The world is on fire. And so was the Hoito
THE LAST TIME I went to the Hoito restaurant I was working in Thunder Bay and living in a small room 2300 km. away from the place I now call home. That was three years ago just before Christmas. It was late afternoon, already dark and cold. I walked down the hill, alone, through Waverley Park and down Secord Street. The old brick and frame houses along the way looked depressingly familiar behind the dirty snowbanks. This was my hometown, the town I’d left 15 years earlier. It was about 5:30 in the evening when I got to the restaurant. Everything was the same as the last time I’d seen it. The old weigh scale stood in the corner by the door, the terrazzo tile in the enttry looked sickly green under the dull florescent lights. The place was empty, I was still alone. I walked back to a table near the kitchen door and waited. After a while a waitress came out, a young African woman, and gave me a smile. “Coffee,” she said. I nodded as she laid down the white paper placemat with t...
