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  Markham Moments

Homing
by Bob Fisher, February 7, 2003

Often when I'm weaving my way through the suburban connective tissue that extends from Markham to downtown Toronto, I get to thinking that one day I should sit down and really try to get my head around Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

This recurring thought has something to do with an underlying sense that the space in which I am in transit – not really all that far as the healthy crow flies – is not the same space I have traversed for a number of years. It's not just the physical landscape that has changed; the distance and the time it takes to make the trip seem to have been altered in a way that I find hard to express.

I have a vague understanding of the fundamental hypothesis on which Einstein's theory is based, of the notion of the non-existence of a state of absolute rest in the universe, and that distance and time are also not absolute. I have thought about such statements as "Every particle or object in the universe is described by a so-called world line that describes its position in time and space," and en route to Toronto I am indeed conscious of the proliferation of particles. Other explanatory assertions I have read in the past like "The gravity of any mass, such as our sun, has the effect of warping the space and time around it."or "The distance or interval between two events can be determined accurately with reference to a combination of space and time." seem to apply somehow to my interurban trip – but I still don't get it. Recalling another description of the theory, I don't see how the person in the car next to me, who is moving relative to me at a constant velocity, can observe the same events in our immediate surroundings in an identical way and time, but might record identical distant events as taking place at different times. Why does this "space-time continuum" result in different perceptions of the same thing? How can the ticking rate of a clock depend on the motion of the observer of that clock? I think Einstein is still messing with my mind.

However, as I creep down the Don Valley Parkway I am a little more aware of my situation relative to that of those around me.

The "Press Rendezvous and Cocktails with the Dutch Masters" sponsored by The Netherlands Board of Tourism, the Consulate General, Schipol Airport, KLM, and the Kröller-Möller Museum is held in the elegant and sumptuous Ontario Club. Founded in 1909, this private "Gentlemen's Club" had as one of its initial objectives to provide space and "atmosphere" in which the gentlemen members "could gather at will and enjoy all the amenities of Club life, including the now diminishing art of conversation." The club of choice for many professionals and business leaders, the first Ontario Club house was opened in 1913 by Sir Wilfrid Laurier at 16 Wellington Street, in the heart of Toronto's financial district. In 1969 it sold its premises to make way for the gleaming Commerce Court towers that now stand on the spot. In exchange, the Club has occupied the entire fifth floor of the South Tower and during this time has maintained its exclusive membership and atmosphere, although one Director was quoted as saying "We strive to be exclusive, not snobby. Who wants to be a member in a place where you don't feel welcome?" According to one source, the Ontario Club "has long welcomed members of all races and religions" and was one of the first such clubs to admit women members. I also learn that "young men and women [were encouraged] to join and use the Club as a worthwhile addition to their social and professional lives." It is also home to Toronto's diplomatic community, hence tonight's reception.

As I get off the mirrored elevator, a tuxedo-clad receptionist is juggling phone calls and acting as a kind of gentleman's traffic cop. I notice an extensive list in front of him and wonder if my name is on it, or whether it's just a duty roster; perhaps the packing slip for the hors d'oeuvres. Between calls he gives me a cursory glance when I say, "The Netherlands?" It occurs to me that this might sound rather strange. What if I've got the wrong night, or the wrong club? I surreptitiously check the formal invitation. I'm OK, but I wonder if I should have worn a tie. In a polite but somewhat distracted manner he directs me down the hall to the Canadian Room and then, noticing that I am carrying my ski jacket over my arm, he points to the "Gentlemen's cloak room" behind me. The panelled door leads to several small rooms with coat tracks, toilets, and sinks besides which are real towels and other subtle amenities for freshening up. This is not a locker room by any means although, a curious but discreet sign says, "The Ontario Club is not responsible for the loss of personal items."

The actual press rendezvous is disappointing. I am always surprised when those in the public relations business demonstrate ineffective presentation skills; and I would include many business leaders I have met and others in positions of influence in public institutions. Someone should be giving these people a course in the basics of presenting: how to be inclusive in tone, in words and in body language when addressing any group; how to use the CUE Factor (coherence, unity, and emphasis) to focus and maintain the viewer's attention; how to engage your audience aurally, visually, and conceptually. For example, what presentation techniques gently guide the audience to consider the four inherent questions in an effective presentation: What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel? What's going on? Presenters, by the way, should also remember that PowerPoint images are only a tool and a supplement, and that the information on the overhead screen should never be read aloud; doing so is redundant and distracting. The presenter should however talk about the information displayed visually, clarify it, amplify it, explain it, but use the visuals only as a focal point or point of reference.

Anyway ... having rendezvoused, we adjourn to the "bar" where it seems the entire Toronto diplomatic community has already assembled and is working its way through the extensive buffet. This is fortunate for me because I know no one here and would have trouble just standing by. Because I can blend into the crowd of guests who are chatting, sipping, and eating I don't feel particularly out of place. Instead I have a comfortable detached feeling as I negotiate my way in and around the conversation, the drink, and the food. Servers in natty black and white also weave in and out offering additional drinks and replenishing the ample and exotic buffet. Having made an initial stop at the bar for a glass of Ontario white wine, I find myself a plate, a fork, a napkin and I start at the top of the buffet.

Now this is public relations. This is CUE. The Dutch meatballs are yummy! The herring is a bit fishy, but an experience. And, about halfway down the table is the largest baked cheese en brioche I have ever seen. What impresses me most is how this eclectic gastronomic array is strategically designed using multiple tables so that one can move around and through it in elliptical orbits, coming at it from a different position and perspective each time. So I munch and I mingle wordlessly and then pause to observe the room, my wine glass securely placed on the grand piano, my plate brimming with Dutch treats. Ah, The Netherlands!

Now I must tell you that I really am not new to this kind of gathering. In another – now distant – professional incarnation I used to be invited to similar receptions every now and then. I actually worked in another architecturally impressive building down the street. However, when you leave the big city life for the semi-controlled environment of Markham, it can be tricky going back; you get out of practice.

Because I have no one to talk to and because I am feeling satiated and satisfied, I wander about the room admiring the original art. Some of the paintings look like the Group of Seven but I can't be sure because little tables, high-backed chairs, and sundry potted plants create a buffer zone between me and them preventing me from seeing the signatures.

Later, standing beside one of the floor to ceiling windows, I look out at the other tower a short distance across the way. Behind me a hum of human conviviality permeates the room. It's about 7:30 and dark outside. Most of the lights in the other tower have been extinguished, except for the spacious and prestigious corner office directly opposite me. Hunched over his desk, a thirtyish businessman is still at work. The overhead lighting in his office illuminates him indulgently and the thick plate glass windows and empty air between the two of us create a discrete soundlessness. I watch him work, overtime I assume. There is a gravity and determination in his manner. He takes a document from the pile on his left, studies it intensely, makes a notation of some sort, and then places it on his right. Maintaining a steady rhythm he reaches for the telephone which, according to my deduction, has rung. He answers it. I watch a brief, muted conversation. He swivels slightly to his right and consults his laptop. Turning back, he reaches for another document.

Checking my watch I decide that it is time to be on my way. I leave the reception, retrieve my coat, take the elevator back down, find my car, and head for home.