Small Slices of the Big Apple

Photo: The High Line, 10th Avenue Square. Photo by Iwan Baan

A non–bird's-eye view of the same location.
Photo by Flickr user korpics
(See more images here, and check out the rest of the High Line’s Flickr pool.)

When a client recently told me she was taking her NYC-virgin husband to the Big Apple for his birthday, as a card-carrying, stalker-level fan of the city, I couldn’t resist sending along some suggestions. They planned to arrive mid-day Thursday, and leave Sunday afternoon, so any in-depth exploration was unlikely on such a short timeline. Instead, I e-mailed a selection of notes, links, and other random suggestions (all fun; some free!) collected from my own visits, and I thought I'd share them with (both of) you. At the risk of sounding a little like Stefon, the New York City correspondent Bill Hader does on SNL's Weekend Update ("New York's hottest club is..."), here's my selection of bite-sized NYC hors d'oeuvres:

My clients were lucky enough to be staying at the Plaza (!!) an experience I can only dream of, so they were beautifully situated to take full advantage of the crown jewel of the city, Central Park. Like other major NYC attractions, the park is too big to bite off much at once, but I suggested they try to ramble through as many parts as they could.

The lovely Bow Bridge in Central Park

Next on the list is a recent contender in the green-oasis category, The High Line, a new park built on a decommissioned elevated freight railway that snakes up the west side of Manhattan for almost 23 blocks. Opened in 2009, the park has been constructed in sections. A citizens’ group saved the structure and secured it as a public park; in combination with the N.Y. Department of Parks and Recreation they are currently working on the third and final segment. A quick scan of the High Line web site and blog will give you some idea of the mind-boggling range of experiences and activities available, as well as the positive change that can happen when passionate citizens organize with a clear goal.

The High Line at dusk

The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met) is a must, of course, but any attempt to take it all in at one go does both this venerable venue and the visitor a disservice. My suggestion for first-timers is to take the excellent hour-long highlights tour, offered daily by keen and knowledgeable docents who will give you a digestible sampling of the Met’s many delights, saving you that horrible “I ate the whole thing” feeling. A bonus at the Met is that admission is basically pay-what-you-can; they have a “recommended entry fee” of $25 for adults (kids under 12 are free), but if you can tolerate the evil eye of the cashier, you can pay whatever your budget allows.

New York City has many world famous museums, but it’s also stuffed with smaller, quirkier versions. A favourite of mine is the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side, an area itself worth a wander, especially streets such as Orchard, lined with quirky milliners' and haberdashers' shops. There’s a lovely cafe, 88 Orchard, on the corner of Orchard and Broome.

Another is the medieval Cloisters Museum, also part of the Met; though it’s quite a hike to the north, it’s worth it, and the views over the Hudson from the terrace are spectacular.

It can take some trial-and-error getting used to, but in my opinion the transit system itself (the Metropolitan Transportation Authority [MTA]) is one of the must-see’s of the city. If you stay above ground in cabs and on the sidewalks, you haven’t really “done” New York! Many of the stations are decorated in gorgeous mosaics, there’s always some kind of performance going on underground, and the size and complexity of the whole thing are boggling. And contrary to their general reputation, I’ve found New Yorkers to be extremely helpful and tolerant of hopelessly lost tourists, often approaching to offer assistance as I’m standing on the platform trying to make sense of my transit map.

"Shad Crossing," by mosaic artist Ming Fay, part of the Delancey St. station.

Despite its sometimes overwhelming size, New York is really like a Met museum of distinctive neighbourhoods. To avoid overwhelming yourself, pick a few and explore. Perennial favourites such as Greenwich Village, Soho, and Chelsea rarely disappoint. Jump on the subway downtown, get out at Houston or Christopher St. and just wander. Stop by the famous Magnolia Bakery at Bleecker and 11th and pick up something nummy to scarf down in the shady park across the street.

There are also a few cool "restaurant row" kind of streets a little further south; e.g., Thompson St., south of Washington Square, where you'll find cute little Porto Bello Restaurant, among others. I ventured to Porto Bello on my own one evening and was waited on hand and foot by a team of charming Italian waiters—does it get any better?

First-timers will want to check out the iconic Times Square, for sure, but don't get stuck eating in the heavily touristy area that surrounds it; mediocre, chain-restaurant food and high prices are all you’ll find. Nearby there are lots of excellent and competitive independent restaurants, all along the inappropriately named Hell's Kitchen section of 9th Avenue, from about 50th or 52nd down to 42nd or so. Many NYC places allow you to book ahead using OpenTable, which is a handy service if you're short on time. Two Hell's Kitchen favourites of mine are Pietrasanta, on the corner of 9th and 47th, and Fragolino, between 45th and 46th. (As you can tell, I'm a fan of la cucina Italiana—or maybe it's those waiters again!)

Nearby (W. 46th) there's a fun cabaret bar—very Manhattan-slash-struggling-performer—called Don't Tell Mama. A good after-theatre drinks option, if you're up for that.

There's certainly no shortage of storied, over-the-top experiences available in the Big Apple, but if you’re looking for O.T.T., special-occasion kitsch, and have saved up some cash for a blow-out meal, I recommend the Russian Tea Room. Weekday lunches are usually not busy, the place is slathered in gold leaf and red vinyl, and they have a flight of vodkas that will prep you for viewing the bizarre giant glass bear aquarium and "Fabergé egg" trees in the mirrored dining room upstairs, if you can talk them into showing it to you.

Want a break from Manhattan? If you have time, I highly recommend hopping across the East River and exploring Brooklyn. The Park Slope area to the west of Prospect Park (another gorgeous Calvert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmsted effort by the architects of Central Park—I rode the 100-year-old Carousel there last year!) offers street after street of gorgeous brownstones with a lively commercial stretch along 5th Ave. for dining and shopping. Nearby are some worthy cultural institutions, including the sleek art deco Brooklyn Library, the breathtaking Brooklyn Botanic Garden (a favourite of borough brides), and the excellent Brooklyn Museum (which also operates on a “suggested contribution” entry system).

 The enchanting Bluebell Wood at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
Photo by Rebecca Bullene.

But my heart belongs to the historic Brooklyn Heights neighbourhood. A north-to-south amble along these streets clustered in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, or even better, down the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, lands you on gorgeous Remsen St. or lively Montague. Stop by Connecticut Muffin on Montague for a rejuvenating snack.

The Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Sure, there's an amazing view of lower Manhattan to the west, but I prefer peeking into the historic townhouses on the east!

Finally, here’s a list of some more free NYC activities:

• Exploring Central Park and Prospect Park
• Watching the street performers/acrobats at the southeastern corner of Central Park, in Times Square, and in the park near City Hall
• Strolling across the Brooklyn Bridge
• Taking the Staten Island Ferry out past the Statue of Liberty (just turn around on arrival at the far end and get right back on).
• Visiting the exuberant Flatiron Building and the nearby Eataly market/store by Mario Batali

I also enjoy exploring the grand and boutique hotels and their opulently decorated—and suitably hushed—bars, especially the oldest grande-dame ones near Central Park, such as the Carlyle, home of the famous murals in the Café Carlyle and Bemelman’s, or the St. Regis, which features Maxfield Parrish’s version of Old King Cole in the bar of the same name. I may not be able to book, but I can look!

 The Café Carlyle, stomping ground of Woody Allen and the late, great Bobby Short, with murals by artist Marcel Vertés.

Ah, New York. Whether I devour you, core and all, or sample you in dainty bites, you’re always a remarkably tasty snack.

Men, what I'm about to tell you is Top Secret, and I'll be kicked out of the International Woman's Collective if they ever find out, so let's keep this strictly confidential.

Here's the thing. It's that time of year again, and I've just been asked for my List.

But it's a rock-and-a-hard-place situation for women when it comes to gift lists. Men ask us for them, but they miss the point. It's basically one of those "if you have to ask..." kinda things. You guys already know that despite all the years of evidence to the contrary, most of us do, to some extent at least, expect you to exercise a modicum of "mind-reading ability," as you call it. And here's the season when those expectations can most often come to grief.

With the goal of helping you to navigate this particular relationship minefield, I'm revealing the following.

When we make lists, when you ask us for them, and when (or if) we give them to you, they probably don't include the things we'd REALLY like. Those items won't appear on any list. (And please know that this is not entirely just to be oblique and mysterious; it's partly because many of us are still saddled with that whole "everybody else's needs come before mine" crap.) The Official List items are likely to skew way more toward the "needs" category vs. the "wants." Things that would make life a little easier; things that would upgrade something we already have; things for the house.

What I'm trying to say is, and I know this is Unfair, but The Official List is not really going to help you if your goal is to wow us, and it certainly won't help if you want to surprise slash delight us. For starters, here's a helpful hint: unless specifically requested, gift cards fall under the Complete Cop-Out category, and chocolate, jewellery, and skimpy lingerie (which is really for you, not us), though lovely, generally doesn't cut it either. As well, store or on-line gift guides are themselves well-nigh useless, I hope you realize, unless you spot an item that twigs you to something your Significant Other has already mentioned.

Sorry, Dudes, but the only way to achieve wow and delight is to listen carefully. Because it's not really mind-reading that's required; it's just paying attention.

We've already told you the content of our secret wish lists, I can almost guarantee it. But those items won't appear on the lists we've given you. They are the relationship Easter eggs that are yours for the finding, if you've listened enough to know where to look. And as those who've learned this secret know, they are well worth the search.

I know! I told you it was Unfair! This could even fall under the "Game-Playing" heading in the Book of Why Women Don't Make Sense, that catechism I know you love to recite to each other.

But I guess I'm tired of following these stoopid commandments and wish we could just get past all the rigmarole. To that end, I'm risking excommunication to leak this one small key to the kingdom, so listen up. Think back. What did she ooh and ahh over at the mall but you know would never get for herself? What did she admire when you were over at your friends' place that time? What item in that new catalogue did she point out to you for "someday"? Oh, and if you do manage to capture some of these ephemeral moments, fergodssake, write them down somewhere you can find them.

If it's too late or you simply weren't listening, you might have to resort to outside help, but this can still be worthwhile. Talk to her friends. If you humbly confess your sins of not paying attention, they might take pity on you, absolve you, and give you the scoop on a Real List item. Or at least on what you should be listening for.

And here's helpful hint number two: for many—or maybe even most—of us, gifts of time outstrip gifts of stuff by far. We'd love more time with you, more time for ourselves, some time away, more time to sleep, to read, to linger over coffee with our friends. So offer to take over one of our chores; make arrangements to take us to a concert or run off with us for a dirty weekend; sign us up for a couples cooking class or a wine-tasting event; give us a homemade "gift card" for a regular night off to do whatever we want.

Gifts like these are tough to wrap, and take some imagination and commitment—and don't get me wrong, we also love getting stuff (especially toys!)—but anything you can do along these lines will be appreciated more than we can express. Two words. Win–win.

Of course, the whole Christmas gift-giving thing's a clever stratagem that not even Womankind can be blamed for. We know we shouldn't be so focussed on all the stuff and the buying and the list-making and the Secret-Santa-ing in the first place. But let's get real. Most of us aren't quite ready to move to the ashram. For here and now, in this list-crazy world, I hope this helps.

Happy Holidays, and good luck out there.

Joni Mitchell Got It Right

The Butterfly Nebula

Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team

We are stardust / We are golden / We are billion year old carbon

There are certain arcane corners of the human pursuit of knowledge—archeology, philosophy, and particle physics come to mind—that strike me as almost perverse. Most of what their acolytes study is, and will forever remain, in human-race terms anyway, untestable and unknowable.

I applaud these advocates of pure speculation, who must be driven by something like curiosity for curiosity’s sake. I can relate to an unquenchable curiosity for understanding how and why things are as they are, but I don’t think I could wrap my head around the certainty that my best and most solid theories are beyond proof, either due to time (prehistory), distance (the cosmos), or the limits of my own intelligence and instruments (theoretical physics).

But I guess all of scientific inquiry could be said to fit this definition. Anti-science types like to mock studies of climate change or evolution, for example, as “only theories.” They don’t understand that science is about testing, not about proving. Everything called a theory has actually been thoroughly and repeatedly tested—back when it was only a wee young hypothesis. It’s only after exhaustive examination and nitpicking that a hypothesis graduates to theoretical status. And I have no idea, Schoolhouse Rock notwithstanding, how a theory becomes a law.

I find myself mulling all this over as I proof a textbook on astronomy. Understand that physics is emphatically not my strong point, so I’m struggling with all the ionized particles and fusion reactions. But I’m also struck by the author’s clear spiritual, philosophical bent, which does get my attention. “Astronomy is about you,” he says.

I admit I’ve never shared this view, but wait a minute. I DO believe that we’re all fundamentally connected, and astrophysics proposes that this is true for reasons that are well beyond my grasp. But basically the theory says that all atoms get endlessly recycled, so there are bits and pieces of us that were once part of the core of an anonymous red-giant star ten billion years ago. And when our own star, the Sun, finally snuffs out, that’s not the end of us either, atomically speaking, anyway.

There are apparently a couple of likely endings to the Sun’s story, but the Carl Sagans of the world would argue that they’re not really endings at all. If the Sun cools slowly as a white dwarf, it’s likely to expel large amounts of its mass in the form of hot stellar winds that would certainly engulf and incinerate the closest planets, including ours. The resulting conflagration would recombine our atoms with those of the Sun.

Or for a more spectacular version of Earth’s closing ceremonies, as a dying white dwarf, the Sun might still be able to generate enough heat to expel gases that get lit up to form a beautiful gaseous shroud called a planetary nebula. And I’m told it is from such turbulent, element-rich, yet seemingly insubstantial stuff that new suns, planets, and solar systems are born.

The Helix Nebula
credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/ESA
Check out more.

Now I’m big on recycling, so this is great news. Even better than being fertilizer for a newly planted tree, which is my current post-viability plan. But there’s another perk to this Theory of Ultimate Connectedness, and this one’s aesthetic.

There’s some evidence that a white dwarf star could develop a solid core of pure carbon. And we all know what happens when Superman picks up a chunk of carbon and subjects it to Kryptonian pressure and temperature—it becomes a diamond. So if our own white dwarf sun were to be subject to those same forces, it could crystallize, floating forever as a glittering monument to us all.

Even if that doesn’t happen, just take a minute to marvel at these actual planetary nebulae, some of the most exquisitely knock-your-socks-off sights in the universe. That could be us! You and me and Uncle Irving! Better than a tombstone, better than a pyramid, better even than a diamond.

And that’s a theory I can get behind.

Finding Wisdom

Have any of you seen Woody Allen’s latest movie, Midnight in Paris? Owen Wilson’s character encounters all his heroes in the bars and salons of 1920s Paris, and drinks in their personalities, philosophies, and advice first hand.

I recently had my own Midnight in Paris moment when I happened upon a photography exhibit in the Galleria at BCE Place (or Brookfield Place, or Hamburglar Place, or whatever the heck they’re calling it these days). The project is called Wisdom, and is a combination of a book, an exhibit of portraits, a film, and a web site (http://www.wisdombook.org/) by photographer and filmmaker Andrew Zuckerman that features the images and words of a selection of the world’s elders. Unfortunately, due to my usual propensity for arriving on the scene at the Very Last Minute, the exhibit had actually wrapped up the day before, and was in the process of being disassembled. Along with the book, only twenty or so famous faces were still on display, while their confrères, sandwiched together on nearby dollies, waited patiently, staring out of their heavy travel frames next to a bored young security guard.

As Zuckerman says, these are the elders of the global village, and he was struck with the idea that he should record the “gift” of their thoughts, advice, and yes, wisdom, for the next generation. With the help of Desmond Tutu, who wrote letters to 200 prospective participants worldwide, Zuckerman tracked down the 70 or so who agreed to sit for him (I believe 50 of those are part of the exhibit). Membership in this club was restricted to over-65s. The late Edward Kennedy is here, as is Jane Goodall, Nelson Mandela (natch), and Billy Connolly. I will confess that there are many I don’t know, which taught me my first lesson: that I am ignorant of many of these great thinkers and doers.

Each large portrait was shot against a featureless white background, which Zuckerman says “democratizes the environment,” and therefore, his subjects. The faces are full of crags, droops, and character, of course. Andrew Wyeth looks like someone left him sitting out on a too-hot day. Kissinger’s eyes are so hooded he seems to be struggling to stay awake. But there are some notable exceptions. They may have wrinkles and white hair, and again, this may say more about my recent shift in, ahem, priorities, than about senior hunks, but a fair number of these guys have still got it goin’ on, as the kids say—at least in my eyes.

There’s Redford, of course. (Sigh. It’s always been you, Bob, since I was 14.) But man, check out the shots of Clint Eastwood, or Kristofferson, or wow, Graham Nash! Am I crazy, or are these guys hot? I think it’s their intensity. And obvious intelligence. And possibly, good hair. It seems the artists of various stripes fare the best as they navigate the “third act,” as Sir Michael Parkinson calls it. (He’s one I had to look up. He’s a British journalist and broadcaster, played himself interviewing Bill Nighy’s character in Love, Actually, which I own, and is apparently not too enamored of the current state of British TV, saying: “In my television paradise there would be no more property programmes, no more police-chasing-yobbos-in-cars programmes and, most of all and please God, no more so-called documentary shows with titles like My 20-Ton Tumour, My Big Fat Head, Wolf Girl, Embarrassing Illnesses, and The Fastest Man on No Legs.” I’d say amen to that, but then what would I watch?)

Each of these artists, musicians, and leaders of men in the exhibit is accompanied by a quote, a transcribed sound bite from the interviews Zuckerman conducted as part of the sessions. He asked everyone questions that touched on the same set of themes: love, work, the environment, conflict resolution, and of course, wisdom. I’m with Dame Judi Dench, who noted that she has “gotten sillier” as she’s aged, and therefore hasn’t the foggiest when it comes to sharing any pearls of wisdom.

The young security guard probably won’t pay much attention to the sage words of these cultural icons. The young always know better. But maybe a few of his elders’ whispered ruminations will sneak past those ear buds, such as, “Take risks,” “You can’t get to wonderful without passing through all right,” “Inspiration is for amateurs,” and “Your best work is your expression of yourself...when you do it, you’re the only expert in it.”

So I don’t know about the security guard, or the tourists streaming through the space-formerly-known-as BCE Place, or even you, but these are things I need to hear right now, the advice I need to take. Thank you Andrew Zuckerman, and thank you, elders.

Riding the Peak

Photo: Jon Rieley-Goddard

Those of you who know me, or who share my Outer-Hebridean genes, will know that summer is not even my third-favourite season. In fact, with the exception of certain magical, balmy evenings, usually spent on a twinkly bistro terrace, I pretty much hide under a cool rock till September.

But this year—and maybe it’s just my own advancing years—I’m feeling the need to stop and appreciate summer. Now. Right now.

Because right now is that moment that comes each year, when it’s been hot enough for long enough that it starts to feel dangerous. When our guilt for cranking up the a/c rises along with the temperature. Summer is peaking.

It feels as though we’ve all been captured by one of those theme-park cameras at the apex of the ‘coaster’s highest drop, lifted out of our seats for a breathless instant, poised between “getting here” and “it’s over.” Everything is still. The world stops. However exhilarating the climb and breathtaking the view, it’s a short ride, and it's all downhill from here.

And it really is. Although the true mid-point of the year was a month ago, nobody really paid attention. We weren’t far enough into the summer then; there hadn’t been enough long, hot days to register that the shorter, darker ones were already beginning.

But now that’s about to change. Toronto marks the passage of summer through its festivals, which jam every weekend. The blow-out formerly known as Caribana is next up, and we all know what’s right after that—The Ex.

I haven’t heard any commercials for the CNE yet, and I’m glad. The opening day of the CNE tolls the death-knell for every Toronto summer. On that day, we catch our first glimpse of what’s lurking ahead in the shadows just beyond closing day, what is now inevitable: the aptly named Labour Day, a.k.a., the death of hope, late-evening sunsets, beachwear, and white shoes and belts. When we will all have to exhale, leave our summer bubbles, and get back to the grind. Dark days await us. We’ll need to focus on bringing in the harvest, laying in provisions, checking the weatherstripping for gaps.

But not quite yet. Not today. Today we’re setting records. Today we’re still poised at the peak of the year, at the top of the first drop of this season’s Flyer, and I’m all too aware of the trough just ahead. So I’m taking a breath, feeling the film of moisture on my skin, listening to the buzz-saw cicadas, watching the cats stay very, very still.

I hate summer. But not this year.

The Big Leagues!

David McNew/Getty Images

Check out my article in today's National Post about the upcoming Toronto Humane Society AGM. ("National Post Staff"!!!)

(It's also on the Posted Toronto page, with a different header and the above cute-dog photo.)

AND Megan O'Toole reported on tomorrow's meeting in the same paper. It's enough to make even a hockey-hater use a term like "hat-trick."

I feel so....legit!!

Hot Docs Thoughts

There are at least four of drafts of posts like this one waiting in the wings, in various stages of gestation, tongue-tied, impatiently waiting to see the light. It’s a problem.

But I just got back from my fourth documentary of this year’s Hot Docs festival, and I am finally moved to get this stalled labour restarted, to bear down and push something out. Yesterday I was speaking with my dear, neglected friend Susan, and whining as usual about my struggle to follow through with my writing projects. I then mentioned I had a full dance card of delightful Hot Docs screenings again this year, and she said that was great, but that it’s also an effective distraction from the writing I should really be doing. I admitted she was right, then added jokingly, “Unless I write about it!”

Well, joke’s on me, ‘cause here we are.

For me, Hot Docs is less a film festival than a religious one. It’s in my home town, thank god, so it doesn’t require an actual pilgrimage, but I certainly attend as a pilgrim. I sometimes see the films with friends, but I’m very happy to go alone; in fact, I really prefer it. I find that I am overly influenced by my friends’ reactions, wanting them to like and dislike the same moments, the same subjects, checking that they’re laughing or crying along with me.

Apparently I am not alone in finding these eleven days each spring to be a spiritual experience; in contrast to the audiences at most theatrical events these days, my fellow pilgrims and I generally behave as devout churchgoers: there’s little talking, loud candy-unwrapping, kicking, fidgeting, or social-media-ing. There are few children. There is respect for the films and filmmakers. A Hot Docs audience is probably the best audience in town.

I rush home from almost every “service” inspired and awash in the Great Doc Spirit, eager to perform additional devotions (web site follow-up, wiki-research, listening in to e-debates), desperate to download the latest news on each incredible story. Was he/she ever found? Did he/she live? Was he/she really guilty? Was it saved or torn down? What does he/she do now, after what happened? Are they still fighting the good fight or did they move on?

And though they generally lack CGI, car chases, or explosions, I find the films utterly fascinating and compelling. I’m hooked not just because, as they say, you can’t write this stuff, but because their stories are ongoing. I can’t wait for the post-screening Q & A’s to learn all the latest, often from the subjects themselves. What a privilege to encounter some of these fascinating characters! It’s probably the best part of the whole thing. (It can occasionally also be the most embarrassing part. I keenly remember laughing heartily at some of the born-again nonsense spouted by the protagonists of The Cross and Bones, only to find once the lights had come up that they were seated just a few rows behind me.)

I believe most of us approach art forms, especially stories, seeking ourselves, hoping to understand and to relate to the people on the page or screen. We’re looking for answers to basic questions: Who am I? What is my community? Who are “my people” and what do we believe? How would I respond to this situation? What would I fight for? What would I sacrifice? I want to understand these things, and many more.

Here’s what I’ve learned from the Hot Docs of the last several years:

• Never write someone off (such as the subject of Stroke, or the base jumper who had that horrific accident).

• Crazy can’t always be fixed, but in coping with it, you’re rarely alone (My Mother’s Garden, Cat Ladies).

• Amazing, compelling stories are everywhere (Into Eternity, Marwencol, Thunder Soul).

• Over the long term, it’s very difficult to suppress who you really are (just ask Anne Perry [“secrets are corrosive”], or the two stars of Regretters). Doc subjects have often created elaborate fictions, but their true natures are ultimately revealed, either through the sheer persistence and/or luck of the filmmakers, or the sheer force of their authentic selves.

• People’s stories can help you heal, and learn compassion and tolerance (Song Sung Blue, My Mother’s Garden, 65 Red Roses, Becoming Chaz).

For example, Sunday’s film, Battle For Brooklyn, offered a David v. Goliath how-to. A little guy took on a giant developer when he learned they planned to raze his entire Brooklyn ‘hood to put up a massive development anchored by a stadium for the woeful New Jersey Nets. It’s an amazing, important film, but as usual, what I took away from it was the personally resonant, big-picture stuff.

Afterwards, someone asked the subject of the film, Daniel Goldstein, how he had managed to hang in for the seven or so years it took to resolve all the civil and legal battles, and whether this meant he was a “masochist.” This got a laugh, but he pointed out that in fact, he enjoyed the process of forming and leading a community group, and felt closer to his neighbours and his neighbourhood as a result. That night I found the following response, I think from Daniel’s dad, among the post-premiere comments on the film:

What I learned from my son Daniel is about leadership and having the courage of your conviction, persistence, dedication, fairness, standing up against all odds no matter what, when you are doing what is right and just and reasonable, and having the willingness to take personal risks for the common good.

And that’s what I took home that day, and what compelled me to finally write about Hot Docs. It struck me that Daniel’s experience, like that of many of the people in the documentaries and in my own life, demonstrates how hard it is to care about something. That something might be an issue, or a neighbourhood, or a heritage building, or a living being, animal or otherwise (don’t get me started on trees).

Which brings me to the trouble with caring. But that’s a topic for another day.