The condos preen like a protective ring of superheroes around the majestic
CN Tower, the tallest freestanding structure in the world in Toronto. At
their feet squats the SkyDome (I know, I know - it's the Rogers Centre. But
until Roger starts paying me to advertise for him, I'm sticking with
SkyDome.)

Nearby is the raw power of Bay Street. Skyscrappers leap off the cold,
dark pavement, disappearing into clouds. Blocking out the sun, they create a perpetual twilight in the canyons below, where a man in a
thousand-dollar-suit tiptoes through three inches of slush to buff the front
of his BMW with a small cloth.

He's not wearing a coat. Rich people in Toronto don't wear coats. Are
they immune from the cold? Do they line their shirts with hot investment
tips?

An East Coaster wandering at the feet of the Bay Street giants, amid the
power suits, power walks and power cars, has to grudgingly admit that T.O.
is indeed the centre of the universe. The thing Torontonians tend to forget
is that there are other planets in the universe of Canada.

Neck aching, I give up on the heights of Ontario's capital and head
lower to Kensington Market. Even in the dead of winter, it's a bustling
place where you can buy everything you want, if what you want is a pink wig
or a tomato. Pretty two-storey houses as skinny as Posh Spice squeeze in to
create a more human scale of life, and few cars intrude on the walking
tranquility.

Strolling around Toronto is a handy way to backpack on the cheap. Little
Italy is a little dead in January, Greektown was too far out, and
Cabbagetown disturbed me. I had visions of my favourite childhood doll
(don't laugh), all grown up and living in the Big Smoke giant Cabbage
Patch Men and Cabbage Patch Women catching the bus and selling shirts. I
didn't go to Cabbagetown.

I did go to Chinatown though, where, unexpectedly, the Made In China
items are very pricey.

It's also one of many great places to people watch. I later plonked
myself down at a cafe on Yonge Street and tuned in. People from all over the
planet, wearing everything imaginable, walked in to order a coffee. I half
expected to see a discrete Klingon ask for a rakatajino to go.

Along the harbourfront, I made an astonishing discovery that has
ramifications for Halifax: open-air skating rinks, free for the public to
gather on and socialize. I managed to secure the secret recipe for making
ice, should City Hall ever get serious about making one here.

The night was spent at the Air Canada Centre (did you know that Maple
Leaf Gardens is now a grocery store? How tragic. But, really, is that a
sadder fate than hosting the ever-Cupless Leafs?). For a mere $25, I was
permited admittance to stand in the rafters and watch the Raptors dismantle
the Milwuakee Bucks.

Here's a great thing about Toronto: the hat is triumphant. In Halifax,
me and my Adventure Cap are holding the fort alone against an unfashionable
surge of tuques and baseball caps. When I put on my glorious Tilly Winter
Hat, people stare. I feel so alone. But in the Big Smoke, noggins are topped
with the most delightful aray of head gear. Flat caps, leather caps,
beanies, bowlers, vintage 1920s pilot's caps with wooly ear flaps: if a
milliner's dreamt it, it patrols the streets of Toronto.

Inspired, I went in search of a new lid. Nothing in the Eaton Centre
(disappointingly, just the Halifax Shopping Centre on HGH), nor in
Kennsington's markets, nor the trendy and charming St Lawrence market. I was
tempted to snatch a chapeau off a passing head, but resisted. Maybe Roger will buy me one.