I have to say you may find this all par for the course. You may live in some bizarre neighbourhood where cat ladies roam and streetcars fill on whim. But I don’t. I like order! I live next to Parkdale, dammit!
1) First I missed the streetcar—apparently running and waving didn’t warrant the dude stopping. And the streetcar I missed—not full at all. So the next streetcar comes like 2 minutes later—chock a block. That’s weird. Usually it’s the other way around. Anyone who takes the streetcar regularly knows this. It’s like the first streetcar went by and for some reason either no one got on (maybe that guy wasn’t stopping for anyone) OR as soon as it was gone dozens of commuters suddenly materialised for the second trolley.
2) So I get off at John St. and start walking down to Front. Just past Adelaide I hear this “AaaaaAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah” and look over and there’s this woman rolling down the sidewalk. And people are walking by; as they do. The ONLY person who stops is this blind dude I have mused about before due to his non-effectual guide dog, Buddy, who doesn’t listen to the blind dude and like tries to lead him into traffic: “Buddy! Buddy! C’mon, Buddy! Oh for fuck’s sake Buddy!”. So I run across the street to help. She slipped, I guess, but it was weird cause she yelled like a dying cat when she did it (ergo my rushing over to help), but then she just got up and walked off. *squint*
3) So then I get to John and King and cross the street and at Mercer I seriously walk past 1947. Well, a woman dressed in full late 40s garb. The hat, the pin curls, the trench, the low thick beige heels, the red lipstick.
And, of course, the whole time I’m wearing 3 inch heels—running across streets and after trams and away from the ghost of Ingrid Bergman. It was, to be frank, a weird journey to my travail this morning.