New York New York

"I've never been so glad to be home," I said to my daughter last night, back in my own quiet kitchen after the flight from NYC, back in serene Toronto.

"You say that every time," she replied. Maybe, but it's sure that I felt it more, this time. This time, New York seemed sour, angry, people swearing and shouting, the honking of horns, the surliness of bus drivers, the screaming of children - it knocked me over. I found the canyons of concrete soulless, even frightening, and when, on Saturday, I went to that heavenly park to recuperate, I found it jammed with people; just in one small section, a clown was joking at top volume and a saxophonist and two separate accordionists were playing for change. Noise noise noise.

I'm getting old.

No, there was tons of good stuff. Bruce and I spent a great deal of time in the line-ups at the half-price ticket booths, very worth the effort for half price seats to marvellous theatre. I saw four shows - clever, funny "La Bete," starring the supreme Mark Rylance whom I fell in love with in "Jerusalem" in London this spring; "In the Heights," a fantastically fresh, energetic musical about Latino life in north Manhattan; "Next to Normal," and who but the Americans could make a hit musical out of the suffering of a bi-polar woman and her family - and make it work; and "A Little Night Music," by the great Stephen Sondheim, which I hated. Enough said.

I gratefully stayed, as always, at Cousin Ted's at 77th and 3rd, had a brief visit with Ted and his partner Henry, who were leaving town for a family bar mitzvah; spent a lot of time with Cousin Lola, who at 88, after a bout with cancer, is as full of energy as ever, taking classes, seeing every show she can through a website that gets her tickets for $3.50; she had just been to the Village to see a production of "Hamlet"- in Japanese. I took her to "Normal," the bi-polar musical with very loud rock music, and she loved it. We had a great time together.

And with my dear friend Bruce, strolling in Central Park and along the High Line gardens built on an abandoned highway; he took me to the Met to show me his favourites, bought me some beautiful earrings as a birthday present, and we lunched in a new space in a sun-filled atrium, surrounded by masterpieces. And did I mention that the weather was perfect, sunny and warm?

A few things:

- "In the Heights" had a full audience of Latino kids, shouting approval, a lively open bunch, perhaps their first time in the theatre. Joyful. There is no energy in the world, I thought, like an American musical going full bore.

- I talked to one of the kids selling programs at the intermission, and when I thanked him, he said, "You got it! Have a good one!" Lots of people said "Have a good one!" Every time you enter a store, no matter how small, someone is there to say hello. Their eyes may be dead, but their mouths are smiling and greeting you. I thought about the stores in France, and laughed.

- How proud I was to see Canuck actor Stephen Ouimette in "La Bete" - one of the 3 stars. He was perfect. Have a good one, Stephen.

- An article in the NYT on new training for priests on how to deal with requests for exorcisms, which apparently are going through the roof.

- A few Lola quotes: "I hate stupid dialogue, like at the opera."

"The only interesting men are pains in the ass. The nice ones are boring. Warn your daughter."

At the Booth Theatre, she said, "I saw Helen Hayes at this theatre. Gertrude Lawrence. Did I tell you about the time I said hello to Martha Graham? Did I tell you about the time your dad was forced to take me to his high-school graduation, and Ethel Merman came to sing?"

And as we approached our seats, loudly, "Oh my God, I hope I'm not behind that GIANT!"

- I happened on the Museum of Radio and Television, which had an exhibit about John Lennon's youth in Liverpool and a Mayles brothers 80 minute documentary called "The Beatles in America," in which their cameras followed the boys on that first trip in 1964, even in their limos and hotel rooms while they sat around joking with each other, and through an extraordinary train ride from New York to Washington in which they were riding with everyone else and making their fellow passengers laugh the whole way.

- Central Park, when Bruce and I went during the week, was beyond beautiful - once again, I was aware of it as the sanity and soul of the city.

- an after theatre drink on Friday with Bruce, his friend Myriam who's a voice coach, and Bill Millerd, the artistic director of the Arts Club Theatre where I worked for many years in Vancouver. We met at 11 p.m. at a secret place on W. 46th, without a name, just a number, and inside, a little bar and club, where we talked about the theatre, and Americans, and the dicey future of the planet.

- A Canadian presence in the "New York Times" - an editorial about Omar Khadr, saying that his eight years in captivity is enough, and yesterday, an article on the front page about the tolerance for immigrants in Canada, particularly in Manitoba. I guess they weren't following Rob Ford's campaign too closely. "Shake Hands with the Devil," the film, opened a few days ago, and under the photo was the caption, "Roy Dupuis as Lt. General Romeo Dallaire, a Canadian."

- People were eating everywhere, eating and drinking large quantities from disposable containers. I noticed it more after my time in France. A woman on the morning subway downtown breakfasted on her briefcase, spreading her bagel with butter and drinking a large coffee.

- I was early for the theatre at one point so wandered into a store, ended up sitting in a massage chair with my feet in a massage machine, being ... massaged all over. It was wonderful.

- Consuming. Consuming. People will never give this up, I thought. There was a sale at Macy's, and I confess I went, clawing my way through the masses for the two things I wanted, warm wool tights and a pair of pants. The pants were reduced from $89 to $28. What can I say? I was judging everyone else, all this senseless buying, I scolded hypocritically, as I emerged with my trophies. I went to New York with a list of the three things I needed, and found exactly what I'd wanted at much less than I expected to pay. Every step you take, there's a shop winking at you. BUY! "Buy more and save more," shouted the sale signs. Body Shop had a special deal - you buy a cloth bag for $5 and then everything you can cram into it is 30% off. How much more do we need? How can we stop?

- Bruce and I talked a lot about the sour mood of America; the impossible demands on Obama and the rise of the fanatic right. "Americans are feeling diminished in the world - the end of empire," I said.

"Just like the Germans before the second war," he replied. "That's when fascism arises."

In the cab to La Guardia at dusk, I looked back at the skyline, beautiful, black silhouettes against a dark rosy sky. I was born in this city, most of my family is there, I love it. But it's impossible.

off again

Okay, crazy - it's a beautiful sunny Tuesday and in an hour I'm leaving for the airport, to fly to New York. Why? you ask. Well, why not? There is no logic to my life.

No, that's not true. My dear friend Bruce is in New York right now, and we've met there before - we have similar tastes in art and enjoy each other's company. "Come and play," he begged. I like to go once a year to visit Cousin Lola, who's now 88, and Cousin Ted and other cousins, not to mention the theatre and everything else NYC.

So I got a cheap fare on some flybynight airline and am off for a few days. Just trying to pack the minimum in a carry-on - for someone who took 100 pounds to Paris last year, you'd be amazed at how little I'm taking, all of it black, with lots of bright scarves so I don't look like an Italian grandma. No definite plans, except to see relatives and spend time walking around with Brucie. And the weather's supposed to be wonderful. Woo hoo!

My new tenant Susan will be keeping the hearth flame alight, feeding crabby cat who scratched her the other day, and taking in the stream of newspapers and magazines that flood in here daily. I hate to leave this lovely day to spend hours at Pearson being tested for explosives, but a few days hit of NYC is always a treat. So ... you'll be hearing from me, probably not from there, but once I'm back, with lots and lots of Noo Yawk stories.

good and cold

When I last wrote, the air was mild and the sun was bright, but those fine days are over. Fini, no more Mr. Nice Guy, that bitter bite is in the air and the sun is already much further away. Baby, it's cold out there.

My new tenant, Susan from Germany, arrived just in time to get hit with a big blast of Canada. Poor girl - I took her for a walk around the neighbourhood her first morning, and she nearly froze. Her first purchase was a pair of nice warm slippers. She's 25, doing cancer research at Princess Margaret and curious about everything. Her ordinary home south of Berlin has its water heated with solar panels - so we're a bit behind in some ways. But so far, she really likes Toronto. She hasn't seen a picture of Rob Ford yet.

We had a fantastic celebration for Patsy on Wednesday night with some of her oldest friends, two of whom flew in for the event. As I told them, she threw my 20th birthday party in 1970, so I threw her 65th in 2010. (Where does that expression come from, to "throw a party"? I imagine trying to explain it to Susan.) The guest list was a who's who of Canadian acting and directing talent, besides the guest of honour, once renowned as Mrs. Donnelly in James Reaney's The Donnellys, and Wayson Choy meeting everyone for the first time.

There was a mountain of food and much joyful reuniting and reminiscing; some hadn't seen each other for 30 years. Her East Coast friends brought produce from their farm in Nova Scotia; I have two fat garlic bulbs I can't wait to squash, and the birthday girl got a big jar of honey.

On Friday, Patsy and I, critical former actresses, went to see The List, a one-woman show by a Quebecoise writer. It has received very good reviews, and I was interested simply because it's about a woman who makes compulsive lists, and I am a woman who makes compulsive lists. Well - the two former actresses were mighty disappointed. It's a heartfelt but flawed play clumsily, no, badly directed, as far as we were concerned. It closes tonight so I don't have to write SPOILER ALERT: translated from French, it's about a snobbish woman, called The Woman, who moves her family to a rural community and disparages the locals. Despite that, Caroline, a local woman with many children, befriends her. When Caroline becomes pregnant once more, she asks her wealthier friend for the phone number of her doctor, because Caroline's own is incompetent. The woman puts "Find doctor's phone number" on her list, transfers it from list to list for many months and keeps forgetting. Finally, Caroline has her baby with her own doctor and dies as a result.

The Woman is portrayed as someone who is obsessively neat; her kitchen is a caricature of pristine white tidiness. Yet the plot hinges on the notion that she has absolutely no idea where to find the phone number of her doctor. Absurd. And once again, as so often in North America, the actor was directed to convey every emotion at top volume. With many British actors, less is more, and much less is much more; they draw us in with subtle intensity, with stillness and quiet ferocity. Instead, here, actors are directed to shriek and bellow and pretend to cry.

MEOW, as a friend would say. Well, I'm an opinionated bossyboots. When have I ever not called it like I see it?

And right now, I'm calling it winter.

Hallowe'en delight

My close relative, Sarah Palin, with her tiny shotgun and her best friend Raggedy Anne (?)

a friend's visit

My friend Patsy is here, visiting from Gabriola Island. She and I have had the same trajectory in life, from actress to writer, teacher and editor, only she on a remote B.C. island and I in downtown Toronto. We met in Halifax in 1970; Patsy threw me my 20th birthday party that summer, and we have never lost contact since. We talk endlessly not only about our lives, but about the word business.

On Sunday we shared a few special treats, besides our pleasure in each other's company. A friend had given me two tickets to the Toronto Art Fair, so we went to spend a few hours at this unbelievable show, bursting with the talent of visual artists from around the world. I was able to see the work through Patsy's eyes as well as my own, discovering, for example, that she likes blurry canvases, and I do not. Perhaps that has more to do with our eyeballs than our aesthetic sensibilities. (A conversation overheard as we walked past, between an older man with a distinguished grey ponytail and a younger man all in black with pointy shoes, the young man drawling, "Well, I was going for a more ... contemporary aesthetic." Meaning, was my guess, I was trying to be really, really hip.)

Later, we huddled in the house avoiding the Hallowe'en hoards. As I've written before, Cabbagetown is Hallowe'en Central - the man on the corner had a thousand little chocolate bars and ran out. I feel that after 20 years of shovelling out goodies, I've done my bit, and now I go out or hide until it's over. It was great to take Patsy for a walk around, though, on the perfect crisp, clear night - swarms, hundreds of children, many with parents in saris or headscarves, chattering in Mandarin or Urdu, princesses, ballerinas, vampires, and monsters flooding the streets, and my neighbours, some of them in costume themselves, standing at doors lit by pumpkin flame, handing out the goods. I wondered what a Martian would say if he landed on Carlton Street and saw the scene, hundreds of tiny people in makeup and strange clothes, going door to door for sugar.

Then down the street to Jean-Marc and Richard's annual Hallowe'en bash, with JM's homemade pizzas, and as usual, handsome Chuck is some sort of military garb - last year, a sailor all in w hite, this year, an army outfit with a jaunty cap that belonged to his grandfather. The fire was burning and it was warm, welcoming crowd for the visitor from Gabriola.

It's cold here, now; the reality of the season is settling in, though my God, we've had a long run of mild weather, all of October really. The furnace is bustling regularly for the first time, and the impatiens in the boxes outside are finally melting from the frost. Time to get out the mittens. Ah - I hear footsteps. My friend is coming downstairs, and the talking will begin ... now.