SpongeG
Oct 17, 2007, 4:08 AM
from a local paper... http://www.westender.com/
No city has a monopoly on urban nuisances
By Steve Burgess
Whether Vancouver’s petty crime or Toronto’s trash, we all have our problems
Somebody in my apartment building had their keys stolen a couple of weeks ago, so the locks for the storage and laundry areas had to be changed. I couldn’t get into the bike storage area for a few days and had to lock my bike to a street sign out front. Two nights — I was pushing my luck. On the third day, I came outside to find its back wheel gone, my poor bike still clinging to the post with its sorry ass dragging on the ground.
I walked over to my car, parked on the street half a block away. The glove box was open, floor mats askew, et cetera. There was nothing to steal, of course — any valuables had long been scooped by succeeding waves of junkies, scouring out the vehicle like maggots clean a wound. Obviously, there had been some heavy thief traffic on the streets that night; I’m just glad there wasn’t a serious collision.
I gave myself a quick pat down to make sure my internal organs were still in place. (They’re insured, anyway.) With my pancreas and spleen still present and functioning, I was free to contemplate comparisons between my hometown and Toronto. I was there quite recently and, based on that experience, it was starting to look like a race to the bottom.
My hotel was on Queen Street West, across from Toronto City Hall. The hip strip was only blocks away, and there I strolled one Saturday evening in search of espresso and local colour. I found both at a Second Cup location on Queen (first impression: good espresso is a lot harder to come by out east). Entering the café just ahead of me was a lanky, bearded young man wearing clothes that were only a thorough dry-clean away from stylish. He was clutching an American $100 bill, which he waved aggressively at the cashier. “Cash it for me,” he demanded, revealing a pronounced East European accent. “It’s good. Cash it.”
“I can’t check it,” the cashier said. “I don’t have my machine working.”
“It’s good!” the man insisted. “Cash it. Bitch.”
Well, I figured that would end the transaction. Women generally don’t like being called “bitch,” and since this particular cashier was a man, well, you could just double that. Mom always said you catch more flies with honey than “Cash it, bitch.”
But, to my considerable surprise, the cashier eventually summoned a co-worker, who examined the bill and gave the OK. The bill was cashed. The bearded dude didn’t even buy a coffee. Toronto retail people seem to be a truly agreeable bunch.
Outside, more sketchiness. Across the street, two party animals were placing empty beer bottles in the middle of the intersection. A pale, paunchy dude bobbed past in slouchy track pants and a T-shirt with cheap custom lettering that read, “Wanna get pregnant, ho? Again?”
Charming.
I continued on to Spadina Avenue. A lively street to be sure, with its bustling Chinatown, the nearby Kensington Market, and a retro-hippie district far more flamboyant than anything we can offer on Commercial Drive. It was also strewn with garbage to such an extent that a casual observer would have to conclude that the civic strike was actually taking place in Hogtown, not in Vancouver. And not far from Spadina, a young man stood in the middle of an alley, urinating.
To be truly fair, I should have locked a bicycle to a Toronto street sign and parked my car on the street. And to be even fairer, I would have to live there. You look at a place differently when you you’re just visiting, notice things you otherwise wouldn’t. As it is, the comparison was rather depressing. I was all set to declare Vancouver the clear winner until I was hit by that mini crime wave, a reminder that our city contains an ugly little engine that pumps out misery and desperation daily. Junkies and thieves in Vancouver, lowlifes prowling Toronto’s funky quarters. Modern urban life, perhaps.
Not long ago, I wrote about The Economist magazine’s survey that once again ranked Vancouver the world’s most livable city. More recent news stories have focused on a local survey that gives us low marks in 12 areas, including transportation, environment, and the arts. Metro Vancouver recorded plenty of “C” and “D” grades on housing, transportation, and poverty. Another recent study by the right-wing Fraser Institute gave Vancouver low marks, too — although the author of that study, Oregon resident Randal O’Toole, said his favourite American centre is Houston, the Texan metropolis that usually tops surveys dedicated to listing America’s fattest cities. So, take his opinion with a shaker of salt, and a pound of Quarter Pounder grease. Perhaps Mr. O’Toole’s idea of urban perfection is a 12-lane freeway to Taco Bell.
No city has a monopoly on urban misery. Every city has its own particular brand of trouble. Some cities have rampant corruption; we have rampant drug abuse. We’re far from perfect, but I was certainly glad to come home.
Best of all, Vancouver is a great place for a walk. It helps, when your other travelling options have been eliminated.
No city has a monopoly on urban nuisances
By Steve Burgess
Whether Vancouver’s petty crime or Toronto’s trash, we all have our problems
Somebody in my apartment building had their keys stolen a couple of weeks ago, so the locks for the storage and laundry areas had to be changed. I couldn’t get into the bike storage area for a few days and had to lock my bike to a street sign out front. Two nights — I was pushing my luck. On the third day, I came outside to find its back wheel gone, my poor bike still clinging to the post with its sorry ass dragging on the ground.
I walked over to my car, parked on the street half a block away. The glove box was open, floor mats askew, et cetera. There was nothing to steal, of course — any valuables had long been scooped by succeeding waves of junkies, scouring out the vehicle like maggots clean a wound. Obviously, there had been some heavy thief traffic on the streets that night; I’m just glad there wasn’t a serious collision.
I gave myself a quick pat down to make sure my internal organs were still in place. (They’re insured, anyway.) With my pancreas and spleen still present and functioning, I was free to contemplate comparisons between my hometown and Toronto. I was there quite recently and, based on that experience, it was starting to look like a race to the bottom.
My hotel was on Queen Street West, across from Toronto City Hall. The hip strip was only blocks away, and there I strolled one Saturday evening in search of espresso and local colour. I found both at a Second Cup location on Queen (first impression: good espresso is a lot harder to come by out east). Entering the café just ahead of me was a lanky, bearded young man wearing clothes that were only a thorough dry-clean away from stylish. He was clutching an American $100 bill, which he waved aggressively at the cashier. “Cash it for me,” he demanded, revealing a pronounced East European accent. “It’s good. Cash it.”
“I can’t check it,” the cashier said. “I don’t have my machine working.”
“It’s good!” the man insisted. “Cash it. Bitch.”
Well, I figured that would end the transaction. Women generally don’t like being called “bitch,” and since this particular cashier was a man, well, you could just double that. Mom always said you catch more flies with honey than “Cash it, bitch.”
But, to my considerable surprise, the cashier eventually summoned a co-worker, who examined the bill and gave the OK. The bill was cashed. The bearded dude didn’t even buy a coffee. Toronto retail people seem to be a truly agreeable bunch.
Outside, more sketchiness. Across the street, two party animals were placing empty beer bottles in the middle of the intersection. A pale, paunchy dude bobbed past in slouchy track pants and a T-shirt with cheap custom lettering that read, “Wanna get pregnant, ho? Again?”
Charming.
I continued on to Spadina Avenue. A lively street to be sure, with its bustling Chinatown, the nearby Kensington Market, and a retro-hippie district far more flamboyant than anything we can offer on Commercial Drive. It was also strewn with garbage to such an extent that a casual observer would have to conclude that the civic strike was actually taking place in Hogtown, not in Vancouver. And not far from Spadina, a young man stood in the middle of an alley, urinating.
To be truly fair, I should have locked a bicycle to a Toronto street sign and parked my car on the street. And to be even fairer, I would have to live there. You look at a place differently when you you’re just visiting, notice things you otherwise wouldn’t. As it is, the comparison was rather depressing. I was all set to declare Vancouver the clear winner until I was hit by that mini crime wave, a reminder that our city contains an ugly little engine that pumps out misery and desperation daily. Junkies and thieves in Vancouver, lowlifes prowling Toronto’s funky quarters. Modern urban life, perhaps.
Not long ago, I wrote about The Economist magazine’s survey that once again ranked Vancouver the world’s most livable city. More recent news stories have focused on a local survey that gives us low marks in 12 areas, including transportation, environment, and the arts. Metro Vancouver recorded plenty of “C” and “D” grades on housing, transportation, and poverty. Another recent study by the right-wing Fraser Institute gave Vancouver low marks, too — although the author of that study, Oregon resident Randal O’Toole, said his favourite American centre is Houston, the Texan metropolis that usually tops surveys dedicated to listing America’s fattest cities. So, take his opinion with a shaker of salt, and a pound of Quarter Pounder grease. Perhaps Mr. O’Toole’s idea of urban perfection is a 12-lane freeway to Taco Bell.
No city has a monopoly on urban misery. Every city has its own particular brand of trouble. Some cities have rampant corruption; we have rampant drug abuse. We’re far from perfect, but I was certainly glad to come home.
Best of all, Vancouver is a great place for a walk. It helps, when your other travelling options have been eliminated.