(Toronto) Ten cities around the world host Masters 1000 category tournaments. Among them are Miami, Monte Carlo, Rome and Shanghai. There is also Toronto. In fact, there is York.
It’s Monday morning, the big hand is halfway between eight and nine, and the real tournament begins. The qualifications are behind us, and three Canadians will begin their journey in the main draw of the National Bank Open during the day.
However, there is no enthusiasm.
In fact, on the site itself, people massed during the family weekend. In the corridors, rumor has it that it was an attendance record for the first weekend of the tournament.
Outside of Sobeys Stadium, however, it’s almost impossible to know that a professional tennis tournament in the most prestigious tournament category after the majors is taking place in the Queen City.
In fact, it is this name that is lacking. The name of the tournament, the National Bank Open in Toronto, is not faithful to reality.
In reality, the tournament takes place in York, on the campus of the university of the same name.
York, not to be confused with New York, because there is no novelty here.
This university suburb is located 30 minutes north of Toronto. It’s as if the National Bank Open took place at the Outlets de Mirabel. But without shops, businesses and restaurants.
It’s Monday and I’m hungry. Lunch at the hotel is overpriced and the cheap bagels served in the media room were good soldiers the first two days, but when traveling, innovation is in order.
From the hotel in Vaughan, pronounced like the last name of the skier named Lindsey, I make sure there is a lunch restaurant within walking distance of the stadium.
And not necessarily the fanciest restaurant. Think of a restaurant that serves coffee and donuts. Here it is.
The map indicates that the nearest branch to the stadium is 1.5 kilometers away. Since I had arrived early, I decided to go. Not running, but walking quickly. The mere idea of being able to taste a fruit bat with honey was enough to take my breath away, despite the darkening sky.
Between the stadium and the destination, the most striking observation was to see how deserted the city was. Empty like the hole in the middle of a maple donut.
However, it was a holiday in Ontario. It was the first day of the biggest event of the year in York. It was Monday morning. The night had gone to bed for a while. But there was nobody. At each intersection, the lights turned green for no one. It was like turning on a flashlight in the middle of the desert.
Despite the university halls, residences and offices, the only human beings encountered during my escapade wore volunteer jackets for the tournament.
During this time, I imagined bustling Jarry Park, busy Jean-Talon Street and crowded Parc station.
Here, on an empty stomach, a twirler could have passed and no one could have witnessed it.
My smartwatch suddenly indicates that I have arrived at my destination. Around me, however, no restaurant with attached lettering. At the intersection, I venture somewhat in all directions from the cardinal point, but nothing. The card lied to me.
The only restaurants seen during the walk served Whoppers or 12-inchers. And they were closed at that time, of course.
It’s hard to imagine such a limited offer in Indian Wells, Madrid or Paris.
Even more difficult to conceive the absence of a Canadian emblem as important as the loon and maple syrup near such a considerable gathering place.
So I returned to the stadium empty-handed and hungry. In the pouring rain, without an umbrella and alone. A glorious moment to say the least.
Returning to the stadium, 43 minutes after my departure, the surroundings were not more animated. At the venue, however, people were arriving to wait, as no matches would be played for a long time due to downpours.
My urban hike ended in front of the media room toaster, 3.13 kilometers of walking later. With my fifth and sixth bagels since Saturday afternoon, pecked at while thinking of the fruit explosion muffin with which I had imagined myself starting the day.
