My Name Is Jasper

Dead Flowers

Take me down little Susie, take me down

I know you think you're the queen of the underground

And you can send me dead flowers every morning

Send me dead flowers by the mail

Send me dead flowers to my wedding

And I won't forget to put roses on your grave

Dead Flowers – Mick Jagger & Keith Richards (129)

It is a windy and still quite cold Sunday morning in March. I'm walking off a hangover after last night's party. I dropped off Julie at one of the many brunch locations on Dundas West. She's meeting up with her fellow Babies (130), no boyfriends allowed. On a quest to find a comfortable and warm place to sit down, have some breakfast and kill the time, I quickly make it to Kensington market, the heart of Torontonian Hipsterdom.

Its 11:40. The Market(131) is still half asleep. Closed shop door are slowly unlocked by drowsy owners, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee starts to fight for dominance with that of various pastries coming from the many bakeries' ovens.

Although most cafés are still closed, I am happy to see the lights are burning at Jimmy's Coffee. Why one should go to one of the three locations of the often celebrated independent coffee joint, is something the team of baristas will happily tell you. I wouldn't know, I never drink coffee.

I order my typical black tea, no sugar, no milk, and inspect the sweets on display. Maple and oats scone? Sounds good! The establishment is not busy and I nest in one of the comfortable seats. I take a bite from the scone. God that is tasty! I open up my book and start to sip my tea. The scone didn't last long.

I sat down underneath a picture of comedian Jim Carey. In the coffee shop you're surrounded by portraits of famous Jims and Jimmies. The seating area is dominated by a large canvas of the 39th President of the United States and 2002 Noble Peace Prize winner, Jimmy Carter. The portrait is flanked by two large book cabinets filled with old encyclopaedias. Although most people here are silently reading, no one ever takes a leather-bound volume of the shelves. It's too bad I think. The history of the world contains such a wealth of knowledge. In all fairness, that knowledge is now at our fingertips at any moment thanks to a number of powerful devices, but I wonder what unexpected treasure lies hidden in the dusty books on display. A smile comes to my face as I read the next few lines of the book I almost finished, a quote by a mysterious character Mr. Ombra: "The true history of the world will never be found in any book. For what you believe is history is nothing more than a thin tissue of less and suppositions. The truth is far stranger."(132) The irony makes me chuckle.

The coffee shop has come to life and the buzzing of people is now almost drowning out the playlist of British Invasion classics. People with a fresh brew in their hand are scanning for an empty seat while the line at the counter has grown all the way to the double doors. Beyond those I can see that the sun came out, shining on the non-stop flow of people walking by. I check my watch, it is now 12:05 and Kensington Market has woken up.

I finish the last few pages of the book, empty my cup and pack my bag. As I get ready to leave I am tempted to get one more of those delicious maple and oats scones. The long line instantly makes me change my mind. I'll be back soon enough, I promise myself while I walk towards the doors.

As I get outside, I immediately get sucked into sounds of The Market. People laughing and discussing the importance of rice pudding, a street musician playing the Ehru (133) and even some birds all contribute to the symphony of chaos around me. I walk to the north side of the small street and stand still for a few moments while I let the heat of the March sun warm my face. After a long and freezing winter, I am ready for spring!