Gather round children, and hear a tale of wonder, adventure, music, heat, thirst and sex. Of tired feet, expensive cover charges, celebrity sightings and exceptions to our everyday rules. This is the story of the REAL Caribana.
The Ghost of Caribana Past
When we were young and underaged, too young to be in the club popping bottles, but old enough to be out late, Caribana was the highlight of our year. As June landed upon us, torontonian teens would begin planning their Caribana weekend. We'd save our money, beg our parents to get us hotels for us and our friends, gather our party outfits for all-ages joints like Canada Meets America and count down the days until the parade.
Caribana Friday was always the same. As the sun set you were already on Yonge Street, walking the strip texting everyone trying to find your friends. Dundas Square would be packed with people dressed to the nines. Dudes would find a spot on the strip to post up with their homies and grab girls by the wrist all night saving number after number in their flip phones. Girls knew what would happen, hoping to meet a dude from the states, listening for an accent of any sort. Dudes knew it to, so many fellas from the city had practiced their New York accents for weeks in advance. We were young. And dumb. And full of cum. I'm sure most of us look back and laugh at how pathetic we were.
But we never missed the parade. We would always take the same route: to Bathurst Station, then on the good old 511 Bathurst streetcar to the CNE. We all hopped over the fence, scraping a body part or two in the process, to join the parade. We hopped on floats and bubbled hot, sweaty strangers in the street. Bought water from hustling vendors with garbage bins filled with ice and bottled water, littered lakeshore with flags, Popsicle sticks, sweat rags, food containers and discarded costume pieces.
We'd reach the end of the parade route and either stopped there or walked the route one more time. Then it was back to Yonge Street in the night time. Often we stayed out so long the strip would be dead, the sun would be rising again, and we'd wait til the subway started running to go home.
The Ghost of Caribana Present
Nowadays 'Bana is very different. The city even changed the name of our most anticipated summer festival. We still all it Caribana. We ALWAYS will. We're grown now! We may still plan our weekend in advance but the way we do it is much more effortless and smooth. We don't have to try so hard to save, we can book our own hotels now, preorder our bottles for the club and reserve our booths. Many of us don't attend the parade anymore because it doesn't feel the same. But some of us play mass with our friends and enjoy a drunken Palance down the parade route.
The thirst is still there, but tends to be more sophisticated.
Now, we don't just exchange numbers. We discuss hotel locations, room numbers and what chasers or blunts to bring. We stay off the Yonge strip in favour of the Sheraton Hotel lobby, which tends to look like a scene from Paid in Full.
Now we attend parties and pop bottles in celebration of the summer. We get our VIP packages and take pics with visiting celebrities we may bump into. We enjoy the drunken 4 day weekend to the fullest. Dressing up, entertaining visiting friends from far off places, and making exceptions while throwing morals out the window with our hotel indiscretions. This is Caribana for grown folks.
The Ghost of Caribana Future
In the future, who knows what Caribana will be like. There are so many traditions we follow, perhaps it will remain the same. Yonge Street still floods with people, just not as much as before. Sheraton's lobby still bumps every year. Americans still flock to the city to enjoy the festivities with us. The thirst will always remain, the parties will always pop, celebs will always visit.
Perhaps it's only us that have changed and will change. We'll be telling our kids stories of our Caribanas when we watch them embark on their own bana adventures on the first weekend of August.
... I just pray that they aren't as horrid as we were.
The Articulate Bitch
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