Oh Canada

I may have sworn off all things Canadian after they sent me to Immigration upon arriving at Pearson. They claimed it was an absolutely random procedure, but I railed back, convinced it had to do with my Spanish name, and I might have even told the Canadian customs guy, "why the hell would I want to immigrate into Canada?!"

But that's all in the past now, I love this country too much to stay mad at it for long.

Toronto is really wonderful city. I thought I'd seen most of what it had to offer, but as it turns out, I'm not even close. So far, I taught my brother a thing or two on the slopes, had some amazing--and cheap--Thai food, and made a repeat visit to the CN Tower, which hasn't gotten any less sublime. And, best of all, they show "Arrested Development" reruns here. Today --I'm reminded by a gaggle of hot Irish women singing "Danny Boy" on the Buffalo PBS channel--is St. Patrick's Day, and there will be plenty merriment tonight.

I'll leave you with a picture of lil' brother Diaz, having fun on the glass floor of CN Tower, and perhaps of negligently more general interest, "In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz" by Yeats in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams —
Some vague Utopia — and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion,
mix pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful.
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.