I text Lido Pimienta that I’m outside her apartment and she texts back: “Knock! Stacey will open for you, I’m getting my son from daycare! Running lateeee.” I head upstairs and chill out, watching as groups of people slowly trickle in. I meet percussionists from Colombia, Aboriginal musicians from Montréal, and three white guys from Toronto. Stacey is also a musician. There are trays of cinnamon buns sitting on the stovetop and as we hear the door open for the last time, someone warns us that “it must be Lido.”
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