A friend tipped me off as to the whereabouts of a trash-free zone. After yesterday’s harrowing adventure I was grateful for a respite from the War.
I made my way to the Indy race track post-haste.
Maybe it was the lack of an umbrella, but this time when I was refused admittance to the track it seemed more gentle. More Canadian. The apologetic security guard actually went out of his way to suggest other less patrolled points of entry. I thanked him, fully intending to take his advice.
Unfortunately, the entire length of the CNE grounds was sealed with a tall, thin, awkward-to-climb fence. As a deterrent, it performed it’s duties admirably. I won’t bore you with the details of my Ninja-like maneuvers, but I managed to end up behind the main grandstand:
And after some deft footwork past a dozy security guard (unionized?), I waltzed onto the main track:
You’ll note a total absence of refuse. No candy wrappers, no cans, not even a butt.
The immaculate street was lined with stacked tires, probably the only thing that would even come close to trash. Even the ubiquitous caution tape that makes its way into every garbage heap was here neatly and purposefully attached to signage:
The drivers would probably just drive straight into the wall if that tape wasn’t there. Safety first!
As I went through the Princess Gates, I realized I had just returned to the real world; the world of War-ravaged streets where the 416/79 squadron tries to have it’s way with the innocent people of Toronto.
But unlike yesterday, today it was easy to be upbeat. Every time I looked up, it was as if the universe was trying to make me smile. Or in the case of glaring erections and innocent Torontonians and their cherries, a laugh:
Or maybe I’m just happy because I’m sleeping in tomorrow. Hard to say.