My earliest memories of travel are of trips to Toronto. From our rural town, surrounded by trees and farms, we ventured east to visit family a few times a year. For four hours as we drove, I’d be on the edge of my seat, counting distance markers as the highway delivered us into Canada’s metropolis. Fields to suburbs, two lane highways to eight, eagerly awaiting the moment when the city would rise before my eyes. For a kid from a town of 5,000 people, it may as well have been a rocket ship to another dimension.
But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?
Jack Kerouac
At the western edge of the city, our highway exit (Allen Road) ran beneath a subway overpass. Nirvana was being in sync with a train (a train!) passing above. The road then hooked around to pass a train storage yard (Downsview), filled with a fantastic variety of subways new and old and I strained against my seatbelt to peer over the fence as we drove by. It was the big city. I was hooked.
On every trip, I rode Toronto’s streetcars and buses and subways — face pressed up against the glass — trying to absorb it all.
Now, I still do.
This is looking south across Queen Street, a streetcar moving eastward at the edge of Osgoode Hall.
