January 11, 2011

• Moving, Mould and Miscellany

  I hate the time between giving notice and starting to pack. It feels like forever.

  We get our new keys at the end of the month, but I don't have to give up this place until the end of February. I'm going to move my "easy" stuff first (books, furniture, records - all the stuff that sits out in the open). I'll use the month of overlap to clean out my storage closets. It's horrifying, but I'm excited to do it. After eight years of tenancy I'll have an awful lot of crap and getting rid of it will feel fantastic.

  My sister has promised to come and help me. She was here when I moved into this place, helped me seal the baseboards and get myself organized. My brother was here, too. I remember schlepping all my stuff up three flights of narrow stairs and, afterwards, going to the Tennessee for a steak.

  When I first moved to Parkdale more than one person was sort of horrified. Filled with rooming houses, group homes, a rehab, cheap apartments and an alley of low-rent highrises, it was a slum all through the 80s and 90s. Its main street, the west-est stretch of Queen St, was filled with rundown storefronts featuring ethnic specialties and uncomfortably sexy discount underwear. People like my ex-boyfriend and I (students, artists) just naturally drifted this way. You could get a place for next to nothing (comparatively) if you were willing to put up with a little weirdness.

  But I liked the weirdness. The streets were (and really still are) full of eccentrics, panhandlers and drunks, but they were never aggressive and I never felt afraid. I liked the Asian grocery and the Tennessee Bar and Grill with its trash-tavern aesthetic. (Where else could you get a third-term-pregnant waitress to serve you a beer and a steak for $8? Not a good steak, but still.) To me, my new neighbours were the reason I could afford to have my very own corner in this expensive city. Unimaginative, monied people would raise my rent and gentrify my street; Parkdale residents would keep them away, at least for a while.  

  When my ex and I split, he couldn't wait to get out of here. He thought it was depressing. I almost moved away, too, but at the last minute I found this apartment just three doors away. One of my best days in Toronto was realizing I could stay in the bizarre and lovely neighbourhood I loved.

  The Tennessee closed years ago. The sign is still propped up in an alleyway by a public parking lot. The place is a trendy restaurant now; they have live music on weekends and offer a family-friendly Sunday brunch. The old couple that ran my favourite hardware (it smelled of wood chips, soil and old pennies, and the wood floor squeaked when you walked) retired. Now it's a douchebag hotspot that presents horse meat entrées as the height of edgy. (Bitch, please. The old Italian butchers on the Corso have sold horse meat since the beginning of time.)

  But I'm not ready to leave yet; the old Parkdale is still hanging on. That highrise alley is still intact, filled with new Canadian families. There are still at least three group homes I can identify, and a drop-in centre. You can still buy mint-green polyester-lace panties, bitter melon, and ceramic Buddhas and Indian gods in a one-block stretch. Things are a bit more chi chi, but only in little ineffectual bursts. I'm confident the locals will hold the line.

  And the new place is only a few blocks away, so I'll get to keep an eye on everything.

  g.  

   

   

  • 8:15 am
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