Let me preface this by saying that I am not on the Porter Airlines payroll. I have never even met Robert Deluce. If I did, though, I would give the fledging airline's CEO a hug.
Last week, I had a late night event in Toronto and an early morning meeting the next day in Montreal. I live in the glass-and-steel jungle down by the lake, right next to SkyDome (I refuse to call it the Rogers Centre), so I thought I would try the new island airport service to Dorval (I refuse to call it Trudeau International). I felt a bit uneasy about this, since I read the newspapers and am well aware that Robert Deluce and the Toronto Port Authority are supposed to have horns.
I rolled out of bed at 5:15, was out the door by 5:50, and walked - walked, mind you - to the terminal at the foot of Bathurst Street by 6:10. Something was wrong. There were no crowds to fight, no lineups to endure, cheerful X-ray screeners, and first-rate coffee in real mugs in the passenger lounge.
As I strolled to the brand-spanking-new Porter Airlines Bombardier Q400, I watched the soft, warm glow of the morning sun bathe the Toronto skyline. I settled in my tastefully upholstered leather seat and exchanged smiles with the flight attendant. I was barely halfway through the first story in my morning Globe and Mail when the engines started; two minutes later, we were at the end of the runway. Fifteen seconds after that, we were aloft, climbing past the sunlit downtown core. It was then that I realized what a wonderful waterfront we have.
Now, I understand that this is heresy. Toronto is supposed to have the sorriest, least well-planned, most embarrassing waterfront in the developed world. Porter Airlines was supposed to be a step in precisely the wrong direction, poisoning the lakeshore with noise, pollution, congestion, and people who don't vote NDP. It was supposed to thwart a nature-friendly, people-centred renaissance. It was supposed to ruin our chances of catching up with Chicago.
Well, I don't want a lakeshore like Chicago's. I like ours. I like almost everything about it: the massive landfill dump known as the Leslie Street Spit, a birder's accidental paradise; the Redpath Sugar refinery, an increasingly rare link to our gritty industrial past; Harbourfront and the Queen's Quay Terminal, vibrant in summer and calming in winter; the bizarre community of hippies and yuppies on Ward's Island. I even like the Gardiner Expressway, which shouts "Welcome to Toronto" from the top and "Wash Me, Please" from below.
Our lakeshore has character. Chicago's is plastic. Sure, it has a lot of attractions, most of which are very nice in and of themselves. We have a lot of attractions, too. They just aren't all clustered in one place. Chicago's lakeshore is touristy, expensive, and soulless. You have to be rich to live anywhere near it. Real people live near ours.
It occurred to me, as we rose to meet the pastel clouds, that all this opposition to the island airport was nonsense. Porter Airlines has been operating for five months and I have only ever noticed their planes twice. I never hear them. There is no real opportunity cost to Toronto's island airport; we have plenty of green space on the islands already. If I have to fly in and out of Toronto anyway, I would far rather walk to the airport and board a fuel-efficient Canadian-built plane than spend extra time, money, and carbon credits going all the way to Pearson International (I no longer call it Malton), only to deal with crowds, surly security guards, a 30-minute taxi from terminal to runway, and the extra blood pressure that goes with it all.
Neither would it make any positive difference if we tore down the Gardiner. It isn't really an obstacle to anything, being above ground, and we would miss it the minute it was gone. Sure, there are a few eyesores near the lake, and large areas that are badly used, but our waterfront is diverse and dynamic. It is a patchwork quilt. A mixed bag. A delightful jumble of styles and moods. It is, in short, a metaphor for Toronto. It is us.
And it is improving, bit by bit, thanks to no one's master plan, but thanks in large part to people with ideas, even initially unpopular ones. People such as Robert Deluce, the guy who got me to downtown Montreal by 8:40 a.m.
I doubt Mayor David Miller could be persuaded to give Mr. Deluce the keys to the city or put his name on a bridge to the island airport. But, at the very least, on behalf of us all, he should give him a hug.
David Welch holds the George Ignatieff Chair at the University of Toronto's Trudeau (not Dorval) Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies.