The most frequent question that I'm asked from overseas is: "so tell me, what is your typical day like?" Wide question, no doubt about it. Well, my typical day starts at about 9.30 am, when my housemates go to school and I get up for breakfast, doing the slalom on the wooden planks of the floor and managing to ride roughshod over the creakiest ones, to the delight of MM. Then it's time for the daily session of psychoanalysis of the blinds. Yes because the American-style blinds are a sort of curtains that you pull to shut and pull again to open, but mine are not very eager to open. So they almost reach the floor before I convince them that their fate in this world is also to open, during the day. One of them took its mission so seriously that now all of a sudden it rewinds itself at night, of its own free will. Sigh.
After this effort, I make a beautiful Italo-Canadian breakfast: toasted bread with a considerable amount of Nutella, toasted bread with a thin abundant layer of jam, and Oreos. Then I leave and I venture to the city, according to the commitments I have. Commitments that will inevitably include the use of public transport, given the size of Toronto. The bus stops are at practically every intersection of major roads, and you don't need to hitchhike because the always angry drivers are skilled psychologists: they know by themselves if you are waiting for the bus or for the light to turn green. And you don't even need to request the stop at the subway, because everybody already knows that half of the passengers will get off. At first I didn't understand why the streetcar recommended to "make sure that the traffic is stopped before you get off", since the stops were on the curbs... Then I took the streetcar on the southern streets and I understood. Because they stop in the middle of the road and we must hope for the cars to be VERY careful and respectful of the rules of the road, or you may end up splattered like a cat on the highway. Given that in Canada they frequently commit suicide, it happens that sometimes the subway is closed down to retrieve the body of the unfortunate one... and so we run to take the shuttle bus, which at rush hour takes us commuters to the nearest station announcing "there you go Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for flying with us." Haha so funny. Among many things, buses lower to help those who have strollers or those who have difficulties walking, instead bicycles can be loaded on the rack in front of the bus... and how will the driver make sure they are well secured?! Well, maybe he will realize it as soon as he leaves again.
If I need to shop I go to the big Mall, in particular the Wal-Mart is the best stocked and cheapest supermarket and instead at the drugstore you can buy medicines. Here in particular there are entire shelves of over-the-counter medicines (including Fisherman's Friend, which in Italy are candies and here are cough drops...), the counter for the prescriptions at which doctors create the amber bottles that you often see in the movies and then... the post office. Yes, in the drugstore. Then there are a lot of food shops too in the Mall: you can have something at the various Starbucks and McDonald's but also in the traditional Italian eateries... like the Sbarro chain. Now, seriously. I won't make easy jokes but I'm sure my Italian friends and especially the Venetians will understand my concerns. How can you call a typical Italian restaurant Sbarro, especially given the North American pronunciation?! And just for English speakers' benefit, I will explain that sborro in Italian is a vulgar word for "sperm"...
The premises must be licensed to sell alcohol nor there are any alcoholic beverages in stores nor you can drink alcohol on the streets under penalty of arrest. This explains the lack of Venetian immigrants in Canada. Yes because you can not smoke inside the premises, even outdoors, so beer and cigarette... not allowed, must choose one or the other. And as in all situations of Prohibition I find out that alcohol and soft drugs are the two main plagues of Canada. The prohibition of alcohol has its advantages, however, for me since I don't drink: the desserts are absolutely non-alcoholic (no rum, no holly, no nothing!), I can order any kind of milkshake or other colorful cocktail without asking the Hamlet-like question whether it is alcoholic or not.
Upon leaving the premises everybody disinfects their hands at the Amuchina gel-like dispensers which are now everywhere and then return home. Once a week I do the cleaning, which in the language of MM is to use all the Swiffer products in rotation, and every day I have to empty the trash, carefully recycling: I can throw pads in the green bin but not their plastic bags; the cotton swabs, hair and make-up removers MUST not go in the green bin; plastic bottles should be washed thoroughly before being thrown into the blue plastic recycling bin. The police regularly searches the bins and steeply fines those who break the rules. In fact the bins are personal and are placed at the curb once a week when the truck comes to withdraw.
Then I help set the table for dinner which often includes "Italian" pasta dishes with Alfredo sauce: mushrooms, peppers, sausage, beans, tomato; Bolognese meat sauce with tomato, sausage, beans, peppers, paprika and mushrooms. MM takes her "Italian" recipes from the "Italian" cook that has a program of his own on TV. His name is Mario, he wears a crucifix on his hairy chest, his shirt open, his hair in a ponytail and a ham on his shoulder... and if he says that that is the real Bolognese sauce!
After dinner, once the dishes are washed, we retreat into our rooms, while outside you hear the music of the ice cream truck that goes away and the next day you wake up at 7 with trucks that are beginning to work on the road at improbable hours. Then I can start again, with my typical day.
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