“Manhattan is a special case, because it’s an island,” she says. “In Toronto, there will always be some neighbourhoods that go up, some that go down. Just because you and I might not go to them doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”
Good points. Maybe I’m extrapolating. Maybe all this really is a lament for my neighbourhood.
When I first moved here, there were hookers and syringes everywhere. There were abandoned buildings, and dingy diners with three-egg breakfast specials for $3.95 (they’ve hung on tenaciously, thank God.) Second day I lived here, as I walked along the street, a guy muttered: “Poindexter.”
Now it’s all swish, strip-light boutiques, fruity juice bars, and faux-Parisian patisseries. And everyone is a hipster/“Poindexter.”
There used to be a goth/biker bar down the street called Sanctuary. It was cavernous, dark, gloomy. Everyone in there looked like a vampire, or a Hell’s Angel. Behind the bar was a sign: “No nice sweaters.” I always felt kind of intimidated when I went in (especially if I was wearing a sweater). But I liked the frisson – or maybe I should just say the friction – the edge, the subtle crackle of hostility in the air.
Now it’s a Starbucks. The smell of fresh-brewed espresso wafts into the street every time the door opens. Inside people sip their ventis and tap away on their laptops.
And they’re all wearing nice sweaters.
