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Weekends and I have an understanding.
They exist so I can sleep late and take revenge on all the other days that force me to wake up early, answer emails, drink coffee before it has a chance to work, and pretend to be a responsible adult.
Last Saturday, however, Germany had other plans.
The first thing that reached me that morning was not sunlight, an alarm clock, or even common sense. It was a roar.
A loud one.
Somehow, it slipped through a closed window and landed directly in my dream.
A few minutes later, I found myself standing on the balcony, still half asleep and wondering whether I had accidentally wandered into another country overnight.
Below me, people were chanting, singing, waving flags, and repeatedly shouting a familiar word:
Deutschland!
A quick search solved the mystery. Germany was about to play the Ivory Coast in the FIFA World Cup.
As I listened to the crowd, I found myself thinking about my older brother.
I have not seen him in more than three years.
In my opinion, he is one of the world's most committed Germanophiles. He has never lived in Germany, yet his loyalty to the German national team and Bayern Munich is so absolute that even some Germans might find it excessive.
When we were teenagers, he supported Germany.
Naturally, I supported whoever happened to be playing against Germany.
Not because I cared.
Because he cared.
There is a difference.
I chose Manchester United shortly after their famous victory over Bayern Munich in the 1999 Champions League final, mostly because it irritated my brother. Looking back, this may not have been the most sophisticated political philosophy ever developed, but it worked remarkably well.
Standing on the balcony that morning, I suddenly realized something.
For the first time in my life, I was not the younger brother arguing from the opposite side of the room.
I was a man nearing forty, living on another continent, listening to strangers chant for a team my brother loved.
The distance felt larger than usual.
Then I remembered that Harbourfront Centre was screening the match.
And a thought crossed my mind.
Perhaps, for once, I should support Germany.
Not because I had converted.
Not because I suddenly owned a Bayern Munich scarf.
But because, from thousands of kilometres away, it seemed like a small way of standing beside my brother.
While getting ready, I realized Germany had already occupied a surprising amount of space in my life.
Like many students of the humanities, I encountered Immanuel Kant long before I encountered Germany itself. Through him, I first wrestled with questions about reason, knowledge, and the limits of human understanding.
Then came Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, whose vast vision of history made me feel as if entire civilizations were participating in a conversation that never ended.
Arthur Schopenhauer taught me to question many comfortable assumptions about freedom and desire.
Friedrich Nietzsche challenged even more of them, leaving generations of readers trying to understand what it means to become who they are.
And somewhere along the way, Martin Heidegger appeared and convinced many of us that even the most ordinary things around us might not be as simple as they seem.
That is before we even get to music.
Bach and Beethoven have accompanied countless afternoons of reading and writing, while German literature continues to speak across centuries. From Goethe to Thomas Mann, there is something in that tradition that feels both deeply European and strangely universal.
Not long ago, I finished reading Death in Venice and found myself staring at the final page longer than necessary.
Some books do that.
Some cultures do too.
By the time I arrived at Harbourfront, the crowd was already gathering.
Families.
Students.
Tourists.
People wrapped in German flags.
People pretending not to be wrapped in German flags.
For ninety minutes, everyone became part of the same story.
Some celebrated.
Some worried.
Some shouted tactical advice at players who could not possibly hear them.
Football, like literature, often depends on hope outlasting logic.
After the match, I noticed several social media posts declaring:
"When Germany Takes Over Toronto."
I understood the joke!
Yet Toronto has always seemed impossible for any one voice to dominate.
The city speaks too many languages for that.
Its streets belong to too many histories.
Its neighbourhoods carry too many memories.
Here, every voice can find room beside another voice.
A German chant.
A Persian memory.
A Portuguese song.
A Spanish conversation.
A Chinese festival.
A Ukrainian flag.
A Canadian summer evening.
All are somehow sharing the same space without cancelling one another out.
And perhaps that is what stayed with me most.
Only in a city like Toronto can you wake up to the sound of football fans celebrating another country, join them for an afternoon, feel closer to a brother living far away, and return home with a story.
Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.
Even if it ruined my plans for sleeping in.
The Roots Stories!
People leave.
Stories remain.
Toronto was built by people who arrived from every corner of the world carrying memories, hopes, traditions, and dreams.
Every family has a story worth preserving.
As part of a new initiative at QAF Narrative: Toronto Harbourfront Newsletter, we are collecting and publishing the stories that helped shape this city before they are lost to time.
With a few simple questions and a friendly conversation, we can help turn your family history into a lasting narrative.
You can reply to this message any time!
Thank you for reading QAF Narrative! [email protected]; [email protected]
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