Toronto the Wealthy

Sitting in a Starbucks on Adelaide, I'm watching the cars and people passing by and it seems like the recipe for a dreary British dish. Take one grey Mercedes, set it in motion at 50km/h, add two blue Audis on either side, and bookend with one drab Porsche and one small BMW.

And while the cars tootle on, the men rush by in their pointed shoes and checked dress shirts, and the women cross the street in heels that would put any giraffe to shame.

Directions asked in a Spanish accent, bus queries in a German one.

American coffee in a Chinese-made sleeve.

Toronto.

I almost feel like I've been asleep for most of my life, reading about a city in my dreams and getting only a faint, shaded picture of it. And then I go downtown, and the image crystallizes. Who are these people? Where did they come from? How did the city amass all this wealth? And when did it wear it like a badge of honour, as though the hood ornament on the front of a car is a symbol of the person?

But then I look at them a little closer, and I can't ignore my desire to want it, too. No matter how frustrating it is to chug along in rush hour, I want to be cozily nestled inside of a Mercedes, too. I want to be heading to Starbucks to unwind after a long day on Bay Street.

I want this badge that other people wear.