So here I am, on the long and rural road through Ontario to Niagara Falls, a trip familiar to me from many a childhood vacation. It is a distinctive area for two reasons: The abundance of good Tim Horton’s, and the utter lack of anything else. The sky seems so large and varied to me, and I realize how little of the horizon is visible in NY. I have been living my life at the bottom of a glass and steel canyon, and the dome above me is vast in comparison to my daily sky. (It’s currently doing this sunshine-stormcloud combination that’s rather fetching, thus I remark.) This is the stretch through which Detroit-born Rym would speed in the middle of the night on his way to RIT, and the area made bearable by Raffi carols when my sister and I were mini, and surprisingly, it reminds me of how much I like Canada. The prospect of living in Toronto is surprisingly palatable, even to a New Yorker, and I would not be especially opposed to the idea should the opportunity arise. Just going through customs reminds me of all the times we crossed the border growing up, but it weirds me out showing the passport. Waltzing across the border requires a bit more preparation then it used to. In any case, I salute you, polite neighbors to the North! This American kinda has a thing for you, even though 403 is dang boring in places.