Round TRIP

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 09/01/2010 (6011 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

44 I was recently in Richmond, on the south side of Vancouver, staying in my favourite hotel. (The friendly people at the front desk informed me that the room I usually rented for $159 per night was going to cost $599 per night during the Olympics. And they are sold out.)

I thought I’d take a ride on The Canada Line, which runs right past the hotel. In several previous visits, I’d watched the construction of the concrete pillars and other infrastructure that had for months interfered with business in Richmond.

The line interested me partly because of Winnipeg’s rapid-transit aspirations, partly because it was another way to see Vancouver scenery, and partly because you travel on a streamlined, two-coach train that starts, runs and stops without a driver or a conductor.

It was mid-morning on a Friday when I set out. The closest station was Aberdeen, across the street from my hotel. It’s a large glass structure enclosing stairs, an escalator and an elevator that take you up to the track.

My first task was to buy a ticket from the ATM-like machine not far from the entrance. It was accompanied by a billboard-size notice board that explained the fare system and how severely you would be prosecuted if you didn’t buy a ticket. As I stood there searching the board for an instruction that fit the round trip I had in mind, a pleasant young Asian woman approached me and, without a word, only a smile, handed me a ticket. I thanked her and she hurried away before I could ask any questions.

On the ticket was printed “Faresaver Adult One Zone $2.50.” I had no idea what it entitled me to — there was fine print on the back which I ignored. Because it looked like a ticket and felt like a ticket, I proceeded across the yellow line into an area marked “Fair Paid Zone.” I made an instant decision that, since I’d crossed the yellow line without being zapped by some automated electric charge, the ticket I clutched must be legitimate.

As I headed up the escalator, I expected to come to a turnstile where I’d insert the ticket or to a live person who’d stamp it. Nothing. Just an open platform where I waited for the next northbound train.

A minute later, the train arrived. The doors slid open. I stepped into the coach and again no zap.

The seats on the right side of the aisle all faced the way we were going; the seats on the left all faced the opposite way. I realized later that, because the train never turns around, if you want to face the way the train is going, you have to sit on the right.

I sat by the window and enjoyed the elevated view between Aberdeen Station and Marine Drive Station — the river below and the buildings and boats on both sides. At Marine Drive, we headed underground. The line becomes a subway. It’s a sleek, futuristic, brand-spanking-new subway, but still a subway.

That’s when you appreciate the way the seats are arranged. When there’s no longer any scenery, just dark grey walls, if you don’t have a book or a magazine to read, you naturally start looking at your fellow passengers. If all the seats faced forward, all you’d be able to see are backs. Since the rows of seats to your left face the other way, you can see a good number of fronts.

It happened that, at the Langara stop, an attractive young woman got on and sat facing the back. She wore a jacket with a wispy scarp tossed about her neck. The jacket lapels formed a V that exposed a most remarkable cleavage.

While I was suddenly appreciating the seating alignment even more, I felt a twinge of political correctness. More and more young women are dressing like this, but is it polite to look at them? Is it even legal? She seemed not the least bit bothered, and she was looking off into the mid-distance, possibly thinking how good she looked, while I let my gaze drift back and forth as if I found the subway tunnel wall just as delightful as her decolletage.

Seven stops later, we were at the end of the line — the Vancouver waterfront. I left the train and walked upstairs, again expecting either a slot for my ticket or an official or a galvanizing zap. Again, nothing. I stepped out into the street and took a few minutes to determine where in blazes I was. Between two mammoth buildings I saw water. Taking a deep breath of the misty air, I headed toward it. I had the feeling you have when you’ve gotten away with something — a mixture of guilt and childlike pleasure.

After identifying a few landmarks, I headed back. I noticed that the ticket bore an expiry time: 12:18. The 20 minutes the trip took would get me back before then.

You have to wait only a few minutes before the next train, and I went, again unscathed. No sign of any policeman or other official. When I arrived at the station I’d started from, I went back to the information board. As far as I could figure out, I was lucky. There apparently are frequent spot-checkers who will ask you for a valid ticket and, if you don’t have one, you are in big trouble. The ticket I had should have been applied to a real ticket, one that cost more than $2.50, especially if I was crossing zones, whatever that meant. I went back to my hotel more confused than ever about The Canada Line.

Of course, I could feel good about beating the system. But I wondered how many Olympic visitors from foreign countries would be able to figure out what to do.

Dave Williamson is a Winnipeg author.