I never seem to get anywhere fast enough. My old teal bicycle is the closest I’ll ever come to owning a teleportation device, as I pedal furiously, dissolving my surroundings until they become a blurry Impressionist painting. I’m not really the type to stop and smell the flowers. But on Friday afternoon, I noticed the charmingly peculiar blooms growing on Sussex Mews.
There’s a lady tending to her late-season garden, full of delicate chrysanthemums and glowing marigolds. She and her garden have faced onto this laneway since she immigrated from Portugal in the 1950s. “Everyone on the lane used to have a garden,” she laments. “Now everyone is rich, no more flowers. Do you know how much I pay in taxes?” Two houses down, the president of the community association is measuring the height of her plum trees. She’s equally concerned about her neighbours tacking on monstrous extensions to their houses, blocking sunlight from the Mews’ diverse plant life. She insists on teaching me how to grow my own climbing buttercups, or as she called them, clematis. Pay-it-forward urban renewal, I suppose.
I proceed more slowly down Robert Street, hoping for a secret entrance to another alleyway. Passersby must think I’m crazy, recklessly propelling myself between houses to find hidden dead ends. The comforting aroma of fresh bread draws me to the lane behind Harbord Bakery, where a few Russian employees are enjoying their smoking break. The back walls of the store are adorned with colourful, mirrored mosaics. One cashier tells me the artwork was created by a lady in a red house who particularly loves the bakery’s scones. That the artwork is only seen by Harbord Bakery’s employees makes the gesture seem kinder.
I find myself on Croft Street. The community activist on Sussex Mews is afraid that her laneway will soon become like “that awful Croft alley, with garages backing right out onto the [pavement].” Although Croft has no room for trees or fruitful gardens, it is blessed with other memorable touches. The houses from 92 through 96 Croft are vividly painted, with romantic ornaments capable of transporting one to cottage country. Number 92 has a City of Toronto bike rack, painted gold to match the house’s accents. Ivy has grown over the electrical wires to create a canopy over Ulster Street, while a basement window at the corner of Vankoughnet sprouts tiny purple flowers. Best of all, a massive mural at Croft and College depicts the Great Toronto Fire of 1904. Across the lane lies a Holstein-painted doorway, homage to the cause of Chicago’s equivalent blaze.
When I reach Koreatown, the glowing sun urges me to buy a watermelon-sorbet popsicle. Just south of Bloor, I encounter Jeff, a neo-expressionist artist. He’s nailing together sheets of plywood, preparing a jazz-themed piece for his next show at Yorkville’s Liss Gallery. Though he’s working out of his friend’s shed, he appreciates the laneway for its quiet serenity. Further south, there’s a garage painted with an entrancing waterfront. Other doorways comfort passersby with the words “I love you,” though a less sentimental one proclaims, “Ghostbusters!”
The alleys east of Christie are rougher and strewn with garbage. Am I steering myself onto dangerous territory? Looking for guidance, I follow kids running home from Palmerston Public School. They zoom down a hidden lane to the Karma Co-op, which can’t be accessed by the main streets. For a small fee and a few hours of work each month, members can purchase the co-op’s organic goods and beautiful fruit. While one mother shops inside, asking whether her favourite brand of flax is out of stock, her sons play in the crowded bike rack outside. Eventually, their game devolves into an argument over who can hold a maple branch.
Two hours of biking, and still the thrill of discovery propels me ahead. South of Dupont and east of Madison is the greenest, calmest lane, a sedan shaded by a canopy of ripe gourds and squash. I encounter a lady getting into her car near a lovely tomato garden. “It’s my neighbours’,” she explains. “My husband used to plant tomatoes here. But when he passed away, my neighbours thought it would be best for me if they kept it going.” I feel tears welling up at this display of thoughtfulness. I barely know my neighbours’ names.
I can’t imagine this sort of intimacy emerging on the Annex’s main streets. After all, I’m probably not the only one zooming through life with emotional blinders. Streets are merely for transportation. Alleyways are for transfiguration.
