On a New York street round the corner from the Kabul Cafe, a man thrust a package into my hand. "Happy holidays," he said. The package was a menorah, the candle holder used during the Jewish festival of Chanukah. "Merry Christmas," said the santas on every street corner, competing to be heard with the music of the mobile Mitzvah Tank. A mitzvah is a Jewish good deed, like handing out menorahs to lone travellers.

At the Lincoln Center the Nutcracker Ballet was on, as it is every year. "It's always the same," said the woman in the row behind me. "I don't know why I come."

The top of the Empire State Building was lit up in green and red for Christmas, although for the first night of Chanukah it changed to blue and white. New York is proud of its multiculturalism. Though not as proud as it is of its delis. One of the most famous is Katz's Deli, immortalised by Meg Ryan's orgasm in When Harry met Sally. There was no need to tell the waitress "I'll have what she's having." Everyone has the same - pastrami on rye. Two tables away from mine was a sign. "Bill Clinton sat here," it said.

And so to Toronto. The national sport of Canada is hockey. Hockey is a bit like football only played on ice. And with sticks. In fact, it's nothing like football. "Well," said John, my new friend, "the aim is to get the ball in the goal." Only, as John explained, it's not called a ball, it's called a puck.

John was very happy to explain the game to me. He'd been watching me from across the Library Bar at the Royal York hotel in Toronto, where I'd been getting to work on one of their famous 'birdbath' martinis, stirred, not shaken. After an hour of staring John came over to talk to me. "I was waiting for you to send me a note asking me to join you," said John. John didn't seem to mind that I had no desire for him to join me, though when he footed the bill for my cocktails my objections disappeared. "There's only one person you need to know in hockey," said John, "and that's Wayne Gretzky." "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I asked. He looked at me in disbelief. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?"

I asked a man in my hotel. "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I said. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?" was the reply. "Where are you from? Outer space?" At the Hockey Hall of Fame the woman at the ticket counter looked at me with pity. "You just missed Wayne Gretzky" she said. "Half an hour earlier and you would have met him."

It soon became clear. "Wayne Gretzky," said Kevin, who works in the mock-up hockey dressing room, "is like the greatest hockey player there's ever been. He is the Luis Figo of Canada." Kevin was of Portuguese descent. "Is he like Beckham?" I asked. "Better," he said. The hall of fame has an exhibition charting Wayne Gretzky's life. 'Wayne's boots from the age of two' said one sign. 'The stick Wayne scored his first ever goal with' said another. At Wayne Gretzky's, the bar, the Toronto Maple Leafs were playing the Montreal Canadians. There you get the chance to sample foods such as 'Grandma Gretzky's famous perogies' and 'The Right Winger - chicken wings with homemade mild, medium, hot or honey garlic sauce, or enjoy them just the way Wayne likes 'em - no sauce'.

"Fight!" The man next to me at the bar turned round excitedly. Fighting is quite normal in hockey. Players just receive a five-minute penalty and sit out of the game for this time. This fight was between Tie Domi of the Maple Leafs and Reid Simpson of the Canadians. It meant that the number of penalty minutes Domi had been given in his entire career came to 1,672, more than any other Maple Leaf player ever.

The security guard at the door of the executive apartments in downtown Toronto was a bit dubious about letting me in. "I've been invited to a party here," I said. "But I'm afraid I can't remember the name of the host or the number of the apartment." It was true. Alexandra, the waitress in the Library Bar, had invited me along. Once I gained entry I set about ingratiating myself with the other guests. "Wayne Gretzky," I said, "now there's a hockey player. Who can forget that time when he accepted a pass from Marty McSorley to score on Kirk Mclean of the Vancouver Canucks in March 1994." "You like hockey?" said the host. "Pat Quinn lives upstairs." "Who's Pat Quinn?" I asked, and his look told me that any points I had gained, had just been lost.