Calgary Needs Public Transit to the Airport
In the last week of January this year two Calgary seniors went to Vancouver on a flying trip. After getting off the plane they walked a short distance to the Sky train. They bought the tickets to downtime for $7.50 each which included the airport fee of five dollars. A clean spacious train took them to downtown in comfort in twenty minutes. They crossed the street and were well settled in the hotel room with a view of the ocean in less than an hour after leaving the plane. Comfortable and convenient transportation from airport cost fifteen dollars for both of them.
When they got off the plane in Calgary two days later there was no reasonably priced transportation, either train or a bus, to take them anywhere. They joined a queue for the cabs on the side walk in minus thirty weather. A cab took them home, about the same distance as in Vancouver, in a little over an hour from the touch down. It cost sixty dollars compared to thirty on the Skytrain in Vancouver. While the difference of sixty dollars for the return trip may not matter much to prosperous Calgarians, it is a factor for many tourists the city is trying to attract. I have met many overseas visitors in Banff and Lake Louise who went directly from the airport to their resort destinations without stopping in Calgary. One can only conjecture on the numbers, but at least some of them would have considered a stopover in the city where 1988 Olympics were held if it were convenient and economic to do so. Environmental considerations also support connecting Airport and downtime with an efficient transit system.
I have lived in Calgary for thirty five years and have heard a lot of glib talk about public transportation from our local and provincial politicians. But the action is a different world than words and LRT connection to the airport is one prime example. Some Calgarians believe that the Airport Authority likes their cozy arrangement with the cab companies and is opposed to public transit connection from downtown to the airport. If this is indeed true the financial loss to the Authority can be circumvented by a surcharge on LRT tickets similar to that imposed in Vancouver. There is no doubt that the public transport will hurt the cab companies. However, if various public and citizen organizations succeed in placing immigrants in jobs appropriate for their training, this may be a remedy for the foreseeable shortage of cab drivers. As for the companies with parking lots, the appreciation in land values makes up for the reduction in parking business.
Extending LRT from McNight station to the airport is not a major logistical problem. It is perhaps expensive but so is the continuous widening of roads and additions to parking spaces. Other option would be to include stops at Calgary and Edmonton airports for the high speed train connecting the two cities. However, this project appears to be far in the future and the airport connection needs to proceed without delay. Whatever route is chosen, it needs to be worked in with the expansion plans of the airport to minimize duplication. For this to happen, the Airport Authority needs to expand their vision beyond the airport building to include the long term convenience of the city and its citizens in its plans and the province may have to intervene in the discussions for all parties to reach a satisfactory agreement without an interminable delay.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Burqa and the Sky Clad
Contrary to the impression given by my letters in the newspapers, I am known among friends as a tolerant man. This is understandable considering my family background. I was brought up in India in a neighbourhood where various Hindu sects, Muslims and Sikhs lived harmoniously together. The residents were mostly professionals who practiced the dictates of their religions with due consideration to others. Sikh men wore turbans, Hindu women saris and Muslim and Sikh women pantaloons and tunics. However, Jains of ‘sky clad’ sect did wear clothes in public. Whether they did in their homes was their business alone. No one covered their faces; they had nothing to hide.
When the Burqa controversy hit the headlines in Canada I was amazed. Why would any self-respecting person want to go around with her face covered? I sent a letter to the newspaper stating that Jains of my sect are not expected to wear any clothes but I compromise to suit the local conditions and the women from Arab countries should do the same. It was published under the pictures of two women, one wearing a burqa and the other only a bra. I showed it to my female colleague and commented “I wouldn’t mind if she took even the bra off.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You are a Jain.” The colleague fired back.
It took a second to sink in but when it did, the laughter brought a ceiling tile down.
Contrary to the impression given by my letters in the newspapers, I am known among friends as a tolerant man. This is understandable considering my family background. I was brought up in India in a neighbourhood where various Hindu sects, Muslims and Sikhs lived harmoniously together. The residents were mostly professionals who practiced the dictates of their religions with due consideration to others. Sikh men wore turbans, Hindu women saris and Muslim and Sikh women pantaloons and tunics. However, Jains of ‘sky clad’ sect did wear clothes in public. Whether they did in their homes was their business alone. No one covered their faces; they had nothing to hide.
When the Burqa controversy hit the headlines in Canada I was amazed. Why would any self-respecting person want to go around with her face covered? I sent a letter to the newspaper stating that Jains of my sect are not expected to wear any clothes but I compromise to suit the local conditions and the women from Arab countries should do the same. It was published under the pictures of two women, one wearing a burqa and the other only a bra. I showed it to my female colleague and commented “I wouldn’t mind if she took even the bra off.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You are a Jain.” The colleague fired back.
It took a second to sink in but when it did, the laughter brought a ceiling tile down.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Making Amends
Sixties were the glorious years for competent practitioners in the art of writing. I was one of them, better than most in my humble, albeit not overly modest, opinion. Literary journals wanted any squiggle from my pen for their lead articles. Universities pestered me to be the writer-in-residence at their campus. Publishers pestered my agent for my new book; whether a novel, a play, a collection of stories or essays they couldn’t care less. I wrote what I felt like, traveled the continent giving interviews to the media, critics fawned and the public lapped it up. My bank account grew larger in spite of my family’s growing needs – all those alimony payments, private school and college fees and what have you. I was happy and was proud to keep my present and ex dears happy as well.
Sixties rolled out with a bang, seventies rolled in with a whimper. My previous play was only a modest hit on Broadway and the latest one bombed. Critics like nothing better than kicking a writer when he is down. Suddenly, I was a man of the past; my talents did not suit the new generation. Media avoided me; publishers cut out advance payments for the next book and made royalties conditional on sales above a ludicrously high number of sales. My bank account was drying up but demands on it were no less; near and far dears couldn’t really adjust to a new reality. After all it was not their’s.
Universities still wanted me though - to teach courses on writing, lead seminars on attracting publishers and producers, judge works of graduate students and submissions in competitions they sponsored, you name it. And they still offered the same honorarium as before. My agent – bless his heart – booked me solid months in advance. He needed his twenty percent as much as I needed the remainder and he didn’t really care whether I had any time left to write. I now suspect that he did not have it in him to persuade reluctant publishers to accept my new works, if there were any, on terms any respectable writer of my stature would accept. In any event, the drubbing by critics and neglect by publishers and public had turned me off writing and I was quite happy to travel to various educational institutions helping young writers get better. I did notice though, the decline with each passing month in the reputation of colleges I was being invited by.
During this period of my life I helped improve dozens of works which became publishable although none became a major success. Then I came across a play written by a girl not yet out of her teens. It had drama, it had emotion, it showed the sensitivity of the playwright and the literary skill well beyond her years. The plot was certain to stir a lot of commotion and it was brilliantly executed. It was competing for a big prize, enough to give a start to a stellar career, much like mine except perhaps the premature twilight. If it won, it would have attracted notice and in all likelihood would have been performed at major theatres.
But it did not win. Not because something better came along, but because I was made an offer I could not refuse. My financial situation was desperate. All my exes and their offspring refused to lower the settlements made in my glory days and the bank was threatening to dishonour my cheques. Then comes along this brash young man. He had made millions in a Tech start up when still in his teens. Now he wanted to revolutionize the stage. The first step was to win this prize, next to have it performed off-Broadway. His marketing genius would look after the rest. To be honest, the play was sort of okay. I wouldn’t have discouraged a community theatre from presenting it. But it was not a world shattering work the rich kid believed it was. But that was neither here nor there. The kid was not interested in my opinion. He had submitted the play to win the prize and it was for me to make sure he won. Cost was no object.
Well, the cost was a very important object to me. I made sure the play won. Later it was performed in New York to poor reviews and never saw the stage again. The writer went back to what he did best and in due course turned his millions into billions. As for the poor writer who should have won, she gave up writing but went into theatre any way. In a few years she had become a moderately successful director of serious works for stage and television in mid-size towns. I saw a couple of them and got the impression that she was destined for bigger things. To round up her life she married a young and ambitious politician and had a boy and a girl.
In later years I took up literary criticism, my career recovered a little and my reputation revived. The rich kid, now a very rich kid, had not lost his love for theatre. He reviewed the scene nationally and determined that the profession needed an impresario who was not beholden to financiers. To fill this vacuum, he bought a playhouse and proceeded to renovate it at great expense. In the meantime, he was looking for the right play and a director for it to open his new toy. By a strange coincidence, he happened to come across one of my reviews and called to ask if I had any suggestions. Of course I did. I told him about the play I was so taken in by so many years ago and its writer who was now a director. He called a few weeks later to tell how happy he was with my recommendation and had the lady on contract to revise and direct the play she wrote in her youth.
The play was a huge success and the careers of the impresario and the writer-director took off. They had several huge successes with critics and the public alike. I could not help being a little elated with the role I had played in their drama and often wondered if it would make amends in the judgment of the Final Arbitrator for the sin of my difficult years.
The now world-renowned playwright-director built a ‘summer cottage’ on a lake in the cabin country. It was a huge affair designed to entertain the prospective backers of her husband. Not far from it was the small cabin I had acquired when my first wife was expecting our baby. I spent the summers there reading, writing and reviewing the books for the media. As a single man of mature years I did not need much and I led a simple life of a grand old man of literature. The happy couple often dropped by to see me, as if to pay homage. On each of their visit I wondered if they knew of my part in her initial failure and eventual success. If they did indeed know, they were much too kind to let me get a wind of it.
Sixties were the glorious years for competent practitioners in the art of writing. I was one of them, better than most in my humble, albeit not overly modest, opinion. Literary journals wanted any squiggle from my pen for their lead articles. Universities pestered me to be the writer-in-residence at their campus. Publishers pestered my agent for my new book; whether a novel, a play, a collection of stories or essays they couldn’t care less. I wrote what I felt like, traveled the continent giving interviews to the media, critics fawned and the public lapped it up. My bank account grew larger in spite of my family’s growing needs – all those alimony payments, private school and college fees and what have you. I was happy and was proud to keep my present and ex dears happy as well.
Sixties rolled out with a bang, seventies rolled in with a whimper. My previous play was only a modest hit on Broadway and the latest one bombed. Critics like nothing better than kicking a writer when he is down. Suddenly, I was a man of the past; my talents did not suit the new generation. Media avoided me; publishers cut out advance payments for the next book and made royalties conditional on sales above a ludicrously high number of sales. My bank account was drying up but demands on it were no less; near and far dears couldn’t really adjust to a new reality. After all it was not their’s.
Universities still wanted me though - to teach courses on writing, lead seminars on attracting publishers and producers, judge works of graduate students and submissions in competitions they sponsored, you name it. And they still offered the same honorarium as before. My agent – bless his heart – booked me solid months in advance. He needed his twenty percent as much as I needed the remainder and he didn’t really care whether I had any time left to write. I now suspect that he did not have it in him to persuade reluctant publishers to accept my new works, if there were any, on terms any respectable writer of my stature would accept. In any event, the drubbing by critics and neglect by publishers and public had turned me off writing and I was quite happy to travel to various educational institutions helping young writers get better. I did notice though, the decline with each passing month in the reputation of colleges I was being invited by.
During this period of my life I helped improve dozens of works which became publishable although none became a major success. Then I came across a play written by a girl not yet out of her teens. It had drama, it had emotion, it showed the sensitivity of the playwright and the literary skill well beyond her years. The plot was certain to stir a lot of commotion and it was brilliantly executed. It was competing for a big prize, enough to give a start to a stellar career, much like mine except perhaps the premature twilight. If it won, it would have attracted notice and in all likelihood would have been performed at major theatres.
But it did not win. Not because something better came along, but because I was made an offer I could not refuse. My financial situation was desperate. All my exes and their offspring refused to lower the settlements made in my glory days and the bank was threatening to dishonour my cheques. Then comes along this brash young man. He had made millions in a Tech start up when still in his teens. Now he wanted to revolutionize the stage. The first step was to win this prize, next to have it performed off-Broadway. His marketing genius would look after the rest. To be honest, the play was sort of okay. I wouldn’t have discouraged a community theatre from presenting it. But it was not a world shattering work the rich kid believed it was. But that was neither here nor there. The kid was not interested in my opinion. He had submitted the play to win the prize and it was for me to make sure he won. Cost was no object.
Well, the cost was a very important object to me. I made sure the play won. Later it was performed in New York to poor reviews and never saw the stage again. The writer went back to what he did best and in due course turned his millions into billions. As for the poor writer who should have won, she gave up writing but went into theatre any way. In a few years she had become a moderately successful director of serious works for stage and television in mid-size towns. I saw a couple of them and got the impression that she was destined for bigger things. To round up her life she married a young and ambitious politician and had a boy and a girl.
In later years I took up literary criticism, my career recovered a little and my reputation revived. The rich kid, now a very rich kid, had not lost his love for theatre. He reviewed the scene nationally and determined that the profession needed an impresario who was not beholden to financiers. To fill this vacuum, he bought a playhouse and proceeded to renovate it at great expense. In the meantime, he was looking for the right play and a director for it to open his new toy. By a strange coincidence, he happened to come across one of my reviews and called to ask if I had any suggestions. Of course I did. I told him about the play I was so taken in by so many years ago and its writer who was now a director. He called a few weeks later to tell how happy he was with my recommendation and had the lady on contract to revise and direct the play she wrote in her youth.
The play was a huge success and the careers of the impresario and the writer-director took off. They had several huge successes with critics and the public alike. I could not help being a little elated with the role I had played in their drama and often wondered if it would make amends in the judgment of the Final Arbitrator for the sin of my difficult years.
The now world-renowned playwright-director built a ‘summer cottage’ on a lake in the cabin country. It was a huge affair designed to entertain the prospective backers of her husband. Not far from it was the small cabin I had acquired when my first wife was expecting our baby. I spent the summers there reading, writing and reviewing the books for the media. As a single man of mature years I did not need much and I led a simple life of a grand old man of literature. The happy couple often dropped by to see me, as if to pay homage. On each of their visit I wondered if they knew of my part in her initial failure and eventual success. If they did indeed know, they were much too kind to let me get a wind of it.
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