Elizabeth once introduced me to a William Carlos Williams poem called January Morning, which begins:
I have discovered that most of
the beauties of travel are due to
the strange hours we keep to see them
This stanza came home to roost, for me, more than ever last year, as we wandered through the middle of sweltering Toronto days, down streets that weren’t on the itinerary, but beckoned all the same.
On one such street, we encountered this stunning example of the peculiar evolution of the urban environment – a Psychic trading from a pink-and-yellow house in Corktown.
Whether this odd thread in the social tapestry of downtown Toronto could be called a ‘beauty of travel’ is subjective, at best, but fascinating it certainly was, and it would not have come to light, had we not been aimlessly wandering on that hot August day.