The Philosopher and the Metropolis

Once again, I've been out on the tiles and enjoying my weekend rather than writing a blog post. Shame on me, I know. Anyway, that gives me an opportunity to dig back into My Rather Unimpressive Archives and pull out some pre-written material. I just took a quick look at the file, and apparently I wrote this in October of 2010, so that would have been shortly after I first moved to Guelph. An interesting time in my life that was. I hope that you enjoy reading a little about it. Before really getting into it, let me once again plug dutifully away for Philopolis Guelph, that most philosophical of festivals where you'll find presentations much like the content of this blog (though hopefully far superior in quality). The call for activities is still open, and we're excited to hear about your ideas. Submission deadline is August 26, and you should all submit something. Plug complete. Here we go:

The Philosopher and the Metropolis

I had an interesting experience in Toronto the other day. I wanted to take the underground, aiming to visit a friend who actually wasn't there anyway, but that's another matter. Anyway, I had some TTC tokens in my pocket, got them from a friend. (He's a Newfoundlander, not a Newfie mind you, and definitely good folk.) So there I was with my token and the machine wouldn't take it, so naturally I went to the guy in the booth. "The machine keeps rejecting my token," I said, offering up the chunk of metal as evidence. He took the token from me, examined it momentarily, handed it back to me and said, "That token's no good anymore, it's too old. They changed to new tokens ages ago because those others were being counterfeited."

            I'm from Montreal and so of course I never spend time in Toronto: I had only faint notions about how these tokens worked, and obviously no clue about their being changed. All I knew is, I was standing in front of the hand of anonymity, impersonality, inhumanity. The hand that always keeps you at arm's length. The Man in the Booth was as much a machine as the automated metal thing that rejected my token in the first place.

            What I had in my hand was a piece of metal, but it represented one ride with the TTC, duly paid for (remember what I said about my friend the Newfoundlander), but the man wouldn't let me use it. All he saw was a token that was too old; he saw neither the ride it represents, nor the guy who was standing there holding it. You know: me. "These tokens were being counterfeited? News to me. Well, this is a good one, so please let me use it. Do you think I counterfeited it? You need a reason to believe that it's a good token? Here's the reason to believe: I'm telling you it's a good one, it represents one trip. Don't you trust me? Is it really your nature to assume that a stranger is a liar?"

            There I stood, a man with a chunk of metal in his hand that used to mean something but that the machine doesn't like any more, talking to a man who used to be able to help you with such things. Now he stands behind a sheet of glass, looks at the token and tells you exactly what the machine tells you: token's no good. Of course, I'm a human being who could speak, and he's a human being who could hear. There is all the possibility in the world for us to discuss this and sort it out. I could have told him all those things I thought to say about trust. But like all the faceless, un-individuated individuals in the Metropolis, I didn't ask any of those questions, I didn't press the issue. I simply paid my three dollars and got on the underground without a word or a fuss.