Cooked Cabbage

True Real Estate Stories

When I attended Teacher's College in the mid nineteen seventies, I lived in a walk-up apartment in a seedy area of Toronto. I shared the apartment with three friends. If it hadn't been for the easy camaraderie with my roommates, I think I would have gone insane in there. For some reason the heat was permanently set to what felt like ninety degrees Fahrenheit. In the coldest part of January I slept without blankets due to the heat. In mid summer, the furnace made the apartment feel even hotter. I never did find out why the landlord let the furnace run all year round. It was rumoured that some tenants had complained their apartments were too cold, and the landlord responded by jacking up the thermostat and leaving it there.There was a rickety fire escape down the back. Fortunately we never had to test its stability during a fire. The odour of cooked cabbage permeated the building. You could not get away from it. It felt as though it seeped through my pores. I am certain my clothing smelled of it. The rent was cheap though and I could walk to classes. In the evening, my roommates and I walked to one of the numerous cheap restaurants up the street. In once of them, you could get more cheese fondue than you could eat, for a few dollars. When the cheese started to congeal, the restaurant manager would come over and pour half a bottle of wine into the fondue pot. Afterward, we'd walk back to our dingy apartment, full of food and wine and good cheer. One night, we heard a racket on the roof, then the sound of gunshot. Later, someone told us that a sniper had been caught up there. We had no sense of personal danger at that time. It must have been due to our youthful feeling of immortality.That street would have aroused fear in some people of going out at night. It never did in me. Hardworking small business people who operated groceries surrounded us and convenience stores and I felt safe.Sometimes we could hear the tenants across the hall arguing. I was afraid that one of them would injure the other one. My roommates and boyfriend laughed with me about the apartment, but I was ashamed to let people I didn't know well see where I lived. It has been thirty years since I lived in Toronto. My husband and I live close enough to drive there to restaurants or theatre. Some of the old restaurants are still on the street I once lived on. They are now upscale and priced accordingly. They are now considered chic. I have not noticed whether my old apartment building is still standing but somehow I doubt it is. It has probably been torn down to make way for a fitness club or boutique.That apartment was the shabbiest I have ever lived in, but it was lots of laughs. I will always equate it with tropical heat and the smell of cabbage.