Alright, so my trip isn't over yet but anyway, here's a couple impressions and stuff:

TORONTO:

* I now have a brother-in-law. (The concept is so foreign, it feels weird typing it) It probably means I'll be an aunt before too long, even though my sister's denying it. But she's the type.
He's good though, he's smart and funny.

* The wedding itself was a bit *shrugs shoulders*.
It was totally short-notice anyway, I believe there was some visa-shit going on or something. This was just the formalities, really, they're repeating the whole thing in Berlin in summer with dress and cake and all.
I was in a state of desolation cos I'd been awake 40 hours at a stretch, slept 4 hours, and then found myself at Toronto City Hall, surrounded by a plethora of giggly / teary excited, over-emotional people who I've never seen before in my life, and they somehow managed to be the worst-dressed people on the planet. I mean, they were nice and all, but...ugly.
Like making a dress out of a floor-length black panne-velvet skirt by pulling it over her tits. Groundbreaking. Sort of like the oecumenic church day that you only notice because of the obstrusive increase in beige knitwear all over town.
The flushed trembling couple was also not dressed so classy, but that was cute. And christian-tradition-defying, which can never be bad - my sister was wearing an almost obscenely red corsage-dress that I had made her for a bridesmaid-being day last year, and the husband sported his traditional nigerian gear so he was bright blue from head to toe. They clashed so bad, but it was funny.
Yeah, and then they got married. The city-hall-guy in priest uniform was, err, different. I think he tries to sort of adjust his holiness to the customers, so since this was a young couple, he was this totally hip, joke-cracking fun old guy, complete with audience interaction and comments on fat fingers and such. I was waiting for him to say 'Yo'.
During the post-ceremony tastelessness of hugging and crying and shit that makes me squirm in my chair, I was asked about six times whether I was 'proud' of her.
No.
What did she do to deserve pride? I's not like she accomplished anything, it's not as if she worked sweat and blood for years to achieve it, she just had a boyfriend and they decided to do something for his permanent stay in Canada. If that's what she wanted to do then fine. 'Proud' is just not the right word. I mean, I'm not proud of her for eating a chunky kitkat or having brown hair.
I wouldn't do it, but if it floats her boat, then why not?

* And then we went out to dinner and then out drinking. Which is where I realized. There is not one fuckable canadian on the face of this earth.
Ok, sorry to everone here who I offended now, I just didn't see any. I'm sure there's bunches and bunches of really hot, snarky, fighting, hard-drinking deranged punkrockers in a subterrainian hole somewhere, but...can't they just sense that I'm in town and looking for them?
It works anywhere else, I swear to god, but Toronto decides to keep it's precious insider knowledge to itself. I suppose it didn't help that I was there with the crowd I was, but this is a punkrock code of honor - they should've saved me.
I'm never going back there again.

* Which leads to the impression I got of canadians as a whole.
1. They are so damn patriotic they need that silly maple leaf on the arches of the McDonald's-M to prove they're not american. That should tell you everything.
2. They are all so wholesome. This is the word that popped into my head in unfathomable repetition.
They have this aura as an entity thats hard to grasp and descibe; 'nice' comes to mind very often, as does 'maybe a little bland?'
Again, my vision was probably disturbed by my sister's friends, but I can't deny it. They have this vibe of brown-and-pastell-colored kitchens, innocence, wavy hair, cardigans, 'reasonable' shoes, sweetness. It's like they nice you to death. We drove through the red light district and I spotted one sex-movie place and one strip bar. I was told all about the 'ghetto' and it sounded like a middle-class neighbourhood, at least a lot better than where I live and that certainly isn't considered ghetto. It's just not very urban.


NEW YORK:

* I was so glad to get here.

* The place I'm staying at is just as satisfyingly crummy as it was the last time, roomies are fun and occupied by the differentestestest of things, random people hand the doorknob to each other (weird translation, just figure it out), Jet the cat likes me again (we parted in grumpiness back then), I'm sleeping in The Chair, and it's rediculously comfortable - that thing has magic powers.
If I was rich, this is what I'd do: I'd rent a room in here, but keep my apartment in Berlin, which would be my main residence. Theres no way I could permanently leave Berlin. But I would sporadically just show up und stay for as long as I wished, then leave. I'd be the ultimate roommate! No one gets on my nerves and I not on theirs, And I'd be a legitimate presence cos I pay rent. Now I just do the dishes.

I went out with Charlie to see her dance, which was good. Seriously, I'm always thrilled to see people who know what they're doing.
It reminded me of the fashion shows at the trade fair, because they try to do this catchy dance theme as opposed to the normal catwalk to show how alternative they are. Anyway, all the models hung in there and tried to get the choreography right but this one tiny girl was just notably better, because she didn't give a shit about what she was supposed to be doing to appear fashionable and sexy, but instead was just amazing.

* I had two hardcore fans that night, and as I left they both stopped/ran after me to give me their life story in form of number, email, everything else. And I noticed both of them where named David S.
David S.1 was sorta creepy since the first thing he said to me was: "Ah, Fraulein...aus Berlin, eh?"
What the fuck?
Nobody there knew who the hell I was, let alone where from. I'm sure Charlie didn't tell him. So there I was trying to coax information out of him whithout obviously letting him know he was right. He basically discarded his german thought after I responded since I lack a german accent, but I probed anyway. I never came to a conclusion though, or explanation, at least none that was better than: *insert flourishy gesticulation* "You have this certain...innovative air about you that just had to be european, and a husky aggression that's so like the streets of Berlin!"
Okay.

* David S.2 was something quite different.
So Charlie and I had just stolen two glasses of champagne and she went up to dance and I reclined to watch her like a dirty old man. This guy sidles up and asks: "Would you allow me to buy you a drink?"
All I had was champagne. I despise champagne.
"Depends. What do you want in return?" I can't handle faking a conversation with people I know I won't ever fuck. That was my biggest fear.
"Well," he goes, "I am very good at foot worshipping."
Ok, first thought: foot worshipping? Second thought: That, I can handle.
So I tenderly bargain a little so I have my double shot right there before I take my shoe off, and he proceeds to kneel and caress and suck and moan while I drink my drink and watch what I was watching.
It wasn't much different than before, a wet foot is the least disturbance when you're drinking Glenfiddich. I mean, it's not as if I had to do anything - I just rubbed my foot over his neck and face now and then which excited him to no end and ensured my next drink. See, thats how cheap I am.
During this, he kept groaning how beautiful my feet are, which is odd, since I wash them when I shower and thats it - they're full of sock-crumbs and stuff and the nails are too long.
But I've always been bad at foot fetish. It's okay, just not really my thing.
So anyhow, at some point my drink is done and he's still all over there so I stop him and ask if he wants to keep doing that. Eager nodding. I tell him thats one more drink then, and he gets another idea.
"Can I...uh, worship your ass?"
Worship my ass. Don't they all. "Thats more than a whisky, sweetheart."
"Ok, how much - 30 dollars?"
What is he thinking? I would have to get up and move for that.
"This is my ass you're talking about - it's at least twice that much." I say as if I sell my ass all the time and am making him a good price because I like him and that makes me generous.
"60$...how long can I worship your ass for 60$?"
"15 minutes."
"Ok...but I don't have 60$!"
Jesus...I get this pleading look from him and I realize I'll just take everything he has. I put on my kindly patronizing, I'm-making-an-exception-voice again.
"Alright...how much do you have?"
To make a long story short, it goes from 60 to 30 to 18, which, of course, get's him 3 minutes of ass worship. I don't make gifts.
So we go to the bathroom and he forks over the money, I take my pants off and bend over, he takes his pants off and sits, and there he goes - rubbing his semi-erection and licking my asshole like a whirlwind. I really was nice though, I let him come even though it exceeded the time limit by about half a minute. So after he shot a load all over his pants I stood up straight again, pulled my own pants up, said bye and left, having earned 18$ in 3 minutes. Which is a good deal in my book, since thats a wage of 360$ an hour.


Next time, the dog story. Not what you're thinking.