Toronto Skyline Notes

The first time I went up was a November evening, on the recommendation of a colleague who kept telling me I could not possibly understand the shape of the city until I had seen it from above. I arrived at the plaza in a coat that was not quite warm enough, having walked in from Union Station because the map made it look closer than it was. There was a queue, but it moved politely, the way Toronto queues do.

The glass-fronted elevator is a strange fifty-eight seconds. You are pinned to the door, but you can also see the concrete of the shaft slipping past inches from your nose, and then abruptly the concrete falls away and the city opens up under your feet, and everyone in the car makes the same small noise. Not a scream, more of a breath held and released. The attendant pretends not to notice. She has heard it thousands of times.

Up on the main observation level I stood at the north window and watched the traffic on Front Street turn to bright red and white beads. The lake, southward, was already the colour of wet slate. I walked the whole ring twice before I made myself try the glass floor, and when I did I lasted about four seconds before my knees told me to stop. This is fine. It is supposed to feel like that.

I will admit here what I will admit again on the FAQ page: the gift shop is a maze you cannot skip on the way out, and there is a mild disappointment in that. But the November evening, the lake going dark, the way the airport lights blinked to life across the water — that stayed. I have gone back fifteen times since, mostly on my own, mostly with a camera, mostly to compare one hour of light against another. This journal is the tidy version of those notes.