I may not have a clue what I'm talking about, considering I knew little about what the protestors wanted before going downtown Toronto Saturday, June 26 to see them protest, but I can tell you what I saw and it might not be what you expect.
ime and then decided to turn back and see what else was going on, as other protestors paraded back to Queen's park. Just as I was coming back into the intersection, I witnessed hundreds of black-clad people running Eastbound through Queen. When a large group of people begins to run like this in the middle of an area where people are otherwise only parading slowly or standing still, it is quite an attention-grabber. My friend and I became immediately interested and began to run with them, just to see where they were going. I referred to them as ninjas--because that's what they looked like to me, faces covered and entirely clothed in black.
e headlights, the windows, the sideview mirrors and dented the hood using bats and sticks. I was frightened and repeated to my friend more than a couple times that we should go before the police showed up and tear-gassed the crowd. My friend, the brave one, disagreed. He ordered me to march onwards with the ninjas and so we did. Within minutes we witnessed them break windows on a Scotiabank and a Starbucks coffee house. It soon became clear that they had specific targets in mind and had gone about hitting them in a strategic fashion. But where were the police? Where were those triple fortifi
ed lines of riot police with their shields and batons and intimidating phalanx positions? We marched onwards. Within every 100 metres or so, another glass window pane along the side of the street had been smashed open with bricks, flying hammers and wrenches, chairs, newspaper boxes... anything they could get their hands on. They were ruthless and reckless, and I was increasingly becoming paranoid by the prospect of the police coming to take care of the problem. But they never came...
We reached University and turned right. A BMO Branch was smashed open opposite a glass encasing housing a poster of Cristiano Ronaldo in underwear, which had also been attacked. Up ahead, someone screamed. Some more cracking glass could be heard and then the whole crowd turned and ran away... ran past me, backtracking at full speed. So we followed, scared for our lives... the police had FINALLY arrived (we thought)... we ran as fast as we could... for about 30 seconds, before realizing there was no reason to run. There was no police. Actually I lied... there was... but they ran away, apparently. We all turned around again and plowed further. When I got to the intersection up ahead I saw that another police car had been trampled, right in the middle of the intersection, 
and I was just in time to see a ninja with a lit piece of something, throw it into the broken-open driver side window and torch the car. Within minutes the vehicle was engulfed in flames. The smashed police cruiser behind the first one (yes, there were two this time) soon caught fire as well. I couldn't believe my eyes. Behind me, a police line formed. As the vehicle's flames picked up, the police backed up, allowing us to escape the blaze. We turned left on Yonge and ran for half a block. The police watched. I wondered what it was going to take for them to take action. They continued to do nothing.
aling. I admired this. Other moments of brilliance included the way the mob worked together to create space for an innocent motorist who had mistakenly been stranded on Yonge as the mob progressed. Together they helped the motorist turn the car around and leave. Then they all cheered together. Clearly, the vandalism was not about chaos and absolute destruction. There was a clear plan and purpose - despite what the media and the government will have you believe.
marching the streets for at least a couple of hours. The anarchists had left a huge trail of glass behind them and had proven their point that the 1.1 billion dollars spent on the G20 - including police - was in fact a complete waste. Where was the police as the anarchists chanted: "Who's streets? OUR STREETS!!!" for two hours and burned police cars and smashed windows at the POLICE STATION ITSELF. Even more painful to me, was that as the police sloooooooowly encircled us at Queen's Park, the anarchist ninjas formed huddles and changed their clothes. They came out of the huddles dressed like civillians and walked away innocently. I did not see a single one of them get arrested. Not one.
on top of this second cruiser, and we got there on time to see him light a piece of paper and tuck it under the breast of his blazer. His clothes started to smoke and once it became unbearably hot for this stoner, he retrieved the burning paper and dropped it on the hood of the car, where he stood. Unwittingly, however, it seems he dropped part of the burning paper INSIDE the car, where it ignited something inside. As he danced on the hood, he removed his jacket, shirt, and belt... until his pants were about to fall off. Then he realized that the car had caught fire, so he jumped off, grabbed a picket sign, opened the passenger door and stuck his torso inside to try and beat out the fire using the sign. He didn't realize that all this allowed him to do was actually stimulate the fire by fanning it and before long the smoke overwhelmed him. He ripped his half naked body out of the car and began throwing up. As he did, the car was overcome by flames. People crowded around to take pictures of the car and the half naked psycho dragged himself around, screaming "BACK OFF, THIS THING IS GONNA BLOW." People laughed at him and stayed there, takin
g pictures. What amazed me is that there were over 2000 police officers closing in on protestors up in Queen's Park... and not a single one here on Queen Street where civillians encircled a burning police car. Where was the police?But many of us don't ever really watch soccer and don't know many of the players. We only really tune in during a major tournament like this, and love it more than those who watch soccer on a regular basis. Some of us are still wondering why Zinedine Zidane and the original Ronaldo aren't playing this year. Let me attempt to explain something. Soccer is not attractive because it is fun to watch 100% of the time. On the contrary, some people would rather watch grass grow, apparently. The reason why soccer is so captivating in reality, aside from the colours, the nationalism, and the commercialization, is in its emulation of life itself. Soccer is not fair. It lacks good judgement from the referees, and oftentimes this reality is enough to turn us off from it entirely. Believe me, as a religiously fanatic supporter of the game, I've seen enough of this kind of thing for the next 18 lifetimes. But I still watch. I still play. I love it. I can't stop. I'm addicted. Why?
Because life is not fair.
I watched the USA rally back from two goals down to tie the game 8 minutes from its conclusion. They then went on to score a winning goal off of a beautifully orchestrated set play. The winning goal was called back. When the outraged players crowded around the referee to ask why he had disallowed the goal, he did not reply. The players, who gave interviews after the game with radiantly perplexed expressions on their faces, confessed that they still did not have any idea why they were denied the win. How can anyone maintain faith in a game that allows this kind of activity?
In life, your goal might also be disallowed for absolutely no reason. Sometimes you will do everything right, you will pour your heart and soul out to get the win and just when you're about to get there, your goalie will make the most costly mistake of his life and allow the softest goal of the tournament (see England's Robert Green vs. USA). What do you do? Aaliyah once said to "dust it off and try again." That might work for you. It did for Italy in 2006, who after failing to win about a billion penalty shoot-outs finally succeeded in the finals against France to win the holy grail of all competitions - the World Cup. But sometimes trying again is not an option. Sometimes you would rather just go for the substitution, a change in tactics... let someone else handle it. That could work for you too. The only difference is that if you opt for the sub, you are relinquishing your power to make a difference in your own game to someone else. You are taking a spectator role in your own life. How many of us do this and then cry when we lose? Isn't it better to stay on the field and fight until the end - win or lose. At the end of the game, although the object was clearly always to win, there is always a sense of fulfilment in realizing that you played all 90 minutes; that you made a difference. You made some mistakes but you won the ball back. You sent in a great pass for a teammate, you gave it your all.
The metaphor of life being like a game is dreadfully played out now so I won't bore you with more comparisons. Just take note as you watch the rest of these games of how many lessons you can learn from the players. The USA has been done a terrible injustice in this tournament and is now faced with a do or die scenario in their final game against Algeria.
How will they react?
How will you? Continue Reading
Let's get talking about bright sun-shiny days and saltwater fish. The warmth of that association is enough to make even the most frigid of ice queens thaw out a smile. I was in Cuba for a week, about a week ago. I'm well aware that the hypocrisy in that venture merits a series of blogposts but I have chosen to tackle a happy topic here and not dwell on the inconsistencies of human nature. Although the trip itself provided me with many things I could comment on, it's a thought that only struck me yesterday that really got me thinking. I'd like to think it was spurred on by my recent return to a place of inconspicuous intermingling between ultimate happiness and infinite pain -- the airport.
I randomly pictured going to the airport one day--a day when I am irreperably bored--and just standing at the gates of the arrivals and watching the people for a few hours. Although this makes me sound rather more like a creeper than the innocent and harmless daydreamer that I so desperately pose to be, I urge you to follow along in my reasoning. The airport seems to be quite straight forward. It is none other than a massive series of buildings encircled by a spaghetti bowl of tangled asphalt. We go there for a limited variety of reasons: We are either employed by one of the companies that are situated there or we are somehow related to an act of travel. We could, in fact, be the travellers -- leaving or returning from a place far enough that driving seems out of the question. We could, instead, be assisting a traveller by being their chauffeur for the day. The latter role is what interests me. Are you aware that upon accepting this responsibility - that of being the last familiar face the traveller sees before embarking on their adventure - we are the bridge between home and the unknown for that person? Have you ever given thought to how important you are for the person who is departing? And likewise I urge you to consider what your face means to the person who is arriving. You are symbolic. You are the first real sign of home, of comfort, of love and care for the returning explorer. Your job is much more important than that of simply being a chauffeur.
Allow me to elaborate through a spontaneous narrative of a typical scenario in front of the gates of arrival in any given airport, on any given day, at any given time. As you read, slow down and take the time to visualize and understand what each word means to you, the emotions it conveys, and the way you are affected by it through your own memories and characteristics.
An airport terminal is like a beehive for emotions and feelings -- constantly buzzing with activity and saturated with the very essence of life for those who interact with it. The airport houses the anticipation, the shock, the anxiety, the regret, the relief, the love, the jealousy, the surprise, the tears, the sweat, the exotic smells, the repulsive odours, the tans, the burns, the new clothing, the bright colours, the bags, the smiles, the frowns, the worries, the confusion, the voices, the moans, the whispers, the thoughts.... how many thoughts? what kind of thoughts? expectations? wonder? amazement? longing... longing for a person, longing for a home, for a pillow, for good food, for friendship, for comfort, for the next vacation, for what they lost on this one.
There is something revealing about watching a person who is waiting for an arrival at the airport. A man waits, emotionless, quiet. His eyes glimmer with the essence of one who is in expectation, although it is impossible to tell if he is worried, calm, or hiding something more explosive. Interesting interpretation of an emotion, I tell myself, seeing that we are dealing with an airport during terrorist times. The man waits, and waits. He paces back and forth but ultimately settles in his rightful (and infinitely temporary) place, leaning against a large semi-decorative pole that supports the entire structure. His arms are crossed, he fidgets. The doors flutter open again and again, but those who come through mean nothing to the man. He waits.
Beside the man there is a child playing with a toy airplane. The toy was likely handed down over at least a couple of generations. Several stickers have peeled off the surface and the silver paintjob looks more like a few splatters of silver paint on dull grey plastic. The wear of time has reduced it so. The child makes jet engine noises, or at least what he thinks they should sound like. "GUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...........VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUU" He steps six steps right but eight left; he makes little progress. As he tinkers innocently he enters the subconscious imagination of all the adults in his vicinity. There is some tender annoyance with the child but no one addresses it except his painfully agitated mother, whom experiences a boatload of heart palpitations during times of extreme stress and does not deal well with anxiety. Her blue eyes, unlike the man's, are wide, bright, and glossy. They are full of worry, of hope, of expired patience - they are contrasted with a poorly done make-up job, which intended to use eye shadow to help bring out her eyes, but instead serve to make her entire face seem puffy and tired. She scolds the child in order to distract herself, but does do distractedly and decidedly ineffectively. The child senses her half-hearted concern for public peace and continues to fly his jet through the clouds of time.
The man coughs, the woman looks up at him. She doesn't care that he coughed. She is bored. Worried and bored. Not a good combination as she senses her heart beating at a semi-irregular pace. She waits.
Like the man, the woman, and the child, there are 226 people waiting for arrivals at any given time in this stretch of my imagination, in this fictional terminal, in this temporary image of a reality taken for granted. As each arrival comes through the door, a heart skips a beat, a smile is inevitable, a relief is reached, an agitation is calmed, a story has begun where another one has ended. The power we all have is immense when we open those doors and walk through the gates to come home; to go away.
The airport is not a port of travel, it is a theatre of emotion. A place we go to feel, to be felt. To smile, to laugh. The airport is a runway for the runaway heart. If you have never travelled, if you have never gone to greet an arriving traveller, you have missed out on a significant part of your emotional self. This, I argue, is a large part of the beauty of going on vacation and should never be taken for granted.
