on nostalgia and gentrification
fingerprints and chalk
“cafe [deux soleils] is closed forever”. the word “forever” had been emphasized with a hastily scrawled heart. i read hand-written the sign on the door, now framed by windows blocked out with crinkled brown paper. through the gaps, i could pick out upturned chairs and dust bunnies. it had closed last October.
i’ll always remember the mural on the building; an illustration of hills and peaks and valleys and vines that reminded me of jack and the beanstalk. the dented tin newspaper boxes with stacks of “the Georgia Straight” and “Exclaim!” stood next to untrustworthy bike racks and a gradually decaying wooden barrier that attempted to separate the sidewalk from the small cafe patio.
there was comfort in the roughly carpeted stage (in evenings used for open-mic-nights and slam poetry), surrounded by round tables and contrasted against a dark piece of fabric thumb-tacked to the wall 1. during the day the stage would be crowded with chalkboards and a wooden-kitchen play set, with fruits that velcroed together and could easily be ripped apart by small, rounded hands. the “oven” was covered with scratches, and bruised with stains and splinters. the pieces of chalk that cluttered the floor were always covered in notches, unintentionally carved by fingernails and toddlers still learning the power of they grip.
the menu was a chalkboard too, spanning across the back wall2. theoretically it could be changed, but it never was. the particles of chalk had settled permanently into the dark enamel and no amount of scrubbing could remove their supposedly temporary mark.
there were vintage-style booths, vinyl worn down from use, a couple wooden bar stools scattered around the main counter. communal tables chairs that wobbled just a bit. plates and mugs still warm from the dishwasher, haphazardly balanced on a glass display case stocked with diet coke and Nanaimo bars 3, clouded by grubby fingerprints. the short hallway to the bathroom was lined with advertisements for needed service jobs and missing dog posters, all pinned onto the cork of community message boards.
on the (now long-abandoned) website, there is a pixelated iphone photo of a corner of the cafe. it’s almost completely empty, devoid of the busy simplicity i remember. there’s a woman standing just outside the doorframe, she wears a dark coat, jeans, grey t-shirt, and sunglasses. she looks like my mom.
i feel like there’s some existential message in here somewhere; the impermanence of everything. maybe not.
i know the cafe’s disappearance is partially a result of covid, but the rapid gentrification of the neighborhood isn’t irrelevant either4. one restaurant closing is inconsequential, really, but still serves as a reminder of the fate of all cultured and working class areas; that they will be taken over until rent is too high and the community dissipates onto surrounding streets. until the smeared fingerprints of small children’s hands on glass are replaced by an under-paid janitor’s Windex, and nostalgia is whittled away 5.
an attempt to emulate curtains?
my favourite item was always the french-flag-coloured bubble letters advertising “French toast”.
coconut shreds and some other vaguely chocolatey flavour, almost-over-sweetened buttercream, and dark chocolate (in the American midwest, also apparently called “prayer bars”).
lower class neighbourhoods do need funding, but often this increase in general tidiness majorly inflates the prices and (un)intentionally drives original inhabitants out. (gentrification is complicated and i am not an expert).
this was melodramatic, but i’m embracing it for now. a bit of melodrama is good, maybe. at the very least, it’s certainly entertaining (what is reality TV if not a bunch of beautiful and self-obsorbed 20-somethings crying dramatically?) .