Originally published for the Friends of Kensington Market community association.
As the fuzzy sunshine melts away my hangover and the last vestiges of Pedestrian Sundays are either swept up or power-washed away, it gradually becomes apparent that a different kind of life takes place in the market on a weekday morning.
A rolling stream of vans and trucks flows slowly through the narrow streets, while the staff unceremoniously go to work. Not young, not hip, not hipster, these are the men and women who make Kensington what it is, the 5% of that Sunday crowd who go to bed and wake up here, the underbelly of the daily show that is Kensington Market.
Meanwhile the streets are quiet. The crowds, which a few hours prior filled them to the brim with booze and laughter, now safely tucked away in cubicles a few blocks over, scanning the azure horizons of lake Ontario from the 47th story glazed blue corner office window. Or something of that nature.
Whereas for me, this it, my last and final day in Kensington, having fulfilled a long-standing wish to someday live here. That someday was today, and soon it will be yesterday. I'm happy and grateful for such a lovely experience. Onward.