Driving north is always entertaining. It doesn't matter what the compass might be yelling; pointing the righteous finger around, if there is farmland between here and there I call it north. That is because most of the time I don't know where north is. You see, I am pretty bad at directions. I don't blame myself, really. I blame communism and the U.S. I grew up in Cuba, you see? Cuba being an underdeveloped country did not have the proper means to manufacture compasses, and the U.S-created embargo made it impossible for me to get my poor young hands on a compass. The lack of compasses at an early age -- as explained by Dr. Marc Gebrauchsanleitung in Compass in early childhood-- rendered me unable to properly find my bearings in any situation. So, when you are out with me and get frustrated by my inabilites to find a location, don't blame me, blame the guys responsible for you getting a cheap vacation on pristine beaches.
In any case, I believe I started calling farmlands, north, because on the first occasion when I took a trip outside of Toronto deep into farmlands, it was to Oro Medonte; north of Barrie. Barrie, is north of Toronto. The other day I was driving north again--it might have been west-- and came to this little town before London Ontario. The outskirts of this little town are carpeted with miles of farmlands and mansion like houses. The main roads linking all these farms and towns are usually 8o km/h but I love driving at 45km/h and just admire the view. The houses look like mansions out of a Stephen King's movie. The gigantic estates where just one person lives, and inevitable becomes hunted. It's eerie and almost morbidly inviting.
In these small towns you can almost always find antic stores. I love going into these antic stores. It feels like taking the express train down memory lane. But insomebody else's memory. You find old chairs, old scratched tables with teeth marks so small and eroded that the kid that created them might be an old man by now. What always fascinates me is finding picture albums. Why people think I would buy their old pictures is always beyond me. But it doesn't mean that I still don't like browsing through. Perhaps it's that same morbid invitation. Most of the pictures are made crisp by the sun and age. They are yellow and faded at the edges of the shapes depicted in them. There are children in long shorts wearing classic tami beret hats and suspenders. The backgrounds look almost completely faded in all of them, but sometimes you are lucky enough to see some people in the odd park. You look at those people and you know that they are all dead, that everyone who was alive in that period: the mailman, all the mailmen, the bum, all the bums, lawyers, writers, family men, prisoners, teachers, every teacher in the planet, honest men, dishonest men, are dead. Yet, you are still looking at them. It's like a time telescope, and you get to peep through. You should try it sometimes when you are bored. Just drive north and see where it takes you, if you are like me it will take you to different places every time. Search for antic store, and look at the treassure hidden in them. Even colour faded roadsigns are sometimes interesting telescopes to look through.
I will give you one advise though, if you happen to be driving behind me on one of those streets make sure that you are polite and don't flash your lights at me. If you don't I will pull over and you can pass. If you do I will reduce my speed to 20km/h and we can both enjoy the view.
In any case, I believe I started calling farmlands, north, because on the first occasion when I took a trip outside of Toronto deep into farmlands, it was to Oro Medonte; north of Barrie. Barrie, is north of Toronto. The other day I was driving north again--it might have been west-- and came to this little town before London Ontario. The outskirts of this little town are carpeted with miles of farmlands and mansion like houses. The main roads linking all these farms and towns are usually 8o km/h but I love driving at 45km/h and just admire the view. The houses look like mansions out of a Stephen King's movie. The gigantic estates where just one person lives, and inevitable becomes hunted. It's eerie and almost morbidly inviting.
In these small towns you can almost always find antic stores. I love going into these antic stores. It feels like taking the express train down memory lane. But insomebody else's memory. You find old chairs, old scratched tables with teeth marks so small and eroded that the kid that created them might be an old man by now. What always fascinates me is finding picture albums. Why people think I would buy their old pictures is always beyond me. But it doesn't mean that I still don't like browsing through. Perhaps it's that same morbid invitation. Most of the pictures are made crisp by the sun and age. They are yellow and faded at the edges of the shapes depicted in them. There are children in long shorts wearing classic tami beret hats and suspenders. The backgrounds look almost completely faded in all of them, but sometimes you are lucky enough to see some people in the odd park. You look at those people and you know that they are all dead, that everyone who was alive in that period: the mailman, all the mailmen, the bum, all the bums, lawyers, writers, family men, prisoners, teachers, every teacher in the planet, honest men, dishonest men, are dead. Yet, you are still looking at them. It's like a time telescope, and you get to peep through. You should try it sometimes when you are bored. Just drive north and see where it takes you, if you are like me it will take you to different places every time. Search for antic store, and look at the treassure hidden in them. Even colour faded roadsigns are sometimes interesting telescopes to look through.
I will give you one advise though, if you happen to be driving behind me on one of those streets make sure that you are polite and don't flash your lights at me. If you don't I will pull over and you can pass. If you do I will reduce my speed to 20km/h and we can both enjoy the view.
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