World Cup Fevah (Toronto day 3&4)
I'll say this for Toronto—it has to be the best place in the world to be watching the World Cup. (OK, maybe Germany would be cooler. Hi Geoff and Jenny!) If you could be here right now, and see the flags on cars and houses everywhere... it's a festival of nations.Accordingly, I decided to go on a two-day World Cup crawl, and cheer on some of my favourite teams in the quarter-finals with their own fans.
Friday morning: Germany 1 Argentina 1 (Germany advances on penalty kicks). Franciska and I went down to the film screening room of the Goethe Institute to watch in an alcohol-free setting; the Institute seemed like a civilized way to start the morning. (With the Netherlands' early exit from the tournament, Ciska had switched her allegiance from the mother country to the next best candidate.) Every seat was taken; the available floor space was pretty jammed as well. The German fans were vociferous at times, one of them, seated behind me, providing me with exactly the German-swearword soundtrack that I'd been hoping for, and Germany's comeback goal and dramatic shootout victory provided tense drama with a cathartic conclusion.
Friday afternoon: Italy 3 Ukraine 0. Due to the aforementioned overtime and penalty kicks, we arrived in Little Italy too late to secure seats at Café Diplomatico or Il Gatto Nero, but we instead scored patio seats at the Bella Vista, with a view through the open front portal to the widescreen TV inside. This game was much less dramatic, but with our outdoor seats we could see up, down, and across College Street to the clusters of chanting and singing fans and Italian flags. After the game we walked back up College to the Diplomatico where the celebration (pictured above) was in fullest swing.
Saturday morning: England 0 Portugal 0 (Portugal advances on penalty kicks). I failed to get down to the Duke of Gloucester on Yonge Street in time to get in, but it's just as well that I did; it would have been a harsh experience being with the English fans for such a heartbreaking loss. I continued down Yonge and happened across the Brownstone Cafe, where I sat at the bar, ate brunch, watched the game, and chatted with the waitresses. For the second half, the cafe's English cook (from Liverpool!) got off his morning shift and joined me along with a Portuguese Canadian customer. Their back-and-forth carping was itself worth the price of my meal. The shootout was hard to watch though.
Saturday afternoon: France 1 Brazil 0. Despite my own allegiance to Forza Azzurri I have to confess that this was the most fun yet. The crowd at Zazou was unbelievably raucous, and the chants of "Allez les Bleus!" and "Vive la France!" and "Zizou!" (yes, cheering on Zizou at Zazou) started before the match and continued all game. I found a good conversational partner in a friendly young French man currently working in Toronto. It was really hard to get a clear sightline to the big screen, with people jostling for space by the bar, finding chairs to stand on, and getting shooed off the bar when they tried to hop up on it, but I did, somehow, get a fairly good look at Thierry Henry's spectacular goal. The half hour after the goal seemed to drag on forever (my new friend keeping the time verbally: "quinze minutes! quatorze minutes!"), as everyone hoped and prayed that Les Bleus could somehow hang on. But the French side continued to carry the play, and it was only in the last two minutes that Brazil really threatened—too little too late, and so I found myself in the middle of a huge party that was pouring out into the street. Allez les Bleus!
