63 posts tagged “downtown life”

A week or so ago I decided to get the H1N1 vaccine.  I have asthma and I'd been reading that of the people who wind up in ICUs with this flu, the worst hit are people with asthma.  I live alone and I don't want to be sick and miserable and alone, plus, I have a lot of travel (next weekend to see Cappy, plus US Thanksgiving and Christmas trips down there, too, plus some business travel) and I don't want to A) get sick from other people in airports and planes and large meetings, or B) be sick and potentially miss any of my Philadelphia visits.  No fucking way.  I'd rather spend a day in line than a week sick in bed, or in ICU. 

The vaccine wasn't out yet in Ontario when I decided, it's doing a very slow rollout, but they'd posted the upcoming hours of some vaccination centres and one was a couple of blocks from my office at a municipal centre call Metro Hall, starting next week.  Then, they moved up the date and planned one for yesterday at the same place.  From 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.  People in high-risk groups (including asthmatics) have been encouraged to get the vaccine, well, in fact, everyone has by the various government health bodies, but people NOT in high-risk groups have only been "encouraged" to let the high-risk people go first.  (Until a new bottleneck in production and distribution was revealed yesterday, now, as of today, vaccination clinics are only doing high-risk people.

I got to Metro Hall about 8:35 a.m.  I imagined I'd spend half the day there.  It turned out people were in line from about 5 a.m.  There were already about 650 people ahead of me.  If I'd walked over instead of taking the streetcar, there might have been 100 more in that 15 minutes I saved.  Here's what it looked like from my vantage point, the line snaking back and forth across a courtyard.

Being Canadians, the line was orderly and polite.  The luckiest people (aside from the ones inside) were the ones closest to the building.  Because it rained.  Showers on and off, and then a couple of right downpours over the morning.  At 11 a.m. Public Health officials finally came down the line handing out colored tickets for a particular time.  I got 1:00.

That's the book I'm reading, Where Men Win Glory about NFLer Pat Tillman going to Iraq and the cover up over his death from friendly fire.  I didn't get a ton of it read in line, though, because in the rain, it was hard to juggle it and the umbrella in such a way that the book didn't get water dripped on it.

With the timed tickets in hand, some people left to come back.  I was among the first to get the 1:00 ticket, so I stayed in line, even though it was two hours (and likely longer) away.  I didn't want to come back and find 400 other 1:00 had come back to the line ahead of me.  What bugged me though, was that people could ask for as many tickets as they wanted (i.e. for family members at home who hadn't come to the line).  So one person who was ahead of me could get three tickets, and jump 2 additional people ahead of me, because the 1:00 people had to let anyone with a 12:00 ticket ahead of them, even if they hadn't been in line before.  That sucked.

It was about 1:00 before I got to the envied under-the-overhang spot.

Sweet, because it poured rain again by then.  It was 1:45 before I got inside, then 2:45 by the time I got my shot.  I was owed some lieu time from work, anyway, so it didn't matter that I didn't get to work before 3:15.

My arm now feels like it's been punched, hard, but at least I got mine.  And the nurse, when I told her I wanted photos for my blog, let me hold up the process to get a good shot of the needle, and offered to take a shot of my arm after.  What a champ for a woman who'd been dealing with the flow of humanity all day, in the vaccination zone, also known as Screaming Baby Central.  These are good people working with far too few resources.

I think that word is "Ow!"

Both seen in downtown Toronto. 

Here are some photos I've been gathering up this summer in my wanderings around the city that didn't fit in to any particular post.  But I figured I'd share them, just for the heck of it.

I believe I've mentioned before that I like stone lions in their various forms.  This is one of a pair framing some part of a big downtown bank building.

Then, some tall-masted ships in Toronto harbor, that, for a moment, appeared to be sailing in formation.  There was even a third, briefly, but it got out of frame before I could get focused.  This was taken from the penthouse patio at my building bout a half mile away -- I was not actually at the waterfront.

Then there was this week-long arts festival, of which part was a roving art project of an inflatable Big Red Ball that got moved from one part of the city to another.  I caught it once, wedged under a concrete structure in the plaza in front of City Hall:

And another day, walking to work, caught it not-yet-fully-inflated under the overhang of a different bank building.

For the same week, red balls also showed up in the cathedral-like atrium/galleria of what I and loads of other Torontonians know as BCE place, but is now officially Brookfield Place.  On the left is the facade of an old building that was preserved when they built, yes, another bank tower on top of it, and the function of this galleria is simply to connect two such towers.  At least they did it with award-winning style.

This is what it looks like normally.

 Finally, here's an odd view, from my window at work.  This is the loading bay area at the back of a building that fronts onto another street.  Those green things outside it are dumpsters, and the smaller ones inside are garbage bins.  I don't know what the business there is (it's converted warehouse and factory space all around the neighborhood), but it's not a theatre.

But it really looks like it's begging for a puppet show. 

Last night, around seven, after staying at work a little late, I headed home just as a severe thunderstorm was threatening.  I walked, but stayed on the streetcar route so I could duck into a transit shelter, or hop a streetcar most of the way in case it started on my half hour walk.  The sky kept darkening the whole way, and when I was about three blocks from home, the first drops fell.  I ran to cross the street ahead of me and under the overhang of an apartment complex, and in that shelter dug out my umbrella.  No problem!  In the space of time it took me to do that, the rain started to come down like a monsoon, with the wind and everything.  I was able to walk to the corner, and around the corner and down the next short block all under the building's overhang.  So far so good, but I could see the sidewalks and gutters running like rivers. 

Ultimately, I had to step out into the storm to get the last block and a half home.  Within seconds, my feet were sloshing in my shoes, my legs (bare) were wet, and my knapsack was running water down my back and onto my butt skirt, which soaked through my denim skirt to my underwear.  I laughed as I ran the rest of the way home, only barely keeping my head dry under my umbrella.  Even the ends of my hair were wet.  My fabric purse was soaked.

This morning, I took out my wallet to pay for something on the way to work and discovered that the bills inside were still damp.  Now THAT'S one hell of a storm.

Here's the postcard that AmyH sent me from Costa Rica.  It has a cat on it!  Thanks ever so, Amy!

I went a little out of my own neighborhood yesterday.  All the way up to Bay and Bloor (trust me, going that much uptown is rare for me) to have a celebratory drink with my producer, Joan, for having gotten the film option contract for Godblog signed, sealed and delivered.  We were at the Panorama Room, on the 51st floor of the Manulife Centre, and sat out on the terrace.  This was the view out over the city:

 And in the other direction, I can see my building in the distance.  I put a little pink mark off toward the left where it is.  I was surprised I could see it, because it's only 10 stories tall.  I walk to work, which is just a couple of blocks from the CN Tower (the giant swizzle stick on the right).  That's my day-to-day world.

Tomorrow evening I'm off to Philly for a three-day weekend with Cappy, and we shall cross state borders several times to see an array of people, and a few bands, too. 

Here on the Toronto Islands where my writing retreat is, the main attraction for most people is the Centreville amusement park, and the parkland in which to picnic.  Families from the cities and tourists swarm here all summer for a little getaway that feels like getting out of the city to a green, fun place.  They come with their strollers, coolers, rollerblades, bikes and so on across the ferry, a five-minute ride from the harborfront.  Day camps bring their charges here, in Day-Glow batches of matching T-shirts.  Rides are ridden, ice cream and popcorn are consumed, picnics are had, strange, canopied quadracycles are rented and steered around by laughing family groups.

 This summer, the ferries aren't running.  There's a city employees' strike that's been on since the third week in June that has halted residential garbage collection, city-run daycares (and day camps), parks maintenance, permit granting for building, etc., and yes, the ferries to the Island.  Centreville is closed, not because it's part of the strike, but because the people can't get here to make it worth keeping open.  I wanted to bring Cap'n Crook here when he was up for a week in June, but there was just no easy way, and no point.  The bike rental place and the snack bars would be closed, and the only way to get to show him where my retreat is would have involved a hell of a lot of walking.  There's a community of people who live on the east-most end of the Island, and one of the private harbour tour companies has taken up service from the city side to only that end of the island, because those people have to get over to shop and work and so on.  (There are no shops on the island, save concessions at the amusement park.)  The boats are smallish and you can't take bikes on them, so it's not a replacement for the main ferries in any major way.

To get over here last Friday, the nine of us in this writer's group had to take a water taxi with our luggage and our groceries to a tiny dock close to the retreat centre.  Had we not, it would have been a 45-minute walk from where the replacement "ferry" is landing at the far end of the island to where we are, on the west side, humping all our stuff. (I had to make a trip back home the day after we got here, having forgotten a prescription medication at home, and lost a half a writing day to the trip out and back.) 

The lack of crowds is actually a bonus in some ways to those of us here to write, though our retreat space is set away from the noisy areas.  But Centreville being closed is just kind of eerie.  On the short walk to it, the first clue that this island hasn't seen its usual influx of people in a month is that the Canada goose poop is all over the middle of the laneways (no cars are allowed on the island except parks vehicles, which, of course, aren't rolling during the strike).  This central avenue is usually full of people.

 The swan boats are bunched up, not running over time with the loudspeaker calling, "Boat number seven, your time is up, please return". 

Here's a central area in the amusement park.

It means no afternoon runs for ice cream and funnel cakes for us, either.

  The public washrooms are standing open and empty:

You can't walk around settings like this as a bunch of SF/horror/other-disturbing-fiction writers without some really creative post-apocalyptic banter about zombie hideouts, getting picked off one by one as we separate in our explorations, walls that ought to be dripping blood to evidence a massacre and rotting in the hedge maze with no park staff around to pull lost people out.  Oh, and the petting farm animals going rogue.*

Peacocks are shifty at the best of times.

Certain creatures seemed to be on sympathy strike

 

We actually think the birds are probably living healthier not being given bits of people's hot dogs, funnel cakes and potato chips all day, every day. It doesn't mean they couldn't have developed a taste for human flesh in their deprivation does it?  You know, revenge?  Work with me here...

On the writing front, I've now handed out a partial of my missing kid novel manuscript to the group to critique, and am also working on revisions to the other novel, Scamoche, that I have on the go, much farther along (working on a second draft now). 

*I hasten to add that the animals are being well taken care of, by management staff.  We talked to one of them who happened by as our group was out walking. 

Today begins my annual weeklong writing retreat on the Toronto Islands.  There are 9 of us this year, and I'll be workshopping a chunk of the missing kid novel I'm working on.

Here's my room at the retreat centre:

Why, yes, those are fresh flowers on the table.  It's not the most upscale place in the world, but the staff are very professional and they certainly attend to details.

 

I face west this year instead of east.  This is my view (shot through the screen).

This is a needlepoint hanging on the wall.  Isn't the skill of being a stiltwalker that you aren't supposed to need another big stick to keep you upright?  But what do I kow about stilts? 

I've already encountered the resident cat, CJ, in fact, let him in when he meowed to come in and snuck a few pats. 

This place on the Toronto Islands is nice and removed from all hustle and bustle, but this year in particular, it's even quieter.  There's a city workers strike on in Toronto, in its third week, and that means the ferries that run from the city to the island (a trip of only a few minutes) aren't going, and the people who come on day trips to the amusement park in the main part of the Islands, have spent nearly half the summer not being able to use it, so even though the park isn't run by city employees, there isn't enough business to keep the part open.  (My group came over in a water taxi today.)  We took a walk out to see the ghost town amusement park, but that'll be tomorrow's post.

Oreo got checked out at the vet today and the lump/bump/abcess/whatever in his ear that had caused him to need vet attention (which wasn't visible as we trapped him last night) appears to have been scratched and dispersed whatever fluid it had in it. He didn't need any meds, or any treatment beyond his updated vaccinations.

The upshot?  No return to my place, and his new owner, Vanessa was able to picked him up at the vet and take him straight to his new home tonight.  Godspeed, Oreo.  You inhabited two feral colonies (that we know of), probably sired some kittens (I'm thinking of one litter with three tuxedo cats at the boxcars in particular) and won over the hearts of at least five feeders, a security guard or two and countless passers-by in the Distillery District (everyone knew "that black and white cat" over there). 

Here he is at the boxcars:

 

And in the Distillery District, in his heavy winter floof:

 

Have fun in your new home with your new feline friends, little guy.

My favorite Toronto event every year is the Toronto Outdoor Art Exhibition.  It's held in the large public square in front of our city hall, for a full weekend, free admission, and has about 500 individual artists exhibiting their stuff for sale.  It's everything you can think of as visual art:  oil painting, watercolors, ceramics, glass, mixed media, fibre, metal, wood, jewelry etc. etc.  From $20 block prints to $10,000 paintings, traditional to every kind of abstract you can think of.  And it's distincely different than the craft shows I've been too.  Oddly enough, I never see the promotion for it, I just have to remember it's on in early July and Google the date.  Lots of other people find it, too, though, and it's usually packed, and usually a nice, hot weekend.  I've bought lots of pieces there over the years.  The artists are almost as much of an exhibition as the art.

Once I flew back from a business trip to Montreal in the morning yesterday , I had the rest of the day off and got to wander around in the afternoon, sunblocked and hatted up against the sun.  I saw a lot of amazing stuff.  A couple of things caught my breath and one I didn't buy (a framed stylized photo of a pigeon, because I don't know where I'd put it) and one I did.  Here's what I bought:

She's called a Damned Dolly and there was a whole stall of them, in all different hair and colors and dresses and accoutrements.  Some carried knives.  All had some kind of insane or enraged expression.  The cumulative effect was really delightful, and this was only 38 bucks.  I got this one because she's was the only one red-haired like me, and she looks like I feel inside on a really frustrating day.  (See more dollies here on the artist's site.)  And each doll comes in a screen-printed box:

Now I just have to find a place to put her that the cats won't be able to get at her and use her for a toy, because that would give me an insane face. 

I feel sorry for the artists today -- it's been severe thunderstorms this morning and more predicted this afternoon.  They're going to lose pretty much the whole day.

They got to it six months after they originally said they would, but the city's development agency finally razed the Boxcar Colony site.  Here's the before (when I was feeding them from 2006 up till relocation in the fall of 2008 -- and remember, my trapping partner Joyce fed them here for NINE years):

Winter view:

At the side of the boxcars, flowers like this grew:

And here's the After, photos I took today.  Same tree:

And here's the view looking straight in from the street at the side, toward where the tulips and lilacs were:

This is a pile of the railroad ties that were under the boxcars.  I once crawled in underneath, along the ties, to retrieve a cat's body so it wouldn't dceompose next to a feeding area.

It makes me sad to look at this, although all logic says it shouldn't.  It always made me kind of sad before that the cats were there in the first place, among barbed wire, rusted railcar undercarriages, and dirty water runoff from the restaurant pipes, with their water bowls freezing over in the winter.  Now they're all in homes, or at the horse farm.  And this area hasn't been demolished to put in yet another condo tower (for once), this is actually going to be recreated as a park (that's why the tree is still standing).  So that's good, right? 

Instead of feeling melancholy, I should feel very pleased and proud, because I personally started up the plan for management of this colony in the first place, and then, for the relocation, so that the scene above didn't happen with cats still on the property, getting scattered as their unusual home was destroyed.

Maybe someday I'll write a book about those two years I got to know the Boxcar colony.