The throng, horde, torrent, stream, the pure rush and gush of humanity, coursing like lifeblood through Union Station, cannot help but impress, even surprise, and carries for me a message of hope. I arrived at 8 a.m. in a taxi with my sister and niece, to put them on a train. A bit bleary, I went to search for a coffee. The station wasn’t busy—it was mobbed.
The workers, the students, the bureaucrats, and even the downtrodden of our nation’s metropolis are on their feet—in running shoes, leather dress shoes, clogs, loafers, fuzzy boots, thick-soled sneakers, pull on boots, carrying backpacks and briefcases and grocery bags; many with earbuds, all walking with firm resolve from the train station into the maw of 10 matching doors with signs above that say TTC/Front St.
Everyone wears a winter coat. Some wear knit hats or earmuffs; many have hijabs. Suits are rare—maybe no one wears a suit anymore, or maybe the tycoons of Bay Street got here earlier to hunt and kill for their meat.
I find Arabica, a temple to coffee in pure white with four-metre ceilings that looks more like the lobby of an investment bank. Its Corian countertop, a spot to gulp a latte, faces soaring windows with a view to the river of humanity. The glass cuts off sound, so the footsteps of thousands on the terrazzo are silent and any murmur from thousands of phone calls is muted. Here they come: commuters arriving on the GO Trains for work in Toronto.
Nine screens, one above each pair of doorways and each screen the size of the doorway, blanket the citizenry with ads—for deodorant, for the Royal Ontario Museum during March Break, for Uber Eats, Expedia, Bell Pure Fibre, Skip the Dishes—each ad lasting five seconds, so that each person sees, or maybe just senses, since few consciously look up at them—the insistent glare of capitalism. As they stampede into the city to produce, the screens remind them to consume.
But it is the scale of this daily migration, this rhythm of transit, that impresses me. I think of US President Donald Trump’s tariff threats and drive to cripple the Canadian economy and force us to subdue to US imperial ambition, and I can’t help hope that this audacious display of morning resolve from a marching, orderly, confident, determined, driven army of the city, all troops flowing through a sparkling new glittering concourse, or stopping at Arabica to order coffee from Iris, who has a black bob of hair and is endlessly smiling, is proof that Canada will overcome.
When did this new Union Station come to be, anyway? How did I miss the unfolding of this jewel for transportation from the crysalis of interminable construction? As I listen to the “whap!” of the metal spoons stirring endless metal cups of frothed milk and the woman calling the orders—”number 56!” I feel confidence in our nation’s future. It took awhile (I wrote my first story about planned renovations at Union Station 18 years ago) years ago), but if we can make our station work this well, we will be okay.