The sound was unmistakably familiar.

A steady rumble, followed by the squeal of metal-on-metal and the dinging of the bell —the odd sizzle of a spark erupting between the trolley pole and the wiring above. It had reverberated through Toronto streets for the last four decades, the closest thing the city had to a pulse, and a sound that citizens celebrated or ignored in equal measure.

As the Canadian Light Rail Vehicle (CLRV) streetcar pulled up on a cold November morning, I had no sense that it would be my last time riding one of the old model cars. For me, using them was so routine, a series of movements I had committed to memory since those very first streetcar rides as a child, my father encouraging me to appreciate the smoothness of its movements compared to the shaky buses near our home in the suburbs.

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Climbing the steep steps and greeting the driver, I dropped my fare in the box and took a seat in the empty car. Tucked into a worn two-seater as the vehicle lurched forward, I watched the streets and storefronts glide past, an elevated view unhindered by ground-level distractions. Chinatown, Kensington Market, Queen Street – neighbourhoods unspooled past the windows like a film reel, a sense of urban continuity that seemed easier to grasp from within the darkened interior of the car.

The steady rumble the old CLRV streetcars provided was the closest thing Toronto had to a pulse. (Steve Russell/Toronto Star)

And then it hit me – this experience of the city would soon be gone forever.

Since their introduction in 1979, the old CLRVs have been inextricably linked to Toronto’s iconography. Its sensible black, white and red striping made it a comfortably intrusive street presence, and so different from streetcar models in other cities. The cars acted as a welcome connective thread between the city’s disparate neighbourhoods, a sort of tour guide that could always lead you home (or at least to the nearest subway line). Much like the CN Tower, New City Hall, or the similarly-fated Honest Ed’s, they became an emblem and shorthand for a city with a growing sense of self, appearing in films, on television, and on local memorabilia.

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Still, their retirement at the end of 2019 made sense. The CLRVs were never designed with an eye to accessibility, and passengers with mobility issues were left to fend for themselves. Drivers also got the short shrift, exposed to cold Canadian winters and verbal and physical abuse – an average of one assault a day, per TTC statistics. While the cars received various upgrades over the years – automated stop announcements, Presto card readers, protective gates – these were all temporary solutions designed to keep the vehicles relevant until a new and better fleet could be introduced.

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And there is no denying that the new Bombardier Flexity cars are a far more graceful presence in the streets compared to their clunky predecessors, blending in with the slick luxury cars and SUVs gliding along the city’s main arteries. The large windows and fluorescent lighting showcase their interiors to the street like a commuter diorama, the cars double the rider capacity of the traditional CLRVs, with lowered floors, ramps, on-board fare machines, and air conditioning.

Streetcars old and new pass each other on Queens Quay in July 2016. (Andrew Lahodynskyj/Toronto Star)

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And yet the interior, with its awkward four-seater pods, lowered ceiling and staggered seating arrangement suggests a more fragmented commuter experience than the one I grew up with, one also seemingly at odds with the openness and clean organizing principles of the old cars. As opposed to integrated within the city, it feels strangely detached and antiseptic. And despite the sleek new design, riders can expect to wait a little longer for one of the new cars to arrive.

I think back to my early teens, and to the many nights spent chatting with streetcar drivers as various riders would get on, those early communications forming the bedrock for my understanding of my city’s character, that of an urban space that could be chaotic, but nonetheless human. And the streetcar drivers were the face of that – friendly or surly, impatient or warm, but always a constant.

In the new cars, the drivers now reside behind a wall of darkened safety glass, a disembodied voice seemingly worlds away from the riders, with fare inspectors a more aggressive and on the ground replacement for human contact. The future is safe, it seems, if a bit less friendly.

As I exit the car, I apologize to the driver for snapping so many photos with my phone’s camera. “I grew up in the city and have lots of memories on these old cars.”

The driver laughs, revealing that he also grew up in the city, and remembers taking the old 504 CLRV across town with friends when he was a teen, their group taking up the circle of seats at the back of the car.

Friendly or surly, impatient or warm, the human presence of a visible streetcar driver was always a constant. (Steve Russell/Toronto Star)

I ask him for his thoughts on the new streetcars.

“They’re definitely better in a number of ways. But to tell you the truth, I’ll miss talking to the riders.”