Sunday Night Lights

I came home Sunday afternoon and realized that my room had very poor lighting. In my room's previous incarnation as hotel room with one large bed (hint hint), its guests (I would imagine) probably engaged in activities that required little or no light. But, as a student, I had different needs; two desk lamps and one floor lamp (each powered by a puny 100W incandescent bulb) did not provide the type of luminescence I need. Armed with an uncharacteristic determination and a free afternoon, I decided to do something about the lighting situation.

Being a n00b in this city, the only store I could think of that sold light fixtures was Canadian Tire. In hindsight, walking more than 30 minutes in gale-force winds (sans tuque, no less) was a stupid (and unneccesary -- there were probably several stores that sold lights at the Eaton Centre, a mere five minute walk away from my place) thing to do. But I was possessed by an enterprising spirit I had not known before. I was unfazed by the cold, unfazed by the winds, and unfazed by the long walk ahead. I knew there was only one floor lamp in that world that would be fit enough to grace my temporary hotel room floor; and at the low, low price of $14.99, I knew I had to hurry! Excited, and feeling brave, I took the elevator down 26 floors and began my journey to the Canadian Tire on the corner of Yonge St. and Church St.

Pedestrian traffic was light as I slowly made my way north on Bay St. On most days of the week, this street would be teeming with corporate types hurrying to merge and acquire, or to shift paradigms, or to do whatever it is that occupies Bay St. drones on weekdays. But on this Sunday afternoon, I was at times the only person walking on the street. It felt eerily strange; as if the whole world had left town to avoid an impending nuclear war, but I had somehow missed the memo, or slept through the sirens.

The winds were strong, threatening to push me over on several occasions; and cold, stinging my unprotected face as I inched along up-hill. Finally, after about twenty minutes of arduous walking, I hit Bloor St. and found myself in the midst of a throng of holiday shoppers in "Yorkville", supposedly one of the most high-end retail areas in Canada. It's ironic that I had to walk by Holt Renfrew on my way to Canadian Tire, but I was too numb with determination (and frostbite) to appreciate it then. I quickly walked along Bloor St. and turned left to head up Yonge St.

A few minutes later, I finally saw the red and green Canadian Tire logo and walked into the heated, warehouse-inspired store. To be honest, the whole experience was anti-climatic. Canadian Tire sucks. There wasn't a single box on the selves that hadn't been opened, ravaged, and returned (...then re-sealed, re-sold, re-opened, ravaged again, and returned...again). People, when you buy a lamp for $15 and you don't like it...too bad! Don't stuff the contents back in the box and return it so the next guy pays for something you've used and scratched up.

As I walked out of the store with my floor lamp (that had been owned by at least one previous owner), I felt the enterprising spirit that only moments ago had lit a fire in my soul leave. I took the subway home.


Your Favorite Jerk

Update: Despite prior ownership, the lamp works great. My room is super bright now and I can read without having to squint anymore! Hurray for halogen.