Another holiday in a faraway place with a strange-sounding name: Toronto, in Ontario, Canada. Each morning I view the world from my seventh-storey flat in South Parkdale, an inner-city district that nestles quietly on the shores of Lake Ontario. It is a community transformed by the smells, sounds and passions of immigrants from just about every continent imaginable.
My host holds a senior position in the social services that serve the community. Our fami-lies have been intertwined over a century or so, with common roots in Trinidad. We were school friends, our parents were school friends and, over the passage of time, we have evolved largely in the spirit of anti-colonialism and anti-racist sentiment. I am relaxed and at ease here.
Larger issues and concerns in the province and the country are remarkably similar to those I left behind in London. Canadian soldiers are dying in Afghanistan - a roadside bomb killed four of them on the day I arrived here - and 18 young, middle-class Muslims, one of them of Trinidadian descent, are in custody and awaiting trial on charges of conspiracy to cause explosions. Their anger flows from the events in Iraq, Afghanistan and now Lebanon. In addition, Canadian troops may well be in Lebanon before summer ends.
But at least the government here doesn't boast about a war on terror. It is a "military engagement" that is seen as a rather unfortunate occurrence. It is not pursued with Blairite exhibitionism and posturing.
Over the weekend, Toronto throbbed with the sounds of a festival, no different from the Notting Hill Carnival, shaped and organised by Trin idadian migrants. I pranced and danced in the parade. Now my feet ache and my lower back pains me. Was it worth it? Oui! Oui!
I have made contact with friends I haven't seen for 50 years, friends of my parents' relatives who disappeared over the North American horizon. But there are sad memories, too. I shed a tear as I recall my late father, who left us and made his way to Saskatchewan to study theology. He never spoke much about his stay here. My godmother, who was also my cousin and whom I remember for her warmth and kindess, lies in a cold grave in Calgary. The past few days and perhaps the next few will not be so much a holiday, more the resurrection of some of the best and most tender moments in my past.
There is not much difference between the social lives of immigrants here and in London. Multiculturalism is a fact, spoken about with ease. And, with the intensification of globalisation, millions will head this way, and not necessarily as a gathering storm. There is no weeping and wailing here about cultures being swamped, nor a Migration Watch screaming blood and hellfire over the number of immigrants who would continue to enter here.
The way forward is inevitable. The mix and muddle of national sentiments, of different skin colours, will enhance the landscape. It just seems uncomplicated and approving. No mess, no fuss.
But, to Canadians travelling abroad, the UK may well be perceived as the most hedonistic nation on earth. In Canada, I get the feeling that the spirit of prohibition lives on. The Liquor Control Board is relentless in the enforcement of its rules and regulations. There is certainly little chance of binge drinking taking root here.
The cigarette ban is total in all public places and there is a strong sentiment to ban smoking altogether. I have managed to smoke only four cigarettes in six days, and that was by ducking and diving hither and thither. I have finally surrendered, adjusting with hardly a whimper. I am not allowing these minor issues to disrupt a smooth and enjoyable holiday.
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