Skeleton Lake
A crystal-clear lake in front of us, blue sky bearing down like a smile. Kids laughing as they jumped into cold water. Sailboats in the distance, green wilderness all around—a few colorful summer houses completing the scene. Someone next to me said something about how perfect life must be to live in a place like that. I just nodded. In that moment, Canada was the most beautiful country in the world. No question.
We’d driven up for a weekend in Toronto, moving between neighborhoods in a nice Mercedes sedan—the kind of car that just disappears once you’re behind the wheel. We passed through Chinatown, past the old theaters, along the lakefront where Toronto actually felt alive. That’s where the cultural weight was, right there on Lake Ontario’s shore.
Early on, someone who picked us up—a former cop who liked to talk—told us about the city. Which teams mattered, which companies ran things, where the supposed best strip club in the northern hemisphere was. All the small and large secrets hidden in Toronto. By the time we got to the hotel, I felt like I knew the place better than some people who actually lived there. I caught myself almost saying that out loud. Too presumptuous.
In my hotel room, I did what I’ve done for years: clothes off, MTV on, bathtub running. I stole something from the minibar and sank into the steaming water with a cold Red Bull, watching kids break both their legs on skateboards. Some version of Jackass was apparently still a trend here. A hip-hop-costumed DJ made fun of the kid wailing on the floor while some blonde in gold chains and neon Nikes laughed in that distinctive way that made it clear MTV was just as much a shadow of itself here as everywhere else.
I fell for Toronto because of the people’s kindness, partly, but mostly because of the moments we lucked into. The small boutiques on Queen Street West where you could actually talk to the person running the place. The barbecue at a wooden villa on an island you could only reach by motorboat. An artist market in the middle of the city with people from everywhere showing their work. These tiny, specific things that made the city feel real.
Kai and Teymur drove while I sat in the back with a touchscreen to myself, browsing the internet like I was home. The car was quiet enough that you couldn’t really hear it working. Everything was smooth, like the asphalt was the problem, not the machine. It was brutally hot outside, and the climate control kept up without struggling. For a moment I wondered if this was the future—just sitting in a car, online, while other people handled the actual driving.
My actual favorite thing from the weekend wasn’t the car or the driving. It was a weird drink called Clamato, served ice-cold in a can. Clam juice mixed with tomato juice, spiced up. It sounds strange. But it tastes better than it sounds, and it goes with everything Canadian food throws at you. I have no idea if there’s even a Canadian food shop in Berlin, but if you ever run into this stuff, drink it. Stock up. You’ll need it.
The weekend disappeared fast. But it left a mark—a deep one. Toronto is a small world you have to see once. American confidence mixed with European calm, shot through with its own easy inspiration. The best part was being there with people I liked more each time we traveled together. Street musicians in Pokémon costumes doing Gangnam Style in summer rain. The things you don’t forget.
And someday, maybe—at least in dreams you forget by morning—we’ll drive back to that lake. The sky will be smiling down the same way. Kids will be laughing in the cold water, that green paradise still waiting. Maybe we’ll stay longer that time. You don’t know what happens if you stay long enough.