Holts Contemporary Blog | Holt Renfrew

It’s an Indian summer night in Toronto, a Saturday, and the city seems to throb like a heart beat with the slow moving mobs of taxis and twenty-somethings strolling down the sidewalks. I get to Queen and Bathurst and pass the purple high school hangout where I watched angsty teen bands play while wearing my magenta Che Guevera t-shirt. Although I’d probably still fit in there with my leather jacket, Michelle Ross necklace and studded shoes, this time I walk through the sleek glass entrance of the Burroughs Building next door. I feel like I’m a big girl now.

I am whisked past the guest list check-in and decide to brave the 6 flights of stairs in 4 inch stilettos because I am too impatient to wait for elevators.

Through the 6th floor door is the impossibly cool band The Stills, playing before a crowd of Toronto’s fashion connoisseurs. Stephen Wong and Nancy Barrett are swaying to the sounds while Barbara Atkin and John Gerhardt catch up with old and new friends. Grey Goose flows at one bar, and Stella Artois at the next. On the walls, films of sexy models and even sexier musicians are projected on repeat.

I pose on velvet couches for Polaroids and make friends with girls in Balmain jackets.

By midnight, I can’t handle the pain my shoes have inflicted on my feet, but I can’t bear to leave just yet, so I risk a fashion faux pas and slip them off.

Two concoctions of grey goose and vitamin water later, the bar tender informs us that he’s “shutting down.” It’s time to go home.

I blow a kiss to my new friends and breeze downstairs. I am bid a friendly adieu at the door and I’m handed a little magenta box. I look over my shoulder as I drive away and I realize this is where I belong.