File Under: Heartwarming

The taxi driver at the Moncton airport hailed from outside Canada--like me.

I flew to Moncton for work-- to attend the AGE-WELL annual conference--and his was the cab that took several of us from airport to hotel. He drove a minivan, perfect for the four of us plus luggage. Then it turned out there was woman on her own also queuing for a taxi, also attending the same conference and heading for the same hotel. A brief muddled conversation ensued and she joined us, or vice versa; in any case, we all climbed in the car for the ten-minute journey. (Moncton is small: population 85,198 in 2017. A one-horse town.) "It is here," the driver informed us as he turned into the hotel's circular drive, pulling up behind another taxi disgorging some of our colleagues also traveling from the airport.

I proffered plastic. "How much?"

The driver turned to hand me his machine. "You pay for all?" He sounded surprised.

"Sure," I said, surprised too. It was a taxi, not a train. What difference did it make to the driver who paid and how we divided our costs? I would be reimbursed; it all ultimately came from the same governmental pot of funds for our project, a multi-year endeavor around training new professionals and developing technology to improve the experience of aging.

The total came to forty-two dollars which seemed rather a lot for such a short journey, but then what did I know about the Maritimes? Apparently in Canada's northern reaches a banana could cost five bucks. The money machine requested my email address to which it promised to send a receipt. I added a tip, got out, and noted the number of the car, a habit in case of forgotten objects.

"How much was your ride from the airport?" I asked a colleague from the other taxi.

"Twenty-two, about."

"Darn. We've been taken for a ride. Ah, well." Our fault really, I thought; in a new city, we should have checked the cost. Lesson learned.

Roy, one of my co-passengers, overheard and responded with outrage and energy rather than my own philosophy and sloth. "No way! Can you send me the receipt?"

I did, and Roy launched a small campaign. He provided periodic updates during the conference. The taxi company could not identify the driver based on the receipt. "Oh, well," I said again.

"If only we knew the number of the car," Roy said.

I shared it. Roy called the company. "They say they'll get back to me," he reported as he and I and a few others walked along the main street in search of dinner one evening. Roy paused briefly to snap a picture of a 'help wanted' sign in a shop window. This puzzled me.

"Tired of AGE-WELL? Job-hunting?"

He laughed. "No. But there's a site where if you post job ads, they pay you a few dollars. It accumulates." I gained some insight into Roy and his zealous pursuit of the $20. I felt a niggle of worry for the taxi driver.

The three days of the conference were full and busy. At the end, several of us shared a ten-minute, twenty-dollar, uneventful ride to the airport where our flight was delayed only an hour or two. (We used the time to work.) I returned home to a late dinner, enjoyed a relaxing weekend, and on Monday totted up my expenses to submit the form for reimbursement. I did mention the overcharge for the taxi ride, offering to pay out of pocket, but my supervisor said, "Don't worry about it. These things happen."

They do. But then something else happened: I got an email under the taxi company's name whose message read, "I'm sorry for what happened I quoted two different groups each group 20$ 2 groups 40$ but if you are together trip is 24 $ and I'm very very sorry I didn't steal anyone please send to me your bank informations I send the money now your trip 24$+ you give me tips 5$ you need 11$ I'm so sorry I didn't steal you send to me your bank information bay my Email please."

[Sic.]

He signed his name, a lovely biblical one, like Adam.

It smote my heart, that note. In spite of the smite, though, I hesitated to share my bank details. Roy and my supervisor concurred: don't send any financial information. (In truth it would have been difficult as I am a financial Luddite.) But how to balance the taxi driver's dignity with the loss of taxpayers' dollars--dollars intended for the betterment of older adults' lives? I walked around with the question for a day or two before figuring out a course of action. I mentioned my solution to a few people, who shook their heads. "Yeah, right. No." I could simply make a donation myself, but that would not address the driver's injured honor. Maybe it was a put on, but maybe not. I would give it a try.

"Dear Adam," I wrote. "Thank you for your apology. I can see there might have been a misunderstanding. It is too complicated for me to send you my bank information and my employer has already reimbursed me for what I spent. But I want to let you know that the money is to help older people in Canada. If you would like to, you could make a donation to a charity for the elderly." I mentioned one in Moncton.

A week later came this message, verbatim other than the name:

"Hi Leslie,
I am Linda B---, office manager for the New Brunswick Senior Citizens' Federation. The driver came to the Office and made a donation to us of 20$. He gave me his phone to send you this message, you can call me anytime to confirm this. Thank you!"

In my own office in Toronto I laughed aloud. I did not call Linda to confirm. I simply enjoyed the cockles of my heart growing toasty, and wrote to Adam: "Thank you."

File under: heartwarming.

Canada, naturally

Massey Creek

A truth I've confessed before is that Toronto and environs do not float my aesthetic boat. "A city within a park," proclaim signs at the entrances to Toronto's city parks. H'mmm. Unconvincing. But lately my harsh opinions are softening as I explore cycling routes along the Pam Am Path, leading from the lakeshore up the Don River and beyond. True, getting there can be harrowing, and the noise of cars on Lakeshore Drive, the Gardiner Expressway, and the Don Valley Parkway follows me for a time, but eventually I reach flowing rivers and a waving lake and wildflowers, and recently, bright-colored leaves. Eventually the roads vanish and only cyclists and walkers remain.

Husband had been wanting to visit Canada's first 'urban national park', established a couple of years ago on the eastern fringes of the city, so over Canadian Thanksgiving weekend we took a family walk  to check it out. "Not as...wild as I was expecting," mused husband. I guess the clue was in the adjective. We did see colorful leaves and a huge fish zip through mere inches of water--quite a sight.

Thanksgiving in Rouge National Urban Park 

Rouge National Urban Park

           

A fisherman friend informed me later that it was a Chinook salmon, swimming up the Rouge River to breed and die. I was very impressed to think it had managed the journey all the way to Lake Ontario from the north Pacific, but the friend gently informed me that the species had been transplanted to the Great Lakes. Still, it put me in mind of the book and film Paddle to the Sea which the kids loved back when they were small. After our mini-hike we visited Fool's Paradise, the former home of the late local artist Doris McCarthy. It perches dramatically on the Scarborough Bluffs overlooking Lake Ontario, and serves as an artist's residence. The current artist-in-residence had kindly invited us for post-Thanksgiving tea and cake.

Recently I visited Moncton. It is in New Brunswick, the province sandwiched between Maine and Nova Scotia, home to wonders that Raffi, the Canadian children's singer, enumerated in his song  C-A-N-A-D-A. One of these, the 'tidal bore'--not to be confused with the 'reversing falls'--can be seen right in the middle of Moncton. I did not make the trip with the specific aim of witnessing this phenomenon, but when work sent me thence and the conference hotel proved to be five hundred meters from Bore View Park, I knew my chance had come.

As I could have predicted from the name, the tidal bore is linked to tides, in particular the incoming tide, which happens but twice a day. I looked up a tide table and discovered that for the days of the conference, these times occurred in the late afternoon or the unspeakably early morning. At a meeting scheduled for 2:30 the first day I checked my watch obsessively and prayed that we would finish by 4:30 so I could slip away in time for the 4:54 event. But we had much to discuss, consider, debate, and plan. At 4:30 I could stand it no longer. "Hey," I said brightly, "How about we walk and talk? There's this thing called the tidal bore..." After some doubtful glances, my lovely colleagues indulged me and off we trotted.



It was I'm afraid a bit of a dud. Monctonians we met along the riverside path assured us that when the moon is full and the sun is high, the phenomenon truly is something to behold. "People surf it for 29 kilometers!" said one enthusiastic woman. "Here, I'll show you the video on my phone." I politely declined, as it was then a choice between watching her recording or the real--though underwhelming- thing. But I did find YouTube evidence of actual people surfing the bore.

Moncton offered good food, insane taxi drivers, cars that screeched to a halt at the mere sight of a pedestrian on a curb, and most excellent coffee at Café Cognito. I'd go back just for that. I missed visiting Magnetic Hill, another possible reason to return (or not; opinions vary).

The lesson I learn again and again, through trips to cities like Thunder Bay, Winnipeg, Halifax, and now Moncton (as well as through national elections) is that Toronto is not Canada, in the same way that London is not the UK. In England, I lived in Durham and Brighton, i.e. in Not-London; I railed against articles in The Garudian travel section informing readers that Bath is only a two hour drive away (from LONDON, maybe. NOT from Durham). It is easy, however, to forget that similarly Toronto is its own bubble. I have lived here for nine years (gasp) and feel I know it fairly well. But I remain pretty ignorant of Canada. Perhaps I need to listen to Raffi more.