I sit in the leather club-chair by the window sipping my pumpkin spice latte. I have my study material at the ready- a paper on director’s liability alongside a dozen or so open PDF files of relevant articles. My headphones are plugged in and my writing music is playing- being that this is Starbucks, I feel a hipster band like Deerhunter is in order. But inevitably, a trip to the Forest Hill Starbucks around the corner from my apartment results in a people watching opportunity. My eyes move over to my first victim as she rushes into the café. She is a squat middle-aged woman in a hurry. She drops her Lanvin tote on the chair across from me and sits in the one next to it. She wears a bright pink Gucci scarf (yes, I’m label-conscious- it’s a terrible vice of mine) and shrugs off her oversized Burberry coat. She’s clutching a black credit card and her phone, and boasts a diamond-studded Cartier watch on her wrist. Still with her large sunglasses on, she furiously dials her phone. She proceeds to call what must be her own home in order to bark orders to her maid, to whom she speaks condescendingly slowly, repeating certain key words: “laundry… laundry… dry cleaning… dry cleaning…” A year ago, I would have been phased, perhaps even appalled at this woman. But hey, this is just another day in my neighbourhood. Welcome to Forest Hill.
When my friends and I decided we wanted to move from Mars to Earth- er, that is, from North York to real Toronto- we thought that moving somewhere Midtown might suit us the best. We had friends who lived around St. Clair and Bathurst who, though they hated the commute, liked the neighbourhood and believed it to be the perfect distance between school and downtown. We agreed and focussed our efforts here. I found a listing for an apartment on Heath Street West, just a block north of St. Clair on the east side of Bathurst. Upon touring the place, we quickly agreed it was the best place we’d seen. A pleasant building, spacious apartment, incredibly cheap rent, and the area seemed nice too. It wasn’t long after we decided this was the place for us that I realized the neighbourhood we were moving to. This was Forest Hill. But let me be clear- this is not the middle of Forest Hill. We were on the edge. Our cluster of apartment buildings backs onto the beginning of the true neighbourhood. When asked where I live, I generally say “Bathurst and St. Clair.” Nevertheless, geographically we are in the neighbourhood, and I do get a magazine in the mail once in a while exclaiming itself to be the “Forest Hill Post,” so I’ll take it.
Not being a native Torontonian, I hadn’t much knowledge of what Forest Hill meant exactly. I knew it was an older and nicer part of town- big mansions, established families. It was also a lyric in a Final Fantasy song about Toronto condo developer Brad Lamb- “you know I hate it when your friends are in the pool/ old money stinks, send those faggots back to Forest Hill.” Beyond this, I had little inkling for the feel of the place. After we moved in last June, that didn’t last long.
There are certain things you notice about Forest Hill fairly quickly. First is that it’s quite pleasant and quiet. There’s not a lot of traffic, there are lots of trees, and no one is really rushing about. People know each other, they say hello on the street, and suddenly you feel like you’ve found this private little enclave in the sprawling metropolis of Toronto. Then you look at the people. Everyone looks a little more elegant. Suddenly the cuts of the jacket change, the glimmer of discrete jewelry is a little brighter and the clackity-clack of the hard soles on the sidewalk draws the eye downwards to reveal the most festive of heels and oxfords.
As you turn the corner from Heath onto Spadina, you head north into the Forest Hill Village. It’s a small portion of the street lined with little shops and restaurants. There are the essentials- Starbucks, banks, a barber shop and salon. There are the cafes and places to eat like Sotto in the Village and The South Side, places that one doesn’t just drop into for a casual meal. And there’s a nice bakery, and a What a Bagel-a favourite fixture of mine (I once saw TV chef David Rocco there chowing down on chicken salad. I don’t normally recognize Canadian TV personalities, or really care about them, but he’s pretty good looking). As you descend into the Village, one feels like you’ve entered onto an elegantly trimmed lawn upon which dozens of peacocks are strutting. The female peacocks proudly display themselves- decked out in furs and knee-high boots, topped off with a unique bag. Hermès, Vuitton, Gucci- all the heavy hitters are here. You don’t see that Longchamp bag everyone and their sister carries around. These women pride themselves on being unique. The men are smartly dressed too, but they demonstrate how big their dick is by parading their car. Never have I seen more Benzes, Bimmers and Porsches lined-up outside a variety store while their owners grab milk and a chocolate bar. No one turns their head when a black or grey one drives by, and even the stark white tennis mom-driven Porsche Cayenne is de rigeur around here, but when a yellow or red one appears on the scene, the male peacock stops for a moment to glance briefly; but only briefly. You don’t want to betray your envy. There is the rare moment when even the most jaded male stops everything to stare at the beauty of a car; when the Ferrari or Maserati rolls in. There was a yellow Maserati parked down the street for much of the summer. Yours truly gazed upon it as if I was looking at Guernica. I tried to keep my drool from ruining the paint.
My roommate pointed out the demographics of the area. It’s not particularly diverse when compared to the rest of the city. A frequent fixture all over the area are strollers filled with white children, pushed by their Asian nanny. I don’t exaggerate when I say that more often than not, the babies and young children I see in the area are often not with their biological parents. Walking through the Village, continuing north, you come to the real heart of Forest Hill-the residential area. Along these streets are row upon row of perky, elegant homes, each somehow different from the one next to it. There are the very old brick ones, the very new faux-chateau style ones, the obscenely large gated ones and the occasional steel and glass modern one tucked away. This mish-mash of architectural styles makes for an interesting stroll about the area. The first time I walked around, I observed an old woman in pearls diligently washing the taillights of her Rolls Royce, and around the corner, a woman planting hydrangeas in heels. I thought these scenes were absurd, but fascinating. Our new neighbours include many of the cities elite, and some notable names: Drake, Nelly Furtado and Kurt Browning as well as a smattering of Rogers’s, Weston’s and Bronfman’s.
When you need to buy food, you go to the Forest Hill Loblaws above the St. Clair subway station. Not only is it located conveniently around the corner, but it’s open 24 hours a day. Here, a curious mixing of clientele makes for an ever fascinating people watching experience. The place is full of students and young people buying their groceries for the week. They jostle over tomatoes with old, well-coiffed Jewish ladies telling their Filipino caregivers which one looks the ripest to them. You can grab coupons downstairs for $2.00 off Sunlight dish soap, or splurge at the cheese counter on a $40 wheel of camembert. My roommate is convinced that on weekend evenings, they turn up the music, which is revealed to be depressing 80s songs like Careless Whisper that’ll send you straight to the ice cream freezer as you contemplate the fact that you’re grocery shopping on a Friday night. We still, however, can’t crack the pattern of what prompts them to wheel out the grand piano on the upper floor and serenade you with Chopin while you wait for your shaved turkey breast. But nothing surprises me anymore. This is Forest Hill.
Has it changed me? Not much. I may spend more money on cheese than I used to, and I now sport a $26 haircut from the barber around the corner. I certainly eat more bagels and I take my lox with onions and cream cheese, but just a little schmear. But as a student, and on the edge of Forest Hill rather than the rich heart of it, I can only peer from the outside in. I used to feel self-conscious walking about in my H&M jacket and my careworn shoes. But now I just slip on some black sunglasses and act like I own the place- you know, what I always do. So for now I remain, like the observant narrator in a Vampire Weekend song, regarding this world around me with scrutiny and some judgment at its insanity, but ever obsessed by it, and secretly, a little desirous.
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