“I’m going to Toronto tomorrow” – I said to my husband as we were tucking ourselves into bed on Christmas night.
He was quite surprised, as I knew he would be.
“Because I want to see an exhibition.”
“What?” – he said again – “what do you mean?” He was getting lost by the word.
“An exhibition. Of shoes.”
“Why?” Now, you’d think he’s stupid. He’s not, generally. Some things, he just doesn’t get.
“They’re Manolo shoes. It’s quite an occasion to see many of them together. I expect it’s a nice exhibition. Special one. I like the Bata Shoe Museum, they put on good shows.”
“And how long will you spend there?”
“At the museum? I don’t know… about half an hour… an hour? It can’t be a big exhibit, the museum itself is quite small.”
“So you’re gonna drive five hours to Toronto and five hours back just to see an exhibition for half an hour?” He was incredulous. Yep, totally lost. I sighed.
“Yes, dear. Some things are worth the drive. Plus, we’re spending the night, so I’m not driving ten hours the same day.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Now, doubt crept in.
“Our first born is coming with me. Mother-daughter bonding time. And Boxing day shopping. Since you never take me and you also question my taste. Come to think of it, too bad there’s not another guy available for the trip. Never mind. We’ll have fun.”
I could almost hear the disagreement in his head. What I did hear was
“Why would you drive ten hours for an exhibition?…”
I switched off my bedside lamp and tried to think of niceties. Oh, why on earth did I marry …. no no, niceties. Tomorrow will be nice.
It was, actually.
Just a few photos of the event. Aren’t they just jewels? Perfectly displayed. Tiffany-like. A feast to the eyes. A splash of colour in a tired world. Joy. Joy. Joy.
We strolled on Bloor street afterwards, my daughter and I. Popped inside Holt Renfrew. “I just loooove department stores…” she said. It sounded dreamy. Just like floating carts. And three thousand dollar suits. And Gucci tattooed ladies.
Then, off to the Eaton center. We bought a yellow jacket for her and two cardigans for me (mine were for truly ridiculous prices and I kinda needed them, no kidding). So, happy.
Place was totally packed. Joy? But the place sure looked sparkly.
Famished, we crashed at Cactus Club Cafe on Adelaide. Truffle oil fries. Cocktails. Four mushroom steak. Salmon pasta. A treat to the end.
We did enjoy it, you know. Every bit of it. It stayed with me long after we arrived home. Plus que mon ventre, my soul was full. Sparkling, floating. And no, he didn’t even ask to see photos. Oh well, his loss.