The other night I did one of my favorite things.
I walked up and down my street.
I live on Roncesvalles. It’s the greatest street on the whole damn planet.
I moved to Toronto about six years ago. I took two part-time jobs to stay afloat. One was at a coffee shop that had me waking up at 5:00 AM to open it. The other was a museum that had me up until midnight to lock its doors. Both paid minimum wage. I took an apartment with a clown (seriously…he was a real clown). He barely left the apartment, and seemed to delight in annoying me by making strange off-colour remarks and screaming at the television…even when it was off. He made creepy paper-mache masks and hang them on every wall in the house. We sat on furniture that the clown had rescued from the garbage on his 3 AM excursions.
My only consolation to my horrendous living arrangement was the street that it was on.
Six years ago, Roncey was just starting to live down a rather bad reputation. It used to be known as the street where you could buy heroin. There used to be a hotel at Roncey and Queen that let rooms by the ½ hour. There were plenty of companions walking the street that you could pay to share the room with. When my sister first came to visit me, she could barely contain her look of horror over where I was living. But I loved that street from the first second I saw it. In some strange way, I could see that it was turning over a new leaf. I was able to smell the change in the air. It didn’t look like much, but it had potential. It was worth taking the time to get to know.
And I did get to know it. I spent hours walking up and down that street, ducking into local delis, browsing in used bookshops, and eating in tiny restaurants. I met the locals, and eased myself into the community. I smiled at babies in strollers and petted dogs. I cracked jokes with the cashier of the hardware store (he’s a local film maker now). I found a breakfast joint where the waitress knew exactly what I wanted before I asked for it. I got my movies from a place where they’d tease you if you tried to rent Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle. I began to patronize a copy centre owned by, what very well might be, the cutest girl in the country.
And as the years past, Roncey became more well-known. I’d run into friends and co-workers on the street who had just moved to the area. They’d heard about how great it was, and they wanted to find out for themselves. In time, those of us living in the neighborhood began to refer to it as “the best kept secret in Toronto”.
I live on Roncesvalles. It’s the greatest street on the whole damn planet.
I moved to Toronto about six years ago. I took two part-time jobs to stay afloat. One was at a coffee shop that had me waking up at 5:00 AM to open it. The other was a museum that had me up until midnight to lock its doors. Both paid minimum wage. I took an apartment with a clown (seriously…he was a real clown). He barely left the apartment, and seemed to delight in annoying me by making strange off-colour remarks and screaming at the television…even when it was off. He made creepy paper-mache masks and hang them on every wall in the house. We sat on furniture that the clown had rescued from the garbage on his 3 AM excursions.
My only consolation to my horrendous living arrangement was the street that it was on.
Six years ago, Roncey was just starting to live down a rather bad reputation. It used to be known as the street where you could buy heroin. There used to be a hotel at Roncey and Queen that let rooms by the ½ hour. There were plenty of companions walking the street that you could pay to share the room with. When my sister first came to visit me, she could barely contain her look of horror over where I was living. But I loved that street from the first second I saw it. In some strange way, I could see that it was turning over a new leaf. I was able to smell the change in the air. It didn’t look like much, but it had potential. It was worth taking the time to get to know.
And I did get to know it. I spent hours walking up and down that street, ducking into local delis, browsing in used bookshops, and eating in tiny restaurants. I met the locals, and eased myself into the community. I smiled at babies in strollers and petted dogs. I cracked jokes with the cashier of the hardware store (he’s a local film maker now). I found a breakfast joint where the waitress knew exactly what I wanted before I asked for it. I got my movies from a place where they’d tease you if you tried to rent Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle. I began to patronize a copy centre owned by, what very well might be, the cutest girl in the country.
And as the years past, Roncey became more well-known. I’d run into friends and co-workers on the street who had just moved to the area. They’d heard about how great it was, and they wanted to find out for themselves. In time, those of us living in the neighborhood began to refer to it as “the best kept secret in Toronto”.
Best. Street. Ever!
Now, it looks like it’s not much of a secret anymore. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
I remember my Mom emailing me an article she read in MacLean’s, written by an author that lived on Roncesvalles. Then another writer did a profile on the back page of Canadian Geographic. The Globe and Mail did a series of photos, taken in various locations on Roncey. Last month, on a flight to Halifax, I read about Roncesvalles in Air Canada’s enRoute magazine.
It had been named the best neighborhood in Toronto.
Over the winter, a Starbucks opened at the corner of Roncey and Dundas. Further north, a massive condominium is almost completed. I used to be able to see the whole street from the railroad trestle near my apartment. Now the condo blocks most of it from view. There used to be a used parts dealer next door to the condo site. They had a sign on their window that said “Open up and say ahhh-lternator!”. Now they have a new sign…announcing that they’re closed for good, and thanking their customers for 50 years of patronage. The Revue Cinema (formerly the second oldest movie house in Toronto) has been closed for a year now. They just took down the marquee.
Lately I’ve been worried that this neighborhood…this community…is being gentrified. It bugs me that the dog-eared corners are being smoothed down, and the shady parts are being lit. I feel like Roncey’s character is slowly being washed down the gutter, in favour of something plastic and unoriginal.
I was reminded of the classic Jackie Gleason line in The Honeymooners.
“Be nice to the people you meet on the way up…because you’re going to meet them again on the way down.”
It seemed like the people that lived and worked on Roncey on the way up weren’t being treated very well.
Where would they be on it’s way down?
I don’t want my street to be another round hole. If that happens, square pegs like me will want to leave. I love this neighborhood. I don’t want to be disgusted with it. I don’t want to want to leave.
Maybe that’s the price of progress. Maybe things are changing for the better. Maybe, in another 5 years or so, I’ll walk up and down Roncesvalles and love it for all the new things that it has to offer. Maybe I should suck it up and accept the fact that things change, and change along with them.
But the other night, on my walk, I saw some things that gave me a little bit of hope. Things that convinced me that this street isn’t necessarily going to turn into just another chic bohemia-Yorkville-wanna-be.
At least not without a fight.
I peeked in the window of that Starbucks, and noticed it was completely empty, while the locally run coffee shops were filled with people. I signed a petition in my movie rental place urging the condominium to alter it’s façade, to better fit in with the look of the street. I ran into friends and co-workers who had recently moved to the neighborhood, and loved what they saw. I smiled at babies in strollers and petted dogs, and strolled on a sidewalk that was filled with people ducking into delis and eating in tiny restaurants.
And I realized that the reason why I moved here in the first place was that Roncesvalles was changing. At the time I believed that the change was for the better. Maybe I shouldn’t give up on that idea just yet.
Besides, I’m pretty sure the good things are going to stay exactly the same. The street still has potential, and it’s still worth getting to know.
I may not be able to see all of Roncey from that trestle anymore. But what little I still can see is enough to keep me convinced of one thing:
It’s still the greatest street on the whole damn planet.
Jim Out.
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