Cleansing In The Rain

Those Japanese. They really know how to bring in the new year. They climb Mt. Fuji to greet the dawn. That means they climb a mountain in the middle of the night, in the dark, on the first night of the new year, to get to the summit by dawn.

Here at home, the Toronto Buddhist Church sends monks to Ontario Place where they literally ring in the new year. The monks and guests ring Ontario Place's giant bell 108 times before midnight to signify...

curbing the 108 bonno (mortal desires) which, according to Buddhist belief, torment humankind. It is hoped that with each reverberation the bad experiences, wrong deeds, and ill luck of the past year will be wiped away. Thus, tolling heralds the start of a prosperous and joyous New Year.

So that's where we wanted to end up on New Year's Eve - at Ontario Place, for the tolling of the bell at 11:30 pm.

But we didn't make it.

We started the evening with friends, 13 of us, at The Second City Bird Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest. That is, "bird flu", and the "cuckoo's nest" being the city. The show was good, all the better because we were watching it with friends. It ended with a glass of champagne and a toast to the new year. As a parting gift, the theatre gave each patron a pair of champagne flutes in a red box.

Outside the theatre, it was spitting, and it was only 9:30. Someone had the idea we should walk to Harbourfront anyway for exercise, then drive to Ontario Place after. So nine of us set out, one with skates, one with a knapsack of champagne and glasses just in case.

The spitting turned to pouring. The less stout of heart may complain about the rain and the less sturdy of foot may whine about being wet, but I liked it. I've always liked walking in the rain, though maybe not with my winter wool coat on, and certainly with rain boots. One of the women had sandals on. Few of us had hats. We were like university students roaming the streets at night, and if we knew a gang of our children walked across muddy lawns in the rain at night, we would certainly chide them for doing so.

On the way to Harbourfront, we invaded the CBC building to use their washrooms. That's what happens when most of your travelling companions are over 50. We surprised the security guard, who sized us up and down to determine if we were trouble. I said, "No, we're not hoodlums. We're just over 50." And my friend said, "And we need to use the washroom."

Despite walking under awnings and ducking under a bridge, we got soaked. But god, it was refreshing. The skating rink at Harbourfront has an organic shape. That is, it's not square. It's more...lakey, with a bend that wraps around a balcony where on dry days, you can sit, drink hot chocolate, look down at the skaters, and look out to the lake.

It was quite enchanting actually, to stand on that balcony, under shallow roof peaks and look across dark waters at night on New Year's Eve. Two party boats with strands of lights glided across our view like apparitions in a dream. I couldn't help think of the little mermaid listening to music from the boat where the prince was hosting a dance. But I knew it was probably tacky on those boats in the Toronto harbour and I was glad The Man was with me.

On this wet night, our sole skater strapped his skates on and went for a few spins. We cheered from the balcony. If there weren't so many of us complaining and The Man being hungry, I might have rented skates too and joined him. Might have.

The rain abated and we walked back to our cars, a brisker walk this time, in anticipation of the rain reasserting itself. We agreed to meet at one of the women's house to bring in the new year. The four of us who came in the same car drove off. But The Man demanded burger and fries so we stopped at the only place where we could find parking - not too far from the Wheatsheaf Tavern on Bathurst where I used to go for ice tea and wings after rock climbing.

It started to pour again and we scrambled into the tavern noisy and dripping. There were only a few people in there, looking like lonely dejected souls watching TV and waiting for the new year to pass. Do bars always look so cliche on new year's eve? I have never seen the Wheatsheaf so empty. But hey, their menu said on Sunday nights, except when there is a special event, wings are half price.

"Not tonight," said the waiter, who looked like Kevin Federline.

"It's 11:00. What special event do you have here?"

"It's New Year's Eve."

I ordered wings any way for old time's sake.

At 11:35, we settled the bill and ran through the rain again back to the car. Mindful of the time, we tumbled through our friend's front door at 11:55. Her husband poured us each a glass of sparkling and we toasted to the new year at midnight. One of the women opened the front door to let out the old year and let in the new.

Then we went home, picking up The Boy at his friend's on the way.

That's how we didn't make it to the bell tolling. But surely, the rain cleansed us just as much.