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Escape to oasis of transit tranquility
Mar 15, 2007 04:30 AM
Jim Coyle
Soon (well, in eight years anyway), the good people of York Region will know the delights of having their very own subway station, when the TTC's Spadina line is extended through York University to the Vaughan Corporate Centre.
It's been a few years now since Toronto has known the civic euphoria and pride of a subway opening, five long winters since the Lastman Line opened along Sheppard Ave. E. And to this day (those in York will be delighted to know), it remains an experience to be treasured – 6.4 kilometres of sheer commuting pleasure.
For those unable to travel to places exotic this March break, a subway trip along Sheppard on a weekday morning – its handful of stations strung like an unspoiled archipelago – is probably the next best way to get away from it all.
Whereas a journey along the Yonge-University line is like, say, a trip to Fort Lauderdale, with its attendant vulgarity and yahooism, a cruise along Sheppard is more like a sojourn in Pago Pago – an exotic, unhurried, uncrowded, sublimely quiet escape from the hurly-burly of worldly care and woe.
Rising from the steerage-like crush of the north-south line, one almost instantly feels the ambience change on the eastbound platform at Sheppard station.
Here, there is the dignified anticipation of a first-class departure lounge. On the walls, the perfect mood of tranquility is struck – tiles depicting the soothing bucolic vastness of empty hillsides.
Presently, a train arrives. No one rushes the doors of car No. 5248. There is no need. Seats abound like seashells on the seashore. The gap is always minded. Once underway toward Bayview, young sweethearts cuddled in a corner seat seem more in love and suited to each other than they would, say, at College. The books being read by other passengers seem more literary. Even the chap snoozing against the window seems to enjoy a deeper and more restful slumber.
It makes the wayfarer feel as if every street in Toronto should have a subway.
At Bayview, the doors open and one person boards. The one person leaving the train notes that, here, and maybe it's the lighting, an ad on the wall for a forthcoming visit to town of Donald Trump makes him look almost statesmanlike.
It becomes instantly evident on Sheppard that commuters are not herd animals, but individuals – the pitter-patter of an approaching set of footsteps clearly audible from a distance, soothing as raindrops on the roof.
To be sure, the place exudes style. A woman descends the escalator, as regally as if she were making a royal entrance. It also reeks of workmanship and pride, the lights of a work crew flickering in the tunnel darkness, doubtless burnishing all equipment therein to a state of gleaming perfection, like moonlight on the Caribbean.
Sadly, the only blight on the experience – rather like a garish Bermuda-shorted tourist leering his way down a nude beach – is a flutter of pamphlets littering the floor. Left there, doubtless, by a Yonge-University interloper.
At 10:03 a.m., the next eastbound train pulls in. Three people board. "The next station Bessarion – Bessarion Station," a woman's voice intones, hardly less intoxicatingly than if she had been announcing Aix-en-Provence.
At Bessarion, two riders step on, two step off – a station in sublime and perfect harmony, a veritable ashram of balance. And here, the vast platform is so empty one could easily hold a beach volleyball tournament.
It's like discovering a hidden cove, a secret jewel tucked far from where madding crowds of holidaymakers disport themselves with copious suntan oils and rum concoctions from the all-inclusive bar.
Finally, another traveller arrives – a smile, a nod, no words to disrupt a stillness total but for the soothing hum of the escalator.
And at 10:09 a.m., adieus are reluctantly bid to Bessarion. From the incoming subway, one passenger detrains and one boards – balance maintained.
Back on board, a commuter surveys an embarrassment of riches, all but seven seats vacant, seeming almost to compete one with another – like a welcoming party handing out leis – to be of service.
At Leslie, on the westbound platform, a man sits, a woman stands with a stroller, practising perfect patience, certain that when the train does arrive, there will be no crush to battle, a choice selection of seats to be had. Too soon, however, we are pulling into Don Mills station and the end of the line.
For a moment or two on the platform, the train idles, doors open and at the ready to welcome in the next group of public-transit hedonists.
The crew stands, sure, confident, wearing the contented look of men who know that in working the Sheppard line they have been well and truly blessed.
Then, back they whisk us to Yonge, four station stops and 6.4 kilometres that might as well be the distance to another planet.
It is as if a plane has arrived home from holiday, the passengers regretful that the pleasure is at an end, living now on the expectation of next time.
And the comforting knowledge that, whatever indignities and disappointments the Yonge-University line may hold, they'll always have Bessarion.
Escape to oasis of transit tranquility
Mar 15, 2007 04:30 AM
Jim Coyle
Soon (well, in eight years anyway), the good people of York Region will know the delights of having their very own subway station, when the TTC's Spadina line is extended through York University to the Vaughan Corporate Centre.
It's been a few years now since Toronto has known the civic euphoria and pride of a subway opening, five long winters since the Lastman Line opened along Sheppard Ave. E. And to this day (those in York will be delighted to know), it remains an experience to be treasured – 6.4 kilometres of sheer commuting pleasure.
For those unable to travel to places exotic this March break, a subway trip along Sheppard on a weekday morning – its handful of stations strung like an unspoiled archipelago – is probably the next best way to get away from it all.
Whereas a journey along the Yonge-University line is like, say, a trip to Fort Lauderdale, with its attendant vulgarity and yahooism, a cruise along Sheppard is more like a sojourn in Pago Pago – an exotic, unhurried, uncrowded, sublimely quiet escape from the hurly-burly of worldly care and woe.
Rising from the steerage-like crush of the north-south line, one almost instantly feels the ambience change on the eastbound platform at Sheppard station.
Here, there is the dignified anticipation of a first-class departure lounge. On the walls, the perfect mood of tranquility is struck – tiles depicting the soothing bucolic vastness of empty hillsides.
Presently, a train arrives. No one rushes the doors of car No. 5248. There is no need. Seats abound like seashells on the seashore. The gap is always minded. Once underway toward Bayview, young sweethearts cuddled in a corner seat seem more in love and suited to each other than they would, say, at College. The books being read by other passengers seem more literary. Even the chap snoozing against the window seems to enjoy a deeper and more restful slumber.
It makes the wayfarer feel as if every street in Toronto should have a subway.
At Bayview, the doors open and one person boards. The one person leaving the train notes that, here, and maybe it's the lighting, an ad on the wall for a forthcoming visit to town of Donald Trump makes him look almost statesmanlike.
It becomes instantly evident on Sheppard that commuters are not herd animals, but individuals – the pitter-patter of an approaching set of footsteps clearly audible from a distance, soothing as raindrops on the roof.
To be sure, the place exudes style. A woman descends the escalator, as regally as if she were making a royal entrance. It also reeks of workmanship and pride, the lights of a work crew flickering in the tunnel darkness, doubtless burnishing all equipment therein to a state of gleaming perfection, like moonlight on the Caribbean.
Sadly, the only blight on the experience – rather like a garish Bermuda-shorted tourist leering his way down a nude beach – is a flutter of pamphlets littering the floor. Left there, doubtless, by a Yonge-University interloper.
At 10:03 a.m., the next eastbound train pulls in. Three people board. "The next station Bessarion – Bessarion Station," a woman's voice intones, hardly less intoxicatingly than if she had been announcing Aix-en-Provence.
At Bessarion, two riders step on, two step off – a station in sublime and perfect harmony, a veritable ashram of balance. And here, the vast platform is so empty one could easily hold a beach volleyball tournament.
It's like discovering a hidden cove, a secret jewel tucked far from where madding crowds of holidaymakers disport themselves with copious suntan oils and rum concoctions from the all-inclusive bar.
Finally, another traveller arrives – a smile, a nod, no words to disrupt a stillness total but for the soothing hum of the escalator.
And at 10:09 a.m., adieus are reluctantly bid to Bessarion. From the incoming subway, one passenger detrains and one boards – balance maintained.
Back on board, a commuter surveys an embarrassment of riches, all but seven seats vacant, seeming almost to compete one with another – like a welcoming party handing out leis – to be of service.
At Leslie, on the westbound platform, a man sits, a woman stands with a stroller, practising perfect patience, certain that when the train does arrive, there will be no crush to battle, a choice selection of seats to be had. Too soon, however, we are pulling into Don Mills station and the end of the line.
For a moment or two on the platform, the train idles, doors open and at the ready to welcome in the next group of public-transit hedonists.
The crew stands, sure, confident, wearing the contented look of men who know that in working the Sheppard line they have been well and truly blessed.
Then, back they whisk us to Yonge, four station stops and 6.4 kilometres that might as well be the distance to another planet.
It is as if a plane has arrived home from holiday, the passengers regretful that the pleasure is at an end, living now on the expectation of next time.
And the comforting knowledge that, whatever indignities and disappointments the Yonge-University line may hold, they'll always have Bessarion.
.