Toronto is home to many different "ethnic" pockets with cutesy monickers. I live in a nominally Italian area referred to as "Little Italy", though most of the good Italian peeps who founded this neighbourhood have fled, victims of the suburbs or their authentically quaint euro-charm that drove up real estate prices 10 years ago.
Each summer, these "littles" "villes" or "towns" have street festivals. Taste of Little India, Taste of Greektown, and of course Taste of Little Italy. Each festival has loud sound stages and stand after stand of meat on a stick. I am not sure what part of Italy the stick of bbq-ed lamb in a pita comes from, but it tastes great with tzatziki.
As the bands played on, and the ecuadorian reed flute men in shawls who play the same three songs in rotation wound up their twentieth set, a heavy-set, middle-aged man stumbled into our front yard, beer in hand. He looked at kiff, pointed to his penis and said: "I piss?"
