» High Park is a miserable place. I’ve been three times and each time it’s done nothing but cement this feeling deeper in my psyche. Granted, the first time was in the middle of snowy winter. It’s not High Park’s fault all its pathways were covered in icy death and there was a bitter, biting bitch of a wind coming off the water. The second time it was later in winter. Less snowy, but doubly muddy and still with the horrible, miserable wind. I vowed not to return until the depressing, soggy-faced trees had leaves on them.
To celebrate our sixth month as a couple, Mandi and I returned to High Park for a pic-a-nic. No leaves yet, but the weather is warmer and, indeed, the wind wasn’t a horrendous slap in the face. I thought maybe High Park was going to cut us a break. What High Park decided to up the ante with instead was a swarm of bees. Or wasps. Whatever they were they lived in holes in the ground and were black and white and were combing huge swathes of the park like a blurry, hovering blanket. Perhaps it wasn’t quite that drastic. But it was enough of a problem that I felt like everywhere we tried to place our blanket we were in grave danger of being stung to death and hacked into pieces by tiny mandibles for use in a royal jelly recipe.
Eventually, after walking to practically the other side of the park, we found a table to sit at outside of the insects’ domain and had a perfectly lovely afternoon reading library books and eating berries.
But High Park is still a miserable place.