It all sounds like the plot of a corny movie from the 1950s.
The happy-go-lucky bus driver who sings on the job is told to button it by city council after years of serenading public transit riders. Of course the public valiantly rallies around the driver with the golden pipes, flooding councillors with letters and emails demanding them to stop the ban.
The happy ending, though, may not be coming. Mayor Jim Watson seems adamant about turning down the driver’s; whose name is Yves Roy, volume.
While it heartens me to see how Ottawa is standing up for Roy, council's decision very sad.
I have had the pleasure of hearing Roy sing on many occasions and on dreary, cold days when riding the bus is the last thing you want to do (which happens often in an Ottawa winter), hearing the crooning driver has brightened my day.
Listening to the joy this man has for his job, for life, for music, is invigorating and I would bet you everything I have that no one could keep a smile off their face after his contagious good spirits hits you on a wave of knee-tapping song.
After seeing videos in the last week of bus drivers swearing at riders and illegally talking on a cell phone while driving, hearing Roy's optimism and passion restores my faith in city drivers and makes me more attentive to the smiles, nods and thank you’s I get every day from OC Transpo employees.
So I am grateful for Yves Roy, the singing bus driver. I am grateful for his joy in life that everyone should strive to achieve. I am grateful for the simple, but hugely important, gift he gives hundreds of people every day with his voice. I am grateful for everything he stands for and for the people who stand for him. So Jim Watson, if you happen to stumble across this post, please don't make Roy stop singing, write the last scene in this movie, make that happy ending.
Forget the DeLorean; my nose is the only time machine I need.
My shnozz can take me back to any time or any place. All I need is the smell of something that opens the gate on a memory and the sights, sounds and feel of the some of the best, worst and ordinary times of my life play on the screen in my head.
The smell can be anything, from a whiff of cardboard that makes me think of my summer at the box factory or the harmonious odors of gasoline, tobacco and popcorn that fling me back to my childhood at the Canadian National Exhibition.
Today it was the smell of Kenyan chai.
Chai is the Kiswahili word for tea and when I smelled it wafting through the event I was photographing, my trip to the wonderful East African country of Kenya played itself out like I was there again.
Chai was the morning wakeup call when I was in Kenya. It was there every morning, freshly made from scratch by the Kenyan staff at the camp. The warmth it gave, the energy it instilled, the simple joy it brought was amazing.
Even before those things, came the smell. It was mesmerizing, comforting, even inspiring in a way. Chai was my alarm clock in Kenya (along with the bird that loudly chirped outside my tent every morning) and it signaled a new day in the country I had fallen in love with at first sight. I came to associate the amazing memories I had with chai. The friendships made and strengthened, the lessons learned, the showers missed, the awesome people met. These all came during or after a nice cup of chai.
So I am grateful for chai. I am grateful for taste that leaves my taste buds in awe. I am grateful for its warmth and its comfort and its enchanting smell. I am grateful for the people who grow the ingredients and the people who make the tea. And most of all I am grateful for the way chai can take me back and help me relive some of the best times of my life with some of the greatest people I've ever met and look forward to the day when I can do it all over again.
