I Spent 11 Hours at Toronto’s Christmas Market to See if It Could Grow My Grinchy Heart

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada.

I feel deeply ambivalent about Christmas. Growing up I hated the holiday for all the typical reasons that teenagers hate things. I didn’t believe in consumerism, red was never my color, and the season’s prescribed feelings of merriment only amplified the fact that my hormones had left me angry at pretty much everything. As I got older, the holidays meant seasonal rushes. The service industry is always a slog, but December was its own special kind of hell. My co-workers and I hustled 12-hour days to keep up with the hordes of new reservations. The soundtrack for our perpetual service was a looping Christmas mix just 34 minutes long. One year after hearing the Chipmunks’ sing "Christmas Don’t Be Late" for the sixteenth time, I threatened to choke out a bus boy with decorative tinsel.

Later winter was marked by complicated family situations, sick relatives, and arguments with partners. I’d stretch money for gifts/bus tickets back home. It made me resentful. But for the past few years, for many different reasons, I’ve been trying to approach the holidays with a better outlook.

A lot of angry young men define themselves by opposition. It’s all bullshit. Christmas is a capitalist nightmare: a tale told by a singing bass in a Santa hat signifying nothing. But even if that’s true—and it is, kind of—that isn’t the whole picture. The holidays also give way to beautiful quiet moments. Late night chats while doing the dishes or the look on someone’s face when you’ve really nailed a gift. Which means that, in part, how you feel about the season is a matter of perspective.

4:15 PM: At a quarter past four, my friends Ted and Storm met me at one of the market’s many bars. They had meant to be there earlier but getting through the crowd had taken longer than expected. This was the couple’s second trip to the Distillery that week. Storm loves Christmas, it’s something she picked up from her mom in England. Ted loves Christmas because he’s deeply in love with Storm.

The two calmed me down and cracked wise about how I had set myself up for failure. Did I expect to enjoy things by slithering around with headphones in? Was my heart going to grow three sizes by hanging out at a Christmas market alone? I bought a round of spiked cider. Chats with friends and alcohol helped. The three of us finished, then downed a another round quickly. After we agreed to do some people watching. Before we ventured out, Storm excused herself to the bathroom. She didn’t return for a half an hour. When she got back we asked what happened.

“The first bathroom was covered in blood, so I had to wait for the second,” she said. We stared blankly and ask if she knew what happened. “Don't know. Wasn’t my blood.”

6:30 PM: The highlight of the day was the off-brand Grinch. Booming with the voice of a stage actor he plowed through the street. “Isn’t Christmas awful!” he laughed, shaking his belly. “You better not try and enjoy yourself! I haven’t had a good time in years.”

The Grinch mugged for a photo then moved on to the next group. Ted and Storm snapped photos then pointed in my direction. “This is all a load of hogwash!” said The Grinch. The crowd around him laughed and clapped their hands.

8:35 PM: By the end of the market I was on my own again. My friends had left after an hour and a half, which in retrospect is the most amount of time any reasonable person should spend at a holiday market. The streets had cleared out and it had started to rain. Left on the cobblestone streets it was just me and a few die hards, hiding under umbrellas and trying their best to enjoy themselves. The weather wasn’t what they had planned for, but they were going to try and make the most of of it anyways.

Playing on my phone and biding my time until close I wasn’t sure if there was anything I’d learned. It was a bunch of disjointed scenes, some fun/some awful. I tried to figure out how I felt. Focusing only on the good stuff would be disingenuous. Making fun of it would make me an asshole. A lot like before, I guess. Sort of how it always comes across this time of year. Doing one last lap of the Distillery, I caught eyes with a girl selling hot toddies.

“Hey! Do you want one of these? It’s the last of my mix!” she said. “It’ll put you in the holiday spirit for the road.”

“That’s really kind of you I’d love a—”

“Nine bucks, tip in. Card only,” she said. I paid for the drink and held it in my hands for warmth.

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