I grew up in a bubble at Charles and Yonge, lived there with my mother, all through college and into my first fulltime job . . . with twelve bubbles outside when we first moved in—a whimsical relic of the ’sixties, I suppose—large plexiglas displays of the merchandise you could purchase from the once fine stores of the Charles Promenade, somehow floating still above the changing city, safely removed from the sins of the strip, until the day I came to find the first of them lying broken on the ground, the next day another. In a week they were gone.