No one looks at the Low-Mo Seagull

I have been driving in Toronto for several months now. I landed here as summer was dying. What I've left behind I can't yet measure. What lies in the future neither.  Nothing is truer for a migrant than that theory is very different from practice.

 

My passengers, like thousands every day, come to me thanks to an app.  Toronto is my usual setting - sometimes travel takes me far beyond its limits - and over the months I have had clients who have given me, willingly or not, fruitful journeys.

 

This is a mega city. That's not news. And you have to be a famous artist, or a beleaguered mayor to "exist". Neither does this.  I would love to have the freedom to illuminate through a tale of my own the lives of so many people I've known. If I could, I would use their full names, photos of their faces, and photos of the doors and windows of their homes. I would do it so that they would be recognized by thousands of others, in addition to their neighbours. Incredibly, the greatness of a metropolis is also the sum of people and moments that go unnoticed. A sum of zeros results in a grandiose number. Sometimes the leaves that the wind picks up get more attention than so many interesting people around here.

 

But let's get something straight, I'm not interested in being "the voice of the voiceless". What I said before is one of my interpretations of what I observe from the steering wheel. The only voice I am interested in is my own, making an effort to be as honest as possible.  

 

In the morning, ready in my car, I turn on the app and look at the city map. Each client brings me closer to the next, that is, each trip is a direct consequence of the previous one. Let's say, taking J to his work will be the step before meeting G and his dog L at the next service.  Or transporting X to his school might bring me irretrievably closer to the TTC cutler.

 

I usually accept the first notification. But I've learned to play games and other times I wait for the second. And while I'll never know what I missed by passing up the first call, that decision will radically change my day and there are mornings when I need that false sense of control over my destiny.  It reminds me of the movie Sliding Doors, with Gwyneth Paltrow and John Hannah.

 

For one thing, it's no exaggeration to say that the best thing about Toronto is its people. I have made exactly seven hundred and thirty-three trips and have only had four unpleasant experiences. All are related to drugs or alcohol.  One of them makes my wife cry with laughter when I tell it and will surely appear in my future pages. I have never been assaulted, far from it. And on the remaining trips I have enjoyed at least a hundred deep and meaningful conversations. And hundreds of expressions of welcome, support, helpful advice, and even generous tips that especially touch me because making money here is hard work. 

 

I have rarely spoken to a passenger looking them in the eye. I'm driving and they ride in the back. I look at them partially through my rear-view mirror when the light allows me to do so. It's a bit like the Allegory of the Cave. And of course, they don't travel in chains, but I get a partial idea of their reality. I never start the talks. I don't know how to do it. However, when they talk to me, I am pleased because I am eager to learn as much as I can about my new world.

 

Yesterday I drove through Danforth towards Bloor, I am already understanding the logic of this city and its relationship with the river Don, which they have had to cross with several viaducts to bring the territories closer together.  Under that enormous bridge, more than seeing it, one can sense the river, as the Argentinean writer Mempo Giardinelli would say.   Winter resists being the cruel monster that I had been warned about by so many people who only have a cold to complain about in Canada. The sun shone on a crystal clear day and the temperature reached 8 centigrade, which is not bad for mid-February. A couple of kilometres later, without much traffic, I don't remember why I arrived at the corner of Grange and McCaul. There, in a corner plaza, a somewhat stout woman dressed in black with long red hair sticking out from under a cap with earmuffs was dancing around waving her arms like a seagull in slow motion.  Two guys walked by, the older one letting off steam from his mouth. They didn't look at her. After a while a bicyclist carrying his backpack and wearing dark glasses also ignored her. She lifted her head toward the light walking away and approached a leafless tree with nimble steps. I don't know if the cheerful dancer was expecting an attentive audience. I suppose she was. I think one of the reasons we humans invented gods was to feel we were being watched by someone. We are the only animal that needs an audience.

 

As I looked at her from my unusual armchair, I received the long-awaited notification. Within three minutes I was helping a nervous young lady with the name of a flower load her bags into my car. Before long we both agreed that she was having the worst Valentine's Day ever. I will write about this in the next episode.

 

See you soon.