. By MARGARET ATWOOD
W hen I was growing up in Toronto as a child, in the 1940’s, I loathed it. I associated it with standing in the slush with dampness seeping through my boots, itchy bloomers, gray muggy skies, old ladies who hit your knuckles with the metal edge of the ruler if you didn’t know the words to ”Rule, Britannia.” Later, when I was in high school, I liked Toronto a little better, though not much. There did not seem to be a great deal to do, apart from sock hops, smoking in the washrooms and avoiding the appearance of being too interested in frog dissection. As for university, it produces angst in the best of us, and I was probably wrong to attribute mine specially to Toronto. Nevertheless, I did.
As I aged, I was pleased to discover that I was not the only person who found Toronto loathsome. Almost everyone else did too. Montreal was where international flavor, international finance and naughtiness (which meant, to Torontonians, wine with dinner) reigned supreme. New York was where the truly sophisticated hung out, and Buffalo was where you went if you couldn’t afford the other two. Toronto was … well, Toronto was where you lived when you weren’t having fun. The notion of anyone actually visiting Toronto, for any purpose other than to attend the sickbed of a moribund relative, was alien to me. I set my first published novel in Toronto (where else was I to set it?) but was so embarassed by the location that I never actually named the city and disguised the street names as best I could. Everyone knew that real novels were not set in Toronto.
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