Under Cover in Toronto

When the music stopped, the black-tied attendants prepared for the exodus. From my perch, I watched the concertgoers jostle to get out the front door, fumbling with coats and kids. I calmly finished my drink, then slipped past the crowd on my descent downward.

My serendipitous foray added a much-needed boost to my step -- stairs, ramps and too many food-court squares can be exhausting on the legs -- as I now ventured to the far end of the PATH map, the bus station.

To reach the terminal, I crossed through a surprising range of architecture. I rode the escalator to the Santiago Calatrava-designed Allen Lambert Galleria at BCE Place, where soaring white arches cut the blue sky into puzzle pieces. I detoured through an underground parking lot (follow the Squirrel signs; if you hit Moose, you're too far left) to take a self-guided tour of City Hall, which includes contemporary artworks and a peek at the mayor's office. I passed through Atrium on the Bay, an open-plan department store where I bounced on the display beds. In Eaton Centre, an ersatz Pentagon Mall, I watched Canada's species of mall rats, nearly indistinguishable from ours. Finally, I reached my end point.

I was about ready to turn around and thread my way back when I caught sight of the next departure: Montreal. Hey, Montreal has an underground city, too. If only the buses departed from below . . . .

* * *

Nighttime in the PATH is often a quiet affair: maybe cocktails at Canoe, which overlooks Lake Ontario and its islands, followed by a $32 truffle burger at ByMark and a nightcap and sports highlights at the Duke of Devon. Unless the Maple Leafs are in town. Then the scene is pure raucous, painted in blue and white.

Since I was in a hockey town in a hockey country, I figured I should join the fray. The Saturday game at the Air Canada Centre was a biggie: the 40th anniversary of Toronto's last Stanley Cup win and the 80th anniversary of their first game. I started scouring the doorways and corridors for scalpers.

"Anybody selling hockey tickets, selling, selling, selling?" called out a pasty, rodent-faced man standing outside the arena entrance, half-shielded by a concrete column.

"Are there scalpers here?" I asked.

"No, just me," he said, scanning the crowd as they filed inside. "This is my office."

"So," I asked, "are you buying or selling?"

"Both. They're going for a thousand bucks each," he retorted, before slinking off.