I got two bad cab drivers in a row, one Friday night and one Saturday afternoon.  Suffice it to say that I had opera tickets for a late Saturday matinee and my cab ride ended when I flung my money at the driver, snapped that I didn't "have time for this crap" and got out.  I slammed the door so hard his teeth must have rattled. And in my favourite cocktail dress, I found myself jog-walking to meet my party in front of the O'Keefe Centre 14 minutes before curtain, in an absolute fury. If this were London, a cab driver would have been required to demonstrate a good knowledge of the city.  In Toronto, they just have to be able to point to Toronto on a map (and I take responsibility for not paying attention - had I been, I could have fixed the problem before it got out of hand).

The opera was Carmen, and it's hard to go wrong with Carmen. There were gypsies and toreadors and smugglers and soldiers and it was wonderful and I was happy again.

Then we went to dinner.  Picture it: It's Saturday night, it's 8:00 and there's a very popular French restaurant near the Opera, which has just let out.  Who thinks that they can just walk in and get a table?

I'm moderately clever, so I have reservations. But apparently, no one else does.  Now what kind of ass-backwards yokel thinks that they can walk out of an opera, walk one block and get a table for dinner?  Even without the opera factor - it's 8:00 on a Saturday night.  You need a reservation. The foyer was jammed with them - dozens of them. And every time they were told that they couldn't have a table, they looked so crestfallen. They sighed and they slumped.  And they turned to one-another with looks of resignation.

Now, I get that this doesn't affect me.  I get that we had a table, and I get that we had a fab dinner and that I shouldn't complain.  What I don't get is who these people are and who raised them. They're a symptom of a greater disease. Why don't people know how to behave properly anymore?  These people went to the opera; they must have some cultural aspirations.  So what's their story?

I predict that ten years from now life in Toronto will be like life in Vancouver, without the benefit of the good scenery and the warm winters.  I look forward to the day where the guy at the table next to me in a 4-star restaurant is wearing sweatpants and ball cap. 

Addendum: Don't even get me started on the people who leapt out of their seats and scurried out of the theatre before the curtain call.  When someone sings their lungs out for 3 hours, you can damned-well hang around and applaud for them.