Let's do the Time Warp again!

I found myself meandering around the "downtown core', (to use the North American vernacular) yesterday with my two year old and was again reminded of the truly laid back approach Toronto, perhaps even the whole of Ontario has to the evolution of a city. A yawning but nonetheless interesting personality gap between the eclectic bohemia of Queen St. W and the stark stainless steel of Bay St gives way to the endearingly woolly environment of T.O's Kensington Market. This is a city that doesn't fix it if it ain't broke and sometimes even if it is broke. More power to it.

I'm from London, UK - a London, I might add that no longer exists. Even my London wasn't the London that many before me loved and left, but for me it was what it was and I loved it truly, madly, deeply. Still do. I adored it's colourful artistry, the endless creative outlets it offered and the boundless opportunities for those who dared to dream. I suspect this highly romanticized view owes a considerable amount to the rush of teenage hormones and their uncontrollable peaks and troughs. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the thrill of having a choker made by a hippie in Portobello Market when I was 14 (I still have it); the creeping buzz of excitement caused by just being inside the labyrinth that was Kensington Market (sadly no longer there) and the 'rock n' roll' debauchery of weekends in Camden and Soho. Nuff said.

But it's all over now. Most of my teenage haunts have been unrecognizably gentrified (poncified more like) or shut down altogether. I guess it's called evolution, progress. Doesn't mean I can't still mourn their losses. Which brings me to the delightful sluggishness of T.O. Kensington Market to me is like Portobello Market before the invasion of the body snatchers; the designers and bankers and I love it for that. You smell Kensington Market before you see it. Led by the nose literally around it's multi-cultural stalls and moth ball hangouts. It's an assault on the senses - a welcome one and my two year old loves it. After rummaging through the shops on Kensington Avenue, it's off for a flourless chocolate snack and dynamite moccachino at the Moon Bean Cafe where some kind crustie always helps lift my stroller up the rickety steps to the service counter. Replenished it's off for a walk down the sidewalk version of an everlasting gobstopper: Augusta St.

When you have exhausted your occular capillaries you can cut back through Queen St. W en route to Union and stop, as we did, to have the tastiest, most authentic and hysterically cheap Indian buffet (all you can eat - to boot). You don't find this very often anymore in London.

No, London has become something else - just as precious to me but for very different reasons but T.O is proving to be a loving and nurturing foster parent and I thank it from the bottom of my sentimental heart.