Toronto

There is both too much and very little to say about the place where one grew up, especially when seeing it after more than three decades of separation. I am here in the company of my sister's children, who are now older than I was when I left Toronto for England, Europe, architecture and my own life (such as it is).

I feel that I am suffocating in this tightly-sealed, recycled-air, overheated house. Typing right now on an inflatable bed in the office, which was my bedroom three decades ago, with the window open and a cool breeze playing over my legs. Birds are singing outside as daylight fades — by the way, it is 8:30 p.m. on Saturday 3. May as I write, whatever date and time Blogger may see fit to impose on this post when I publish it — and planes are droning overhead on their way to the airport; other than that, it is quite close to silent here. I hadn't realized how noisy Stuttgart is, how oppressive I find the sound of traffic outside my windows (there).

Celebratory lunch for my father's 80th birthday in the new restaurant of the remodelled and reopened Royal Ontario Museum today, a happy and pleasant occasion. The bill for seven of us came to C$480 excluding tip but including the Members' 10% discount that my parents get. Was it worth every penny? Hard to say. The food was delicious, the wine was good, the service suitably fawning; but damn if it doesn't come hard to say that such a price can ever really be justified. If you happen to be in Toronto with a buttload of money, there are worse places to spend it.

That's enough for now, I am tired and unmotivated. I hope you are all well and happy, dear readers.