On the Danforth

My favourite jeans—medium-wash and wide-cut with two inches of fabric rolled up and safety-pinned “just until I get them hemmed”—have deep front pockets. As they are a rarity in women’s bottoms, I’ve committed myself to using them. They carry my trusty lip balm, rings discarded while I wash my hands, and the change from my café order with such ease that I often forget they’re there and send them through the wash. It’s a blessing and a curse. What I have yet to make use of, though, is the tiny pocket tucked inside the larger one on my right hip.

Driving east on Danforth Avenue early one evening in October, headed toward Comedy Bar, I could feel the last rivulets of summer dripping away. Sidewalks were crowded, and as shops and cafes decanted, restaurants filled up. Misjudging the location, I didn’t realize how far down one of Toronto’s busiest roads I’d be going. By the time I parked, the hand-holding passersby near Pape Avenue had slowly morphed into small groups of unhoused people near Main Street, huddled, sharing blankets. It felt like I’d travelled through multiple cities all on one street.

I visited Danforth Avenue for the first time on a mid-November day that could only be described as grey. Grey skies, grey fog, grey cars speeding by in a blur. Imagine my pleasant surprise, then, as I approached the Press Vinyl Cafe, which had a front window awash in the warm glow of string lights. When I entered the shop, I, too, felt a newfound warmth. Vibrant, hand-painted wall murals replaced the cloudy skies outside, and the constant thrum of traffic gave way to the twang of guitars from the loudspeakers.