Get a Passport. Pack a Bag. Come North.

Toronto Awaits!

Bill King Photography

I’ve been working on a plan—not a slick, covert ops mission, but more of a kindly invitation across the 49th parallel. I’ve got blood kin in the States who’ve never seen a passport. Folks who think travel is Vegas and a double pontoon party on Kentucky Lake, fish fry at sundown, a cooler full of beer. I respect that. I grew up there. But listen, this is Trump’s America now, and the dude is two Florida gators away from signing an executive order that reads:

"All Americans are hereby forbidden from visiting Wally World, Canada, or any land mass exhibiting empathy. You will find deals to Mar-a-Fargo in your message centre. Flip phone required."

And that's some scary end-times shit.

We Canadians get it. We see how Florida Fats has it out for regular Americans—especially folks with pigment, passports, or principles. It's not subtle. It's Stephen Miller in a trench coat, whispering deportation lullabies while polishing a bust of Roy Cohn.

But there’s a way out. It's simple. Get yourself a passport. The good kind, not the "Real ID" folks who flash at gas stations in Tallahassee. And bring some currency. Your dollar swells up here, and it could flex its way through Kensington Market by buying locally sourced turmeric lattes, a weekend hotel stay, and a dozen eggs laid by hens that listen to Celine Dion.

Kristine and I made the jump in 1969. Still here. Still in love with this crazy mosaic of a city. Toronto—the six. Not once have I heard, “You don’t belong.” Not even close. The other day a woman, maybe ninety-four if she was a day, stood up and offered me her subway seat. I took it, mostly out of respect, partly because her cane looked sharper than a pick ax.

And the summers here? They sing. I hit the streets every day with my camera, chasing sunlight between alleyways and storefronts. Kristine and I grab lunch like it’s a sport—each meal a passport stamp: California clubs on St. Clair, Turkish lentil soup on Gerrard, pizza down an alley that smells like heaven. The faces feeding us are from everywhere, and no one asks for papers.

Nobody here’s checking your lineage. There’s no ghoul show cabinet of Stephen Miller sketching out who’s white enough to stay. You won’t get deported or exiled to some Christian nationalist hellscape for asking directions in Spanish.

So, come. I’ll show you the Redwood Theatre, my day haunt as executive director. It’s a throwback room with soul, where ghosts dance with a new sound. Our Blues Festival kicks off at the end of June—real deal roots and rhythm. And when night falls, the city doesn’t sweat you out like Dallas or bake you into silence like Phoenix. We glide. We dance. We live.

Bring your camera. Bring your heart. You won’t need your fear.

ICE, up here, comes with your drink.