And yet, I still love Toronto

Over the past 20 years I've probably been in Union Station in Toronto hundreds of times. I was there again yesterday. But no matter how many times I'm there, the dirtiness of the washrooms always surprises me. Even when someone is in there actually cleaning, the washrooms are still painfully sub-par. The once-white paint is chipped and stained, toilet paper clogs the toilets and the drains of the sinks, the mirrors smudged, and there are enough rogue paper towels to create a new floor covering.

I wandered around for a while to find a clean spot, then was lucky to choose a sink with a full soap dispenser on my first try. While I washed my hands, a woman with a young girl of about three years entered the washroom. The girl was head-to-toe in bright woolen stripes and her hat was yellow with little knit ears sprouting from the top. Watching her mother enter the large stall in the corner the girl stood with her feet firmly planted and her face scrunched and wrinkled.

"C'mon," her mother urged.

"I don't like this place," she shouted, emphasizing each word with childish disdain.

"Well...this is Union Station. You don't have a choice..."