There it is, a sight destined to quicken the heart of any streetcar nut: the classic PCC, followed by the antiquey tram named for designer/engineer Peter Witt.
I trot after the two vehicles almost involuntarily, like a dog on an irresistible scent. The squeal of streetcar wheels turning on steel track induces in me a sort of ecstatic reaction regular people reserve for private congress with another mere mortal.
The occasion is the September 15 celebration of a century of streetcar service on St. Clair. As part of it, I board the Peter Witt, which is like a trip to a cottage – all woody and windowy. In the old days, in fact, there used to be streetcar service to Lake Simcoe. I’d give up the right to vote to regain such a democratic pleasure.
Then the iconic PCC (Presidents’ Conference Committee) vehicle pulls away, and I chase after it. But the driver, wearing an old uniform and hat, sees me and motions me on. A special day indeed!
This was the streetcar of my childhood, the maroon-and-cream beauty that emerged from the Bingham Loop as I crossed the border from Scarborough to Toronto at Victoria Park while walking to Catholic school on Kingston. The fare was determined by height. Tall for my age, I became an adult in Grade 4.I was ready to quit school and become a streetcar driver.
Trips to my grandmother’s were long journeys with butter rum Lifesaver candies.
This 62-year-old car, one of only two left here, has a ceiling of dreamy light turquoise. Turquoise in Toronto? It’s almost beyond belief. Since I’m surrounded by experts, I can just ask. That blue went beigey in 1972 or 73. The trim and metal seat legs are painted a teal that matches exactly the 1960s Beatles suit I’m wearing. There are no ads on this car. It’s my idea of heaven. I just want to ride it forever.
The fact that the ride is free throws people waiting for a usual streetcar. It’s wonderful to be on a track unblocked by private vehicles. The PCC, the elegant result of a collaborative design effort amongst North American cities including ours, gets a chance to open up and make that rumbling sound that can only be heard when she’s really rolling.
“She” seems correct. A curvy St. Louis-built body with restful little round lights softly glowing inside. I remember the horror of the hard-edged, harshly lit, ugly new things that are soon to be replaced after wearing out, as chintz does. They go around with their mechanical bits all sticking out, a macho affront to the modest and enduring PCCs.
Our old fleet was sold to Cleveland, Philadelphia, Cairo, Alexandria and other places. I once caught one in San Francisco, accidentally crashing a meeting of streetcar freaks plunging up and down fantastic hills.
A fellow passenger says he sees Mayor Ford waving at us – from his Cadillac. The driver calls the stops himself. This trip feels human, which is old-fashioned.
Somewhere along the line, some TTC drivers took up the antisocial attitude of cops, and passengers became suspects. The mayor hates streetcars. So did General Motors and all the gas and tire industries that conspired to wipe out the vehicles across North America.
The driver here says some of Toronto’s PCCs came from the southern U.S. and had holes drilled for signs relegating “negroes” to the back. “Thank god for Rosa Parks,” he says.
After the ride, I reluctantly walk to Wychwood Barns, where streetcars resided when the area was practically countryside. There is a display of old notices indicating that crowding and foot-draping have always been problems. A severe art allergy precludes my lingering in this rehabilitated showplace I just want back on that vehicle.
Streetcars are the reason I drink. From the patio/corral of a certain anti-establishment at the bottom of Roncesvalles, I can be near the spot where they turn around. Suspended above the intersection of Roncey and Queen is a veritable spider’s web of trolley lines.
I have a suggestion for the hotel on the corner, formerly the Edgewater, now a nondescript place with a red banner, “HoJo,” which to worldly me suggests rooms that rent by the half-hour: why not capitalize on the location smack in the centre of all those streetcars turning into the yard?
Call it Streetcar Nuts Hotel and market it internationally. What ordinary guests might call a disturbance would be a source of joy to those who’d travel anywhere for a fix of true romance – streetcars running around your room all night long.
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