time spent offline

“I wouldn’t stand there if I were you,” I’m waiting for the streetcar with my AirPods blasting Drake. I pull one of them out instinctively; the music pauses and I step off the drain grates: The train rumbles beneath. I smile at the stranger spewing the warning at me. I used to be terrified of these things— grates and strangers. Afraid, knowing my luck, it would buckle under my weight and down to hell I go. Afraid, knowing my luck, they would turn out no good and down to hell I go. My first instinct is to put my AirPods back on. Do not engage with strangers; no matter how harmless they look. That’s the first lesson this city’s inhabitants must learn. The city can swallow you whole if you’re not careful, I need to be careful. But despite myself, and because talking to strangers has become my favourite thing to do in-the-between moments— waiting for the bus, for my coffee, in line at the grocery store— I try my luck. I get closer to her as I step off the grates; “Ooo, I’m scared of those things,” she continues. “You know nothing happens,” I tease, “People walk on it all the time.” This is the reasoning I used to get over my irrational fear of standing/walking on trench grates and I hope it might help her too.

“Are you from Toronto?” I ask, I want to keep the conversation going: Drake can wait. “Been here 47 years,” she sighs. Her slight Caribbean accent is warm, inviting. There is a certain youthfulness to her; the twinkle in her eyes, her smile even as she complains about how much better the city used to be. There’s too many people here now, she says, not enough resources— everything is going to shit. “I love Toronto!” I protest. “Meh,” she says, smiling because she knows she’s right and I’m just young and don’t know better. Then there is that dreadful lull. Back then, a long time ago— in my discomfort with strangers, conversations, and reality— I would pull out my phone and stare down to indicate the conversation is over, and slowly place my AirPods back in: You a real ass woman and I like it/ I don’t wanna fight it. That was before, when people lived in my phone and I can escape into their curated updates instead of facing unfiltered reality. I don’t have such options now. Instead I dig into my reservoir of topics-with-strangers which has grown exponentially over the years with practice and ask her, “Where are you going?” It delights me how simple it is to have a conversation with random people: Do you have a lighter? Do you own this shop? Your baby is the cutest! She’s on her way to visit her daughter who’s just had a surgery. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say and we go through the motions of pleasantries to soothe the discomfort of having to talk about serious unfortunate circumstances with random strangers.

“The cancer came back,” she adds. After we’re done with the that must be tough and I’m just glad the surgery went well, I look at her wondering. She looks to be in her 60s and I assumed her daughter is in her 30s but cancer twice sounds old. “How old is your daughter?” I ask. “55,” and I’m flabbergasted. My curiosity gets the best of me, and her demeanour is encouraging— friendly, warm, inviting, I ask incredulously, “how old are you?” She has that teasing-smile, like she knows I’m about to lose my shit when I hear her age: “76,” she says. “OH MY GOD,” I shriek. She’s pleased with herself, having known exactly the reaction that was coming from this stranger. I’m so shocked I forget my manners, “You’re almost 80!” I blurt out. She laughs, “Well if I knew you would say that…” I’m taking it all in: I’m having the most delightful conversation with a random stranger waiting for the streetcar at the busiest intersection of the city— the exact place one should be the most careful in talking to a stranger in this over-populated, under-sourced city— to pass time in-between. The streetcar is nowhere in sight. I could have chosen the avatars in my phone to keep me entertained; safer too. I must be the crazy one here.

I take her in; her soft, supple youthful skin suits her soft, supple, youthful energy. I like this stranger keeping me company. A lot. I’m in awe. I dig deeper into my topics-with-strangers reservoir and find another all-time-favourite question to ask old people that seem full of life, joy, excitement—look much younger than the age they claim to have lived: “What’s your secret!? What do you eat?” “First thing,” she says and I’m hanging onto her every word: “Keep your heart light. Your heart has to be pure,” and she looks at me as if to say, do you understand what I’m saying? I want to scream I do, I do, I do, continue! but I don’t want to interrupt her. I smile and nod with eagerness and encouragement for her to continue. Body language is a necessary tool for reality. “Second,” she smiles, “you can’t let men stress you.” I throw my head back and laugh. “I’m serious,” she continuous, “that stuff ages you!” “Mhm,” I agree. I’m often the one blabbering in these situations— desperate for IRL connections since I don’t have any other alternatives— but I can’t miss a single word this woman is saying: I keep my mouth shut. I smile, nod, and occasionally say “mhm” to keep her talking. She continues on; “Of course you have to eat right, keep your body moving. Pilates, yoga, you know,” I know, I know, I know! I want to scream. I wonder if this 76-year-old woman with soft, supple, youthful skin and the matching energy is my future-self talking to me; keep going, you’re on the right track. Lately, I’ve been wondering.

We get on the streetcar together. “What stop are you getting off?” I ask her, wondering how long we have left before we are strangers again. She tells me the address and the intersection. She doesn’t have data on her phone, only a text with the address and the intersection. I pull up my dumb smartphone that’s still smart enough to get me places and I look up the address for her. “You get off a few stops before me,” I show her the Maps app showing her stop and the hospital right next to it. “Oh, thank you,” she says, “God always takes care of me.” I want to protest: No, you are my blessing! But I politely smile and nod in agreement instead. When her stop comes up, and the hospital comes into view, I’m relieved of my worries of her getting lost without a GPS if it’s a further walk. We hug goodbye. “Oh, thank you,” she says again. I don’t know if it’s for the hug, the conversation, or the Maps directions. “Take care,” I say. I have had one too many of these moments to know I will never see this woman again. I have had one too many of these moments to know I will always remember her: Keep your heart light, eat right, exercise. I’m comforted by the beauty that is all around me, if only I pay attention, if only I show up for delight. I find a seat and put my AirPods back in: I need you inspired, I need you excited/ I don’t wanna fight it.