A Queen Street Story
<p>Meanwhile, on the east side of town, things were far less wonderful. It was dirty and darker, with consecutive rows of stores selling items for the third or fourth time. There were stained greasy spoons, semi-industrial walk-ups with garbage and printing presses, machines and auto body shops.</p>
<p>This is where my Queen Street story begins.</p>
<p>As part of a high school victory lap, my buddy and I devised a plan to work and save for six months, then head off to the wilds of Australia for the latter six. Afterward, we would attend any university that would accept us. Both sets of our liberal-leaning parents agreed that this interruption in our formal education could be good for our long-term character. Meanwhile, we were yearning for kangaroo adventures and an opportunity to introduce Australian women to the “North Pole.” Alas, we were fearless and 18.</p>
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