
By chance we found ourselves on Saint Patrick’s Street on Saint Patrick’s Day. We assumed there had to be a church of the same name nearby, and we found it, but it wasn’t open yet.
There are quite a few record stores near our hotel, and we started with Kops Records, a gold mine. Their basement walls were lined with boxes of 45s. Only two boxes of jazz singles, but more than a hundred labeled “Soul, Blues, Jazz.” I spent a few blissful hours here while Peggi explored the nearby Kensington Market. We had lunch in an Italian café, a mushroom arugula salad and a Negra Modelo, as brown as a Guinness and nearly as smooth.
My Apple Watch doesn’t care if we’re in Canada—it’s still clocking our walks in miles, and we chalked up 10½ of them yesterday going from one art spot to the next. There are still plenty of locally owned shops here, and the sidewalks are full of pedestrians. On the other hand, there are 176 of them in Metropolitan Toronto—one on every corner, it seems.
We exercised in the hotel gym and swam in the pool. We found an “All Day Breakfast” in the St. Lawrence Market. I had eggs and smoked salmon on an English muffin. The European-style market had every kind of food vendor you could imagine. Peggi took a photo of me in front of a huge glass case of olives.
We watched the first half of Roma vs. Bologna in a Europa League match in an Irish bar named Saint James Tavern. We finally had a Guinness there. And we found a fantastic Portuguese restaurant called Adega for dinner, where we split an arugula salad with goat cheese and figs and an order of octopus with roasted vegetables.
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