ABSTRACT
I take public transit to Triple Z, unlike most of the employees, who drive or carpool to this suburban factory. My last stop on the rapid transit line gives me a prairielike view to the north of classic suburban sprawl overtaking the once rich, fertile farmland of southern Ontario. When I exit the transit station, I’m in one of those large, anonymous and endlessly reproducible shopping malls with department stores, super stores and specialty boutiques. After walking across parking lots and six-lane mini-highways, I make my way up the small hill to the worksite and catch that distinctive zowey, zingy, zesty smell in the air. The company manufactures pickled condiments and relishes for an international market, but concentrates on large North American retailers and fast food chains. Right across the street is a cookie factory specializing in chocolate chip, crunch and fudge varieties. Depending on the direction of the wind, unexpected sweet or sour breezes invade the otherwise sterile-feeling environment.
