I
JD and I decide to meet for a summary tour of his new apartment and brunch from 10 to 1…on a Wednesday. Our peculiar situations afford us this luxury; he works retail and I am recently rendered unemployed—and honeymooning my newfound freedom.
My motives are far from altruistic. I’ve been living inside my head for a few weeks and it will do me good to sit across from someone who can tell me to cut the crap and get some perspective.
I write down his address as if to imprint it in my brain, then google map it, just in case. As a Church-Wellesley Village denizen who wants to able to walk most places in ten minutes, I haven’t been out to Forest Hill in years.
In a congratulatory gesture, I want to bake JD my molten lava cakes that have an eerie tendency to solidify on me (yet to figure out my oven of three years). Should the baking precede the painting of nails? Plus I need to reschedule an 11a meeting, but not yet, as he might need to cancel. Will it be the Ann Taylor dress with blazer or Citizens of Humanity jeggings with silk top? Preoccupation with these and other consequential issues keep me awake until at least half past one.
A few hours later, feeling unusually festive and zippy for 6.30, I take care of all of the above dilemmas and leave my place at a decent time. I arrive early; actually right on time in a normal world, but early by my book. This isn’t as far far away as I’d previously thought…
II
As I approach the designated four-storey yellow brick walk-up, I recall the last time I walked up this street. I had come apartment hunting here many years ago, but on a dusky late fall evening, it had seemed far less friendly. This part of the city is well-planned with wide tree-lined streets and tidy-looking neo-Georgian apartment buildings that house upwardly mobile residents; apparently for most of this city’s short history, and in some ways even now, this community is a bastion of all things WASP.
We greet each other with a hug. I always hold onto his middle longer than appropriate, as though he might disintegrate if I let go; I like to think it imparts sincerity. I breathe in the lazily wafting scent of incense; the air is infused with some sort of freeform music my limited repertoire can only recognize as jazz; there is a wooden sculpture of the reclining Buddha on the coffee table, even fresh cut flowers in a vase—the sounds and smells of my yoga studio from the previous evening. It’s kind of new agey in here and a side of him I have not seen before. To his slight discomfort I am curious about everything he hasn’t yet had time to put away. For someone who only moved in days ago, I am relieved to see that he’s quite at ease in his new environs.
III
A quick stroll along the outskirts of Cedarvale Park and we’re in Forest Hill Village. In mediaspeak, this strip offers an abundance of ‘cozy village shopping’ to its local trenders and affluencers. There’s the expected coffee franchise or two, a homely bookstore, an upscale Italian bistro, I spot lingerie in a window display. It’s still too early for most places to open, so we opt for the Village Restaurant, located at Spadina Road and Lonsdale. The décor has an old school (read 70s) charm, and the menu is refreshingly unpretentious. I think the fare can best be described as roadhouse cuisine, or hangover food. The staff is friendly, and seems patient with our indecision, as though we have stepped back into a simpler, unhurried time.
JD orders a smoked salmon omelet with home fries, and is pleasantly surprised to find a tiny puddle of the endearing gravy at the bottom of his plate. Breakfast was a few hours ago for me, but it’s still too early for a big meal. Nonetheless I settle on the club sandwich without bacon, with a side of fries. The service is fast; portions are generous, and coffee refills forthcoming. My turkey is moist, tender, and mildly seasoned, and the only way to do justice to this more than ample sandwich is through big unladylike bites. Soon we are engrossed in our conversation, and for the time being the food fades into the background.
I notice a bucket strategically placed to catch a leak in the ceiling. It’s always like this, JD says; ‘aren’t they breaking some sort of code?’ I raise a cynical eyebrow, but secretly embarrassed to admit I’m no stranger to leaky ceilings. My boarding school, a dismally utilitarian construction from 1882, with lofty aspirations to a Queen Anne Victorian, was thusly prone. The rough-hewn wooden floors were routinely dotted with rainbow coloured plastic washbasins; with typical childlike unconcern for the mundane, we simply devised games of hopscotch around them. The bill comes to slightly over $25. We were not charged for my fries, but I hope we more than made up for it by leaving a generous tip.
We walk back to JD’s apartment for dessert (always have room for dessert) and coffee, and observe the sights and sounds of this genteel, almost suburban neighbourhood. Wind is rustling through the leaves and birds chirpily go about their business. A grandmother walks her precocious ward, who is characteristically wandering twenty yards ahead. A baby protests in his stroller as mother wheels him with intense purpose to the familiarity of home. And two casual, well-fed, post-caffeine-bliss observers, just enjoying a late June Wednesday afternoon.
