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.
Queen Street, east of Yonge. A crowded streetcar on a cold Saturday afternoon offers respite from the biting wind.
Old and new around the Flatiron Building in Toronto, across from the St. Lawrence Market.
TTC 504, eastbound on King Street, seen here at University. My old route to and from the nighmare job that was “Quality Assurance” at a bread company.
Moving east on King Street.
Probably the same way you say “Stupid Tourist.” I would like to say it was a dark and stormy night, as if that was some kind of excuse. But it was the middle of the afternoon. And I had no excuse.