For eight years, I’d boarded that commuter train before 8 weekday.  It spat me out at Union Station amid thousands of others, distinguished from ants fleeing the anthill only by our backpacks, briefcases, and Starbucks clutched firmly in hand. I headed northwest, striding with purpose to my office at Queen and Richmond. I’d earned my stripes as a Torontonian and accordingly, looked down my nose at any early-bird tourists roaming about looking for breakfast. I’d worked downtown since 1989, and lived there too for 21 years. This was my terrain. Nine hours later, I’d push my way into the packed return car, jockeying for position to exit with the flood of commuters disgorged from the train at suburban Weston. We all either then ran/walked down the ramp to join the car commuters going further out from the core, or, like me, walked into the community thinking about what to have for dinner.  That was full attachment. 

Last month, I had to go into the centre of the city to my accountant’s office. I chose to go midday, because as a part-timer, I can mostly organize my hours in a way that makes sense to me. Commuting at peak times no longer gives me an urban fix. I sauntered out of Union Station, unfurled my umbrella against the April rain, amid out-of-towners looking disappointed at the weather but excited to be heading north to the Eaton Centre, Toronto’s shopping Mecca for tourists. I remembered that urge to attach myself to this metropolis - to make it home; after I moved here, I’d pinch myself and grin “wow, I made it! I’m living in T.O.”   

This time, instead of that youthful excitement, or the ease I knew in the last few decades, I felt nothing at all. I strolled through Brookfield Place and gazed up at its soaring metal arches. I used to love the space which I still think of as new, despite it being 30 years old now. It left me unmoved. I had a moment of emotion when, at the Yonge Street exit, I noticed the Movenpick Marche was gone - not just shuttered, but completely erased. It was such an innovative dining spot when it opened, with its buffet-style food stations. I’m sad it to see it go because of the memories it held. Likely a pandemic casualty, I thought, and I’ve since confirmed I was right.  

I walked out onto Yonge Street, claimed by Toronto as the longest main street in the world, stretching as it does from Lake Ontario for 56 kms as Yonge Street and then another 2000 kms eventually terminating at the Minnesota border in northwest Ontario. Yonge Street is an institution for kids who grew up in Toronto, but also for those of us bussed in for school trips, excited to taste urban life. This walk along Yonge generated none of the euphoria I felt at 17 nor the comfort I felt as a seasoned Torontonian for years.   

I was reminded of how detached from my old life I felt on that April trip to the core as I moved into my new house this week. Because I haven’t moved my office yet, each morning, I’ve walked out the front door of Chandlerville. Instead of crossing the yard between the houses, I’ve walked around the block and entered my old house through the front door. Opening the door and stepping inside made me think of exiting Union Station. The house I’ve loved, and especially in the last three years, where I’ve spent most of my time, now makes me feel like an interloper.  When my morning ends and I return to my new house for lunch, I experience that intangible feeling of coming home, of attachment. Although the move is not quite complete, in just a week, I’ve attached myself to Chandlerville.

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