My first Toronto New Year's Eve

At noon on New Year’s Eve, I decided I wanted to spend the night in Toronto.

There are a few reasons people from Michigan go to Toronto. Here are a few:

1. To visit the CN Tower.
A tall building! Holy-moly. Make sure to stand on the glass floor! That’s important. Buy a kitsch key chain! Then go home. However, I’ve already been there when I was, oh, 12, so I don’t need to resurrect that trip any time soon.

2. To see a moose.
Canada is cold and up north, so they MUST have moose… meese… mooses? Toronto, a city with 2.8 million people, however does not. Nix the moose idea.

3. Because they’re underage and can’t legally drink in America, and therefore have to jump to somewhere where they can actually get into bars without sneaking through the backdoor like a creeper.
Bingo.

So on a whim, I hopped in my car and headed to the Canadian city to visit a friend, Lisa, who is one of my best friends from study abroad. The sassy Canadian redhead is like my sister from another mister (Spanish people don’t produce redheads typically), and is one of those people who will someday be in my wedding. She’s the yin to my yang.

The five-and-a-half-hour drive wasn’t too bad — minus a quick snowstorm on the way and a growing annoyance of the six CDs on rotate in the car. I finally arrived, I finally got to hug Lisa and I finally got to experience what Toronto’s nightlife has to offer on the most important night of the year — New Year’s Eve.

We went to a bar called The Boat, which is literally designed to resemble the interior of a, well, boat.

It’s the home of hipsters who were once scene kids who were once emo kids, complete with thick-framed glasses, long, shaggy coifs and, of course, boys in girl jeans. But what was different about these hipsters is that they were actually pretty cool.

I quickly made friends with the girl at the coat check (it was cold enough that the coat check was full, causing Lisa and I to chuck our peacoats in an unattended pile near the door), who rocked out to the obscure, random dance music playing. I’m used to being in clubs where all that is played is gangsta-rap or hip-hop, and to be able to dance my socks off to Jamiroquai and about 75 other bands I could never name was way more fun than I anticipated. The Boat is the ultimate indie bar, which just happens to welcome those of us who don’t have Mohawks.

The drinks were also delicious. I accomplished my goal of legal alcohol by sipping on rum and cokes for most of the night. It was after three drinks that I began dancing with a handsome boy. Newsflash to the men out there: I will not go into a bathroom with you, no matter how much rum I have ingested. I’m curious, who was the girl that was okay going into a dirty public bathroom to fool around? Does this girl like bacteria? Did she have low-self esteem? She must have had more rum than I did, because Handsome Boy was soon forced to find a new girl to dance with after I swiftly gave him the ol’ “As if.”

When Lisa and I finally decided to jet home, we stopped to get vendor hot dogs, which appropriately have the nickname “street meat.” After passing out in Lisa’s bed, I woke up the next morning with a killer headache. Luckily, due to my 20 years of age, I can’t get that headache again until August.

Thanks for a good one, Boat.