I remembered a store I visited last time I was in Toronto called Essence du Papier. It was as pretentious as it sounded, and I wanted to buy some notebooks from their vast selection. Problem was, they were in the 31km of underground stores that is the PATH system. Navigating your way around is like diving into a tunnel after a Viet Cong soldier. There's no grid, half the tunnels are dead ends, signs are ambiguous, and the six subway stations and twelve food courts look identical. To make things worse, all the stores have above-ground addresses... which don't exist above ground.
I took three hours and easily thirty flights of stairs, going up and down, before I located the store. It didn't have what I was after, but they pointed me in the direction of a store that did: "Go along here for a while, then turn left and go up, then back, then past the bank, then back, then up, then when you see the street you're almost there." If I hadn't asked the name of the store I would still be shambling around the vast subterranean straightaways.
Later I took the subway up to the museum and saw the Jurassic exhibit there. Upon closing the rain was falling steadily outside, so I looked for places to kill some time before walking back home. I bought a pen in a Grand&Toy, then lingered in the building foyer outside. After a few minutes a German-sounding security guy told me,"No-one can stand here. Leave now." After three days of being back in Canada, where people hold doors open then apologise for not being completely out of your way, this came as something of a shock. I walked down Yonge St in what was a much lighter rain.
Reflecting on the incident in my head, a number of details sprang to mind. The list of institutions in the building included the Israeli Consulate. The guard was not in sight until he spoke to me. The scenario now seemed more like this: camera-viewing Israeli personnel saw a damp, slightly bedraggled young man loitering in the foyer, clutching a bag with wires coming out of it. They sent down their own security guy, who was restrained from outright hostility only because, in the back of his mind, he was pondering five ways he could kill me while leaving one hand in his pocket.
.
Friday, 9 May 2008
Monday, 5 May 2008
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig
Any journey to Canada begins with easily the most tolerable border experience in the world. An official who appears to actually possess interests outside the gun range looks at your papers and asks you one or two questions, then sends you on your way. I surrendered my can of pepper spray after he couldn't find anything on it to suggest it was for animals and not for people. So sensible, I knew I wasn't in America anymore.
The only way to avoid spending a night in Buffalo was to take the 3am Greyhound. There are many American destinations I can recommend against, and three hours in the downtown bus terminal early on a Sunday morning in one of the poorest cities in the country is near the top of the leaderboard. A police officer, baton drawn, passed me every 15 minutes or so. Two men with beards stared at me, and at the woman near me whose fat had given up, perhaps for logistical reasons, any attempt at cohesion and divided itself into a loosely-linked sacks.
The bus was a jarring reminder of why I had taken the train all this time. If sleeping on a train is like sitting beside Michael Flatley in full flail, dozing on a bus is like sitting inside a box on a trampoline inside the belly of a dragon who had eaten too much Indian food. By the time we arrived in Toronto at 6am, I had achieved several minutes of sleep thanks only to minor concussion.
The hostel opened its doors at 10am, which meant that for four hours I wandered the streets with other people who had nowhere to lay their heads. Many also had nowhere to spout their theories on dance music stealing their thoughts, though for sheer brevity the man who constantly shouted,"The lights! The lights!" won my attention most fully. The ambiguity of pointing to crossing signs was what sealed the deal for me; for the tiniest moment, I wondered if there was something terribly wrong with the system, instead of with the man.
It is good to be back in Toronto. Awaking after a few hours of sleep, I looked out the window and felt at home in a way I had not for a very long time. If I'm able to gather enough of the pocket lint that is currently my life, I may be able to put together something cohesive, and even, and firm, and strong.
.
The only way to avoid spending a night in Buffalo was to take the 3am Greyhound. There are many American destinations I can recommend against, and three hours in the downtown bus terminal early on a Sunday morning in one of the poorest cities in the country is near the top of the leaderboard. A police officer, baton drawn, passed me every 15 minutes or so. Two men with beards stared at me, and at the woman near me whose fat had given up, perhaps for logistical reasons, any attempt at cohesion and divided itself into a loosely-linked sacks.
The bus was a jarring reminder of why I had taken the train all this time. If sleeping on a train is like sitting beside Michael Flatley in full flail, dozing on a bus is like sitting inside a box on a trampoline inside the belly of a dragon who had eaten too much Indian food. By the time we arrived in Toronto at 6am, I had achieved several minutes of sleep thanks only to minor concussion.
The hostel opened its doors at 10am, which meant that for four hours I wandered the streets with other people who had nowhere to lay their heads. Many also had nowhere to spout their theories on dance music stealing their thoughts, though for sheer brevity the man who constantly shouted,"The lights! The lights!" won my attention most fully. The ambiguity of pointing to crossing signs was what sealed the deal for me; for the tiniest moment, I wondered if there was something terribly wrong with the system, instead of with the man.
It is good to be back in Toronto. Awaking after a few hours of sleep, I looked out the window and felt at home in a way I had not for a very long time. If I'm able to gather enough of the pocket lint that is currently my life, I may be able to put together something cohesive, and even, and firm, and strong.
.
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Ripping Off Uncle Sam
After booking my final train ticket, I took a brief tally of how much I cheated Amtrak out of during my lemming-like dash around the continental United States.
My month-long pass cost $360. I used it fifteen times for rail travel that would otherwise have cost about $1400; by my fourth trip I was ahead. But other, invisible losses were incurred by America by my choice of travel: about half my trips were overnight and prevented me from spending greenbacks on accommodation.
Had I flown, I would only have made one trip with the same money and used the dubious services of security personnel twice, for departure and arrival. By train, I was able to suck up valuable National Security minutes thirty times over. While you can't really put a price on security, in the States it usually runs about $6 an hour if facial expressions are anything to go by.
Other expenses I ground under my freeloading heel were pamphlets, maps and the Prozac-assisted goodwill of information centres in my eleven major and five minor destinations. I would sail into the tourist-trap, blue-carpeted, middle-brow urban caves, gather fistfuls of glossy materials, resolutely refuse all tours and services, ask tricky questions, and slip out in a masterfully efficient series of maneuvers. I would later toss 90% of my magpie's hoard and tear all extraneous pages from the remainder, creating a burden for garbage collectors (if I was walking) or service staff (if I was sitting).
Other costs to America were less tangible. Going by the Peter Pan principle of "Every time you say you don't believe in fairies, a fairy dies", I tried to wangle an unpatriotic statement from anyone I talked with for any length of time. Most Americans, presented with the laundry-list of sins Global & Domestic their nation is responsible for, will crumple like a wet paper bag. They are alone; no-one is waving a flag at them; Fox News is switched off; apple pie is not on the menu; Mom is many leagues away; all the guys on the money are long dead; they don't remember half the words to the national anthem. Suddenly the figleaf of God Bless America doesn't stack up against a century of reckless colonialism, cronyism, nepotism, McCarthyism and Bushisms. If I can raise the self-awareness/-loathing in America just a little, their stock goes down, baby. And mine, by comparison, goes up. I figure.
Why would I want to hurt America? Because it's dirty, and self-aggrandising, and socially unequal, and gullible, and imbalanced, and uneducated, and immoderate, and fat, and noisy, and proud, and believes in things that every other First World country abandoned as medieval twenty years ago. It has a deadly pack instinct which makes it emotive and violent and a lightning rod for other emotive, violent countries. It engages in international relations with the wit, wisdom and reserve of a guest on Jerry Springer.
All of these things make it the carnie sideshow of the world. My Amtrak pass was really an admission ticket to the carnival. See the bearded lady! Watch the man jump through the flaming hoop! Laugh as the bear on the tricycle chases the midget on the bicycle! The glory and squalor of the nation were in plain view, waiting for me to be fascinated and repelled by their very strangeness.
I ripped off America. Now I have to ensure nothing stuck to me; though if I missed something, I'm sure I shall smell it eventually.
.
My month-long pass cost $360. I used it fifteen times for rail travel that would otherwise have cost about $1400; by my fourth trip I was ahead. But other, invisible losses were incurred by America by my choice of travel: about half my trips were overnight and prevented me from spending greenbacks on accommodation.
Had I flown, I would only have made one trip with the same money and used the dubious services of security personnel twice, for departure and arrival. By train, I was able to suck up valuable National Security minutes thirty times over. While you can't really put a price on security, in the States it usually runs about $6 an hour if facial expressions are anything to go by.
Other expenses I ground under my freeloading heel were pamphlets, maps and the Prozac-assisted goodwill of information centres in my eleven major and five minor destinations. I would sail into the tourist-trap, blue-carpeted, middle-brow urban caves, gather fistfuls of glossy materials, resolutely refuse all tours and services, ask tricky questions, and slip out in a masterfully efficient series of maneuvers. I would later toss 90% of my magpie's hoard and tear all extraneous pages from the remainder, creating a burden for garbage collectors (if I was walking) or service staff (if I was sitting).
Other costs to America were less tangible. Going by the Peter Pan principle of "Every time you say you don't believe in fairies, a fairy dies", I tried to wangle an unpatriotic statement from anyone I talked with for any length of time. Most Americans, presented with the laundry-list of sins Global & Domestic their nation is responsible for, will crumple like a wet paper bag. They are alone; no-one is waving a flag at them; Fox News is switched off; apple pie is not on the menu; Mom is many leagues away; all the guys on the money are long dead; they don't remember half the words to the national anthem. Suddenly the figleaf of God Bless America doesn't stack up against a century of reckless colonialism, cronyism, nepotism, McCarthyism and Bushisms. If I can raise the self-awareness/-loathing in America just a little, their stock goes down, baby. And mine, by comparison, goes up. I figure.
Why would I want to hurt America? Because it's dirty, and self-aggrandising, and socially unequal, and gullible, and imbalanced, and uneducated, and immoderate, and fat, and noisy, and proud, and believes in things that every other First World country abandoned as medieval twenty years ago. It has a deadly pack instinct which makes it emotive and violent and a lightning rod for other emotive, violent countries. It engages in international relations with the wit, wisdom and reserve of a guest on Jerry Springer.
All of these things make it the carnie sideshow of the world. My Amtrak pass was really an admission ticket to the carnival. See the bearded lady! Watch the man jump through the flaming hoop! Laugh as the bear on the tricycle chases the midget on the bicycle! The glory and squalor of the nation were in plain view, waiting for me to be fascinated and repelled by their very strangeness.
I ripped off America. Now I have to ensure nothing stuck to me; though if I missed something, I'm sure I shall smell it eventually.
.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Manhattan
After 27 hours on the train from Miami, I had a three-hour stopover in Manhattan and everything was flung into fast-forward.
I visited three information booths, walked through Madison Square Garden, bought a bus ticket from Buffalo to Toronto, stopped by Madame Tussuad's and Ripley's, photographed Times Square, bought a black-and-white cookie bigger than my outstretched hand, went through Bryant Park, climbed three storeys of the New York Public Library and photographed the interior, bought some water and soda at a 99c store, stopped by three electronics stores, bought a memory card, strolled down Fifth Avenue, jaywalked blatantly without seeing the cop beside me, saw the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings, photographed the Flatiron Building, wandered around a Duane Reade, ate a huge slice of New York pizza, bought a postcard, and went back to Penn Station.
I still had an hour to kill, so I bought a New York Times and stood around in what seemed like a Zen-like state of stillness.
The train station had police every twenty metres, plus store guards, Amtrak security, and two guys with huge sidearms, dressed in Army fatigues. They didn't want to be photographed. There was also a sniffer dog and nowhere to sit, anywhere, in a place where people routinely wait for hours at a time. I sat on the second rung of a ladder propped up by a wall until two men photographed me and a maintenance guy told me to get off. The train was delayed by 20 minutes but boarding occurred at breakneck speed, to my surprise and delight.
I liked Manhattan. Everyone is thin and young and has stuff to do and places to go. There's a natural staccatto rhythm to the city and an utterly indifferent tone; crossing lights are suggestions, not commandments, and dawdlers are aware that they are in the vanishing minority. They glance carefully around when they drop below 5km/h, all too aware of the rapidly-moving packs of hipsters and cellphoneniks.
I visited three information booths, walked through Madison Square Garden, bought a bus ticket from Buffalo to Toronto, stopped by Madame Tussuad's and Ripley's, photographed Times Square, bought a black-and-white cookie bigger than my outstretched hand, went through Bryant Park, climbed three storeys of the New York Public Library and photographed the interior, bought some water and soda at a 99c store, stopped by three electronics stores, bought a memory card, strolled down Fifth Avenue, jaywalked blatantly without seeing the cop beside me, saw the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings, photographed the Flatiron Building, wandered around a Duane Reade, ate a huge slice of New York pizza, bought a postcard, and went back to Penn Station.
I still had an hour to kill, so I bought a New York Times and stood around in what seemed like a Zen-like state of stillness.
The train station had police every twenty metres, plus store guards, Amtrak security, and two guys with huge sidearms, dressed in Army fatigues. They didn't want to be photographed. There was also a sniffer dog and nowhere to sit, anywhere, in a place where people routinely wait for hours at a time. I sat on the second rung of a ladder propped up by a wall until two men photographed me and a maintenance guy told me to get off. The train was delayed by 20 minutes but boarding occurred at breakneck speed, to my surprise and delight.
I liked Manhattan. Everyone is thin and young and has stuff to do and places to go. There's a natural staccatto rhythm to the city and an utterly indifferent tone; crossing lights are suggestions, not commandments, and dawdlers are aware that they are in the vanishing minority. They glance carefully around when they drop below 5km/h, all too aware of the rapidly-moving packs of hipsters and cellphoneniks.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Why America Can't Get It Up
The alternating glory and squalor of American cities puzzled me for a long time. How could their denizens switch with such rapidity between ignoring the hideously unimproved and unmaintained, and revelling in the rarefied heights of neoclassical perfection?
I don't think I was asking the right question. The American landscape has two layers: a foundation of pragmatic industry, and a gleam of self-aggrandizing hubris. No explanations are necessary for the dirt, the mess, the unkempt busyness; instead of wondering how citizens could live in such contrasting aesthetic conditions, I should have pondered why the glorious monoliths were contrived at all, over what is a base of rust and sweat.
Objects of beauty in the American public sphere are paens to power. Nowhere exemplifies this so much as Washington D.C., which is a sprawling mausoleum of the past (surrounded by suburbs of the poorest, most homocidal men in the country). U.S. public works are relics of a Cold War mentality, where the poplace required continual assurances of greatness, invulnerability, uniqueness, and empire.
It is little wonder, then, that the Twin Towers site remains vacant. There is no precedent for memorialising America getting totally fucked. Without the usual lazy go-to sentiments such as Glory or Tradition, officials prevaricate endlessly over the issue. How do you construct a phallus that represents impotence?
I don't think I was asking the right question. The American landscape has two layers: a foundation of pragmatic industry, and a gleam of self-aggrandizing hubris. No explanations are necessary for the dirt, the mess, the unkempt busyness; instead of wondering how citizens could live in such contrasting aesthetic conditions, I should have pondered why the glorious monoliths were contrived at all, over what is a base of rust and sweat.
Objects of beauty in the American public sphere are paens to power. Nowhere exemplifies this so much as Washington D.C., which is a sprawling mausoleum of the past (surrounded by suburbs of the poorest, most homocidal men in the country). U.S. public works are relics of a Cold War mentality, where the poplace required continual assurances of greatness, invulnerability, uniqueness, and empire.
It is little wonder, then, that the Twin Towers site remains vacant. There is no precedent for memorialising America getting totally fucked. Without the usual lazy go-to sentiments such as Glory or Tradition, officials prevaricate endlessly over the issue. How do you construct a phallus that represents impotence?
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