The Citiots attend the GNE

The Great Northern Exhibition is the longest running exhibition in North America. It started in 1855, and is still going strong.

Citiots like to experience the culture of their second home. Dave and I attended our first GNE, which ran from September 19th to 21st this year. We hoped that we could pass for locals. We're not sure we did.

Still, off we went, on an unseasonably warm, sunny Saturday September afternoon. Dave was looking forward to shooting the vintage tractors and cars. I wanted to see the fiddling competition. I love roots music.

When we got there, the fairground parking lot was packed. Just as we were about to hoof it to the entrance, a tractor pulling a trolley came by. How exciting! I insisted we take it, even though it would have been faster to walk.

Neither Dave nor I have been to "the Ex" in decades. For us, "the Ex" brings up connotations of the CNE - Canada's largest exhibition. The CNE holds little appeal for us. We don't like rides, parking's a pain, traffic sucks anywhere near where it's held, and we hate the crowds. The GNE is different, fresher, more wholesome, less crowded.

We start by watching some young girls in some sort of horsey competition. Quite frankly, we have no idea what the competition is called. It seems to involve taking a stick from a garbage can, doing a figure eight around a second garbage can, and dropping the stick back into garbage can number one. While we don't understand the point in all of this, we cheer and encourage the young competitors on. I like how some of the girls have colour coordinated their outfits to match their horses' saddle blankets and leggings.

From there we visit the animal exhibit. We see freshly shorn sheep, some bunnies, and some birds that I think are roosters and chickens. I can't stand looking at the birds. To me, they look like genetically altered freaks. You can't see their heads because their breasts are so big. I'm reminded of H.G. Wells' "The Island of Doctor Moreau". I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to show my ignorance of what is apparently a competition that is taken quite seriously. Upon leaving the building, I learn that some of the birds were pigeons. Whatever.

From there we head back outside, and head over to watch some cattle judging. We spot Maureen McLeod, my friend Mariane's mother. Though we make eye contact, we do not speak. Mrs. McLeod is clearly very busy with some competition related duties. We don't want to disturb her. I guess you can take the Citiot out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the Citiot. I feel bad about not saying hello, but don't know how else to handle the situation. Oh well, she'll just chalk our rudeness up to being from Toronto.

We head over to watch some of the Horse Pull. Again, I don't understand the nature of this competition. Surely it can't be good for the horses to be pulling 7800 pounds of what looks to me like Interlock, can it? Is that cruel? I'm not sure, but gamely take several pictures, and cheer the victor.

After that, it's time for something that makes more sense to me: the fiddling and step-dance competition. We arrive as a young boy is step-dancing. I whip out my digital camera and start snapping away. An old man leans over to me.

"Is that your boy?"

"Nope!" I reply, leaving it at that. I am too embarrassed to admit that I got caught up in the moment, and wanted to document the event, possibly to post on Facebook. I'm not sure he'd get me.

We admire the top rated food products, and once again my camera comes out: I've spotted Mariane's jam. She won first prize! Not far away are her mother's prize winning icicle pickles. I sigh. I'll never win a prize for anything I cook. I call my stove the "big white clock in the kitchen".

We then head back outside again, this time to look at the vintage cars and tractors. Dave is now in his element. He loves shooting this type of thing, and spends ages on the cars and tractors. Dave still shoots film, preferring its archival qualities. I am bored, and getting hungry.

We finally head over to the midway and the food area. One thing puzzles me: for a rural fair that celebrates all things related to the harvest, from planting the seeds that grow into the food that feeds the cattle, to growing the berries that become jam, and everything food-related in between, why is there NOTHING healthy to eat in the food court? The closest thing I could find to a healthy alternative was a slice of veggie pizza. And let's not even talk about how Atkins unfriendly every food option was. Once again, my attempts at induction are thwarted.

I eat my pizza slice and quaff my Diet Pepsi. They didn't even have Diet Coke! Oh well.

I've now had my fill of the exhibition, and would love to head home. But Dave wants to shoot the midway rides. Sadly, they are too modern looking for his tastes. The rides at the Drewlapalooza (the party held to honour Canadian Idol's Drew Wright, but that's another story) were more nostalgic looking than the plastic Chilly Willy found at the GNE.

We stop to watch a smidge more horse competition. We still don't understand the whole "figure eight around the garbage cans" thing, but take a few more shots.

I'm tired. It's been a hot, humid afternoon and we actually walked quite a bit. I don't feel like walking all the way back to the car. And as luck would have it, I don't have to. As we exit the fairgrounds, up comes the trolley pulling tractor again! The Citiots hop aboard.

We can't wait to do it all again next year!

The Citiots go for a ride and get lost in the woods

Two Sundays ago Dave and I were up in Collingwood, enjoying another relaxing weekend. We decided to go for a motorcycle ride. We haven't done as much riding as in other years, and we both miss it.

One of the main reasons we bought the condo - or so we told ourselves in the winter - was so that we could bring one of our two BMW R1100RT touring bikes and leave it in the garage. That way we could enjoy country rides without having to spend at least an hour getting out of Toronto before seeing trees instead of other motorists. What a nifty time saver!

We brought "Victor" up north. Victor is the higher mileage, black bike, named after Victor (the Dark Knight) Newman from The Young & the Restless. Victor was originally bought to live out west. We had this idea that we would fly to BC every year and enjoy the great scenery and twisty roads without the hassle of trying to rent a BMW motorcycle - the west coast is definitely Harley country. Well, that didn't work out, so two years after riding Victor all the way to BC, we flew to Vancouver and rode him home. Victor has once again found his special purpose, with a new life up north.

Normally I am decked out in German riding gear, from my BMW Commuter pants, to my BMW Three-Phase jacket, and a Schuberth C2 helmet. In colder weather, and when my weight is up (like it is NOW) I might wear my black BMW Maverick jeans, and if it's hot and humid, and my weight is down, (so ... not this summer) I'll wear my tan coloured BMW Summer pants: they turn into shorts with the flick of a zipper. I go Canadian for my extremities, with Joe Rocket vented gloves and Cruiserworks waterproof boots (my pair was made in Canada, before Cruiserworks outsourced to South America). Everything coordinates nicely!

I brought my old "shortie" HJC helmet and Joe Rocket jacket to leave in Collingwood. I cart my gloves and boots back and forth from the city to the condo for now. I've yet to find a suitable second pair of gloves and God knows I've tried, and I'm reluctant to order boots online. I suppose I could bring a pair of old cowboy boots and leave them there, but there are limits to how much I'll compromise regarding my biking attire.

So, dressed in my B-list gear, which includes an overly tight pair of Eddie Bauer jeans (that nagging weight issue again), we set off to explore the Niagara Escarpment.

Dave had a destination in mind, namely Flesherton. There was no particular draw to the town, other than to get there. We didn't even stop; we enjoyed the ride there, cruised the main drag, and 20 seconds later, having toured the town, we turned around, mission accomplished.

On the way back, Dave noticed on his map that we were close to the Feversham Gorge. Having had a very successful tour of the beautiful Eugenia Falls gorge a few weeks earlier, we decided to check it out.

We could tell right away that this gorge wouldn't be as picturesque as Eugenia Falls. You rode under a canopy of trees to get to the Eugenia Falls parking lot; this parking lot was out in the open, right off County Road 2. We had the Eugenia Falls parking lot to ourselves; we shared the Feversham Gorge parking lot with three yellow school buses.

My first thought was, "Oh, great. We'll be surrounded by swarms of obnoxious, loud children. I came up here to avoid crowds!", but other than ourselves there were only four adults picnicking next to the outhouses. Turns out they were the drivers of the school buses. I guess they were having a midsummer reunion.

Though it was a hot, sticky day, and I was fully clothed, including my motorcycle jacket, it was reasonably cool on the pathway. The paths weren't as scenic as the Eugenia Falls ones, and you could hear highway noise. We hiked onward, despite the disappointing surroundings; I was eager to clock more steps on my pedometer. Eventually we saw the waterfall; that is, if you craned your neck to the left, you could see a small trickle of water pouring down a cliff. Yawn! A few feet past the waterfall, craning your neck to the right revealed a bridge. Aha, so that was the source of the traffic noise!

"If we keep going, we might come out at the other end of the parking lot. Or, we'll end up on the road, and we can walk back to the bike on the gravel shoulder", suggested Dave.

"I don't feel like walking next to cars and trucks and hot pavement in my jeans and jacket", I barked back. Clearly, I'd had enough of the hike.

"Let's just turn around and go back the way we came, then", said Dave.

On our way back, I noticed there were actually two paths, one a little too close to the edge of the cliff for my comfort level.

"Let's take the high road!", I called out, my enthusiasm for the hike renewed, now that I knew it was almost over. The high road would get us to the parking lot that much quicker. We took the high road. And walked. And kept walking. And kept walking. I looked at my watch, and deduced that we had definitely walked for a lot longer on the way back than the way to the falls.

"Umm, see that fencing?", I asked Dave.

"Oh, good. So you don't remember seeing it on the way in, either, do you?", came his reply. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. How the hell could we be lost? This was a nothing gorge! The forest fell silent. The trees grew taller. The traffic noise died away.

"We don't have any water or cell phones with us", I pointed out.

"Well, we're not exactly lost", came Dave's sarcastic reply. "Let's just turn around. We must have missed the exit."

I had visions of overshooting the exit again, getting caught in an endless loop of bland scenery and annoying traffic noise. My right foot started getting sore. My throat felt parched. I briefly considered yelling for help, but figured the traffic noise would drown out my cries, and the bus drivers wouldn't hear me.

My limp became more pronounced as we retraced our steps. I cursed myself for not putting my orthotics into my motorcycle boots when we left the condo. I scanned the path, looking for clues as to our whereabouts. I started remembering that awful movie, "The Blair Witch Project". Now I understood why my friend Scott thought the movie was scary, whereas I had found it laughable. I had to pee.

Minutes later, we came to the fork in the path that led to the parking lot. We passed the picnickers, and Dave used the outhouse. I took one look and sniff inside the Ladies' toilet, and opted to wait for a Tim Horton's. We said nothing to the bus driving picnickers, took some pictures near the Gorge's sign, and rode off.

The Citiots join the Drew Crew

I've been a fan of Canadian Idol since Season One, and have even voted on occasion. I was happy to see - and actually like - a Collingwood contestant this year. His name is Drew Wright, and he's one of my favourites. Drew made it into the top 24, then on to the top 10, and he continues to do well, making it into the top 6. Yay, Drew!

Dave and I are amazed at the amount of support Drew has garnered within the community. From the moment you approach Collingwood, either from Wasaga Beach or from Craigleith, you see "Vote for Drew Wright" signs. There are posters in almost every store window. Restaurants host Canadian Idol parties on Monday and Tuesday nights.

As Citiots, it's fun to be part of what feels like an intimate process. We feel the same pride for Drew that locals do. This past week, we were in Collingwood for a Wednesday to Wednesday vacation that encompassed the long weekend. On Tuesday (results night), we invited our local friends Mariane and Charlie over for dinner. When accepting the invitation, Mariane asked if we could watch the results show on ATV, courtesy of our full service digital cable. We'd get to watch the results at 7:00PM our time, rather than having to wait until 8:00 with the rest of the Eastern Daylight viewers.

When Mariane and Charlie arrived, she burst out with some exciting news.

"I've been invited to the official Drew Crew results party! Do you want to come?"

Of course we said yes. What an opportunity! So, after our beer, kebabs, French onion soup, salad, and bottles of Pinot Grigio, we headed over to JD's Bar and Grill on Pine Street.

The place was packed. Mariane mingled with "the competition" (Mariane works at The Beach, but The Peak hosts this event), and introduced Dave and I to several of her colleagues and friends. We even met the mayor of Collingwood! We introduced ourselves as Citiots, and Dave took full advantage of the opportunity to pump Mayor Chris on the plans to save the Collingwood lighthouse. More on that later.

We enjoyed yet more Pinot Grigio while awaiting the results show at 8:00. Sadly, we had left the condo before watching the show on Atlantic television. Oh well ... it was worth the wait to be surrounded by enthusiastic, supportive locals. I became instant friends with a woman whose name now escapes me. I sampled strangers' perfectly seasoned French Fries. I cheered with the best of them. I chanted "DREW! DREW! DREW! DREW!" with everyone once we learned he was safe for another week. And all of this was caught on camera.

Once the show was over, Mariane and Charlie made their way home, as did Dave and I. Mariane is on the air very early, and it was now past her bedtime. I couldn't help but think of her as I awoke at 5:00AM to get a can of warm Club Soda - an old hangover cure I got from a flight attendant on an early morning flight from Vancouver back to Toronto: "Club Soda. Room temperature. Sip it slowly." - Mariane was no doubt up by now as well, but she would be getting ready for work. Ugh! If she felt anything like I did, my heart went out to her.

I washed some Advil down with the warm Club Soda, went back to bed, and finally got up at around 8:30. Luckily the ibuprofen and Club Soda had worked their magic by then.

As we were having breakfast, Dave said to me, "I saw you on the news last night." Remembering my alcohol-fueled, overfriendly frenzy from the previous evening, I couldn't bring myself to ask how I looked. I have a pretty good idea, and can only hope that nobody in Toronto saw it too.

Lynn and Dave become citiots

Friends of ours live in Collingwood year round. I met Mariane when she worked in Toronto. Mariane was from Creemore, home of the beer (I'm amazed at how many Torontonians don't know there really is a Creemore) and moved back to the area for love. She reconnected with Charlie, her high school sweetheart, and they married a few years ago. This past winter, my husband and I visited them several times. We like it up there. On New Year's Eve, my husband Dave and I heard a new term for Torontonians who buy vacation property "north of 7". They're called "citiots".

Dave and I loved the term, but never dreamed we'd become part of that pack. We had discussed perhaps eventually buying property in Wakefield, QC, near my best friend, Leslie and her husband Brian. But when my mother decided to give my brother Jim and I our share of the proceeds from the sale of her home, owning a vacation property shifted from a concept to a possibility. Money was cheap to borrow. We started trolling MLS listing on the Internet.

We soon realized that Wakefield wasn't a practical option. Wakefield is about five hours from Toronto, and we wouldn't be able to get there very often. And there was the nagging issue of maintenance. Who would take care of the place when we weren't around? We couldn't ask Brian to do that for us could we? And, the kicker: real estate in Wakefield wasn't the bargain we thought it would be!

Dave and I spent yet another weekend with our friends Mariane and Charlie up in Collingwood. On the way back to Toronto, we drove past a converted schoolhouse that Dave had been interested in before he met me. It sported a fresh "SOLD" sign.

If only we had known that it was for sale! Dave was now in a position to afford the place. I had a more than decent down payment at my fingertips. We shifted our attention away from Wakefield, onto Collingwood and Creemore.

Our initial thought was to purchase a Victorian property in Collingwood's downtown core. I pictured us stumbling back to our charming, character filled, beautifully decorated home after an evening of great food, great wine and even greater conversation at Mariane and Charlie's.

Brent, our Toronto real estate agent, put us on to Peter, an old friend of his who relocated to Collingwood. And so began our search for the perfect second home.

We gave Peter our wish list. The initial phone conversation centered around that elusive converted schoolhouse, but we also mentioned our desire to own something older, with character. Peter showed us a variety of properties that ranged from converted schoolhouses (two of them) to converted barns (on ninety acres!), to a seven-bedroom converted general store (too close to the highway), to a five-thousand square foot Grand Home (the nicest house in town - the town was "an armpit" as accurately described by Mariane), to a log home (right on Highway 26 - the noise!) to ... a condo in Lighthouse Point, where Peter himself lived.

A condo? No way! Dave hated it on principle. The unit was very nice, well decorated, well laid out, but a ground floor unit. I liked it, but had to agree about the ground floor aspect. We couldn't live with the perceived lack of privacy a first floor unit would offer.

I e-mailed my friend Leslie the details of our house-hunting excursion, complete with pictures and impressions. When I mentioned the condo, I was almost apologetic. I stressed the low maintenance aspect of owning a condo -- the turnkey, "lock the door and walk away", worry-free aspect of having such a property. She promptly responded with "why would you want to spend your weekends shovelling a driveway or mowing a lawn?" By golly, she was right!

Time for a second trip up north, this time with a dedicated condo focus. Peter is very good at his job. He showed us a variety of units on the property, ranging from wall-papered shrines to the year 1989, to hideously overpriced brand-new waterfront units, to a slightly older but upgraded two-storey waterfront unit, to its unrenovated (and very, very pink) sibling. Peter cleverly positioned the unit he knew was going to become our home in sixth place, out of nine possibilities.

My first impression was disappointment. I thought I would fall in love with the unit the minute I walked into the place. I didn't, but I have to admit, the one aspect I did fall in love with was the view. That view! I saw it through the windows on either side of the doorway. The marble floor was nice, but colder in appearance than I would have liked. And the granite countertop was darker than I would chose, but okay. And, horror of horrors, it had an electric stove!

Yes, I know I don't cook much, but I do like a gas stove. For me, it's more about the cachet of having a gas cooker than cooking with gas. After all, my preferred kitchen appliance is the microwave. Hmm, would this prove an effective negotiating tool?

We left the unit, with its three bedrooms, three bathrooms, two decks, two levels (second and third floors, yay, no ground floor worries!) and moved on to the other viewings. Yet, we did come back to this one at the end of the day.

We requested a second viewing a few days later. Within the month, we would join the twenty-five percent of the population that leaves Toronto every weekend. We would become citiots.