Local knowledge

Toronto is a city geared for locals. That's fine, for the most part. All cities first and foremost strive, or ought to strive, to meet the needs of their own denizens, their voters and taxpayers. However, most also acknowledge that some of the people wandering the streets might be  a) new or b) visiting. They don't know their way around. They'd like some help. They look for signs. Sure, they've got cellphones and GPS and Waze. But it's nice when the city itself puts out some indications that it cares, too. Signs like "City Centre", "North", "Welcome to the U.K. Please drive on the left," (in Newhaven, East Sussex, where the ferry from Calais docks).  I think of the wonderful film LA Story, where Steve Martin encounters on the freeway a big traffic notification sign that begins flashing personal messages to him. I'm not suggesting that Toronto need go quite that far in being helpful.

Sometimes it's a matter of idiosyncratic local vocabulary. I remember our family's first experience of driving on the 401 motorway, which runs along the northern edge of the city. It's big. Really big. Bigger than any other highway I've ever seen. At some points it is sixteen lanes across, divided into four subgroups: eastbound: 'collectors' and 'express'; westbound: 'collectors' and 'express'.  That first time I was at the wheel, husband navigating. Heading east, I faced the division into 'collectors' and 'express' . "What do I choose?" I asked in a panic. Husband, who eschewed smartphones, pulled out an almanac, or possibly a parchment scroll, and began perusing it, tracing the route with his quill pointer.  "I'm not sure," he said, peering closely. "It doesn't tell me. Oh, wait, I see something. 'Here be dragons'," he read out. Not really, but whatever he did find was no more useful.

"I'm taking the collectors one," I shrieked, when a decision had to be made. "Find some money." We scanned ahead for the tollbooth which we guessed would appear.  What else would they collect? We puzzled over this strange Canadian system of offering a choice between paying a toll and speeding along in free, parallel 'express' lanes. Perhaps because they were nice, as their reputation insisted, and sometimes chose to throw spare change at the highway authority out of the goodness of their hearts, like supporting public radio.  

In any event, we reached our exit and no toll collector troubled us. We were confused, but so many things confused us back then. Much later I discovered that 'collectors' meant 'set of lanes into which one merges from an onramp, and from which one accesses exit ramps'. In other words, it collects cars, not cash. What opaque signage! I speaks some pretty good English, if I does say so my own lil' self, and that system was Greek to me. But Torontonians know the terminology, and that's what counts. Philadelphia is the only other city I've lived with a similar disregard for outsiders.


There are similar learning curves on downtown Toronto's city streets. For instance parking-restriction signs require a veritable Ph.D. in Torontology. Drive to a party at a friend's house and stay past midnight? I don't advise it. They'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too. Parking is restricted on neighbourhood streets after 12:01 am, says the small print. I've learned some of the tricks, but not all. I can only shrug and regard the occasional parking fine as my contribution to the municipal purse. 

But my biggest complaint about the local myopia involves the crazy streetcar system. Recently @BenSpurr  in the Toronto Star bemoaned the cavalier behaviour of car drivers passing streetcars whose doors are open to disgorge or ingest passengers. It's illegal. Mr. Spurr urged that the police be more assiduous in enforcing traffic laws. I totally agree about better enforcement of traffic regulations. However, in this case, there's a step missing. First, make sure drivers actually know to stop, and when. It is *not* as obvious as you might think, Toronto.

Quck. The coast is clear.

The tracks for most routes run through the outer, central lane. so passengers must step off directly into the curbside one and hope that there are no cars in it. It's a matter of trust. A leap of faith, so to speak.  Usually, it's fine. If you grew up and learned to drive in Toronto, you will know about this rule. If, like me, you passed driving tests in other parts of the world, you will have no clue. Service Ontario gave husband and me local driving licences in exchange for our British ones. Gave. No test, neither written nor practical. (The government did however examine husband's English proficiency.) I learned about the no-passing-a-streetcar rule because I happened to be driving with a local friend in the car. Her screams stayed with me for a long time. She put me right, and I informed husband. Once we knew what to look for, were able to spot the small warning on the right rear panel of the streetcar, 'Psst. No passing when doors are open.' Okay, there's no pssst. But it's pretty low-key.

By pure luck I hadn't mown down any pedestrians in the few weeks during which I drove uninformed. Many on the road-- tourists, visitors, people from Buffalo-- every day must be similarly naive. Why would the transit authority have such a haphazard, contingent system? Why assume that all drivers know about this idiosyncratic hazard of transit in Toronto? Why not put unambiguous, big flashing lights on the backs of streetcars and a bold sign across the rear saying 'NO PASSING WHEN LIGHTS ARE FLASHING'? (Or, like, laser beams, or something.)

It's not rocket science (except for the laser beams). If anything, it's anthropology. It's a matter of looking at the road, at the world, through eyes that are not from Toronto. Like mine.