December 25, 2004

It’s the winter solstice — get on a bus and go see your love in Toronto. Surprise her by making her wait four hours at the bus terminal (“I slept in,” say), and then charm her with your working-class moustache. “I have a surprise for you too,” she says.

“Orgies? Sacrifices? Dark rituals?” you ask.

She won’t tell you, but she talks about bonfires and excitement as she grabs your hand and takes you through her city. She’s be full of mystery and smiles. “I know you want a solstice celebration,” she says.

And then things become strange: clowns run through Chinatown at sunset; giant wooden puppets bob at street corners; and drums echo meaningfully in the darkness. Kensington Market is transformed into a meeting place for monsters.

Hold her hand in the middle of the swirling crowd, smiling wildly — everything seems unreal. Watch people on stilts blowing flames. “Welcome to the Festival of Lights,” she says.

And then you flow with the crowd down Augusta street, smiling, humming, kissing her lips. “People are wonderful,” you say.

In the park, the crowd gathers in a circle — bodies pressed against bodies. Someone hums strange notes on the megaphone and puppets dance inside the circle. Monsters and children are everywhere.

Suddenly, flames leap into the sky reaching the frozen tops of trees, and everyone goes mad and starts humping (“Not everyone was humping,” she will say later, “only you”). The sound of drums is intoxicating.

Leave the park an hour later, feeling wonderfully dirty after rubbing yourself against dozens of strangers. You’ll have ashes in your hair and smiles on your lips — that’s what you get for humping near giant flames.