At 7am, the line up for passports starts, even though the front doors don’t open until 8am. SharkBoy and I are there, first in line with our applications filled, t’s crossed, i’s dotted. We’re planning ahead to the inevitable winter vacation.

Other people start arriving and stand like zombies at the door. The same door with the sign on it in 72pt font: NOT OPEN UNTIL 8AM. When confronted with an unexpected set of obstacles people tend to just shut down, I guess. The locked door and sign is enough for people to blow a circuit and just stop where they discovered their inability to continue on with no regard to the other people who’ve been waiting. As the crowd grows, no one is even considering creating a line which baffles SharkBoy and I. Do you really think rushing the door at 8am is a solution?

“Lets all start a line behind us,” SharkBoy commands to the 10-15 people aimlessly milling around the front door. To my surprise, they all comply without complaint. Thing I Learned Today: using an authoritative voice, people will WANT to be herded like sheep.

As we wait I notice two things about the government building we’re waiting out front of. One: The 70’s awning/marquee has no roof – just a big brushed metal loop that frames the doors, hanging out over the sidewalk, offering no protection from the elements – just the illusion of such. Typical government office.

And Two: the key-card door is not closing, offering no security protection to the vital documents inside the building. Yet the employees still wave their pass cards and yank on the unlocked, un-secure door. Except for one aspiring bureaucrat who walked up to the door, pushed it closed, THEN got her key pass card out and then opened the door. But didn’t bother to check to see if the door closed behind her.

SharkBoy and I instantly look at each other. What the fuck was that?

I imagined we’d get her when we entered the Hall of Passports: in my head I could see a massive empty airplane hanger sized room. Like some Ridley Scott film, pigeons fly randomly around, water drips lyrically down from the high ceiling above…Bladerunner fog makes shafts of sunlight stream through the large room falling on me and one desk. And a yellow line… Our bureaucrat, in high 80s hair and huge 80s glasses squares her shoulder pads and calls out to me: “I can’t serve you until you are fully standing behind the yellow line! BEHIND! I SAID BEHI–good, next please!”

Thankfully after a few moments a frail security guard (why do they always look like you could knock them over with a feather?) came out and sorted us all out into a proper Government of Canada queue. Whew!

On the upside, our passports were renewed within minutes by the most friendliest government worker I have ever encountered. She noticed that I was wearing the same shirt in my old passport as well as my new ID pictures. Bless her!

As an aside, on the way home, I got to do the scramble at Yonge and Dundas as well as encounter an Aboriginal shaman in Allan Gardens doing a morning sun welcoming ritual. I do love Toronto…