I peddled my aging, cobbled-together Raleigh to the bicycle co-op in the east village to donate it for parts and such. I've been replacing parts since the mid-1980s, creating a sort of bricolage bicycle. The frame may be the only original remnant, 80s-heavy, as though they made mountain bikes of cast-iron. En route I passed the Banting Monument. A tourist mother was arranging husband and children in front of the Eternal Flame. I offered to take a picture of them. They came from the Philippines over a year ago, settled in Saskatchewan, and recently moved to Ontario. They just received their citizenship-- on Canada Day-- so I congratulated them, gave them a warning to be careful in the area, and moved on. The village remains a patchwork of gentrification, sketchiness, and honest poverty. I passed two separate street people ranting and one junkie picking scabs off his arm. But you never know when you might encounter one of those people gentrifying the place, so you need to be cautious.

I dropped off my bike and walked back. I popped into the Mystic, perhaps the third time since the new owners reopened, after our likeable local witch died. They still do not know what happened to the vintage coin-operated Fortune Teller that used to stand near the door; it seemingly went with her. Apart from the occult trappings and merch, they have a selection of second-hand books. I bought a used copy of Pamela Des Barres's I'm With the Band, which I've never read before.

I wandered home and couldn't help but think I could make a life, when I retire, of writing, casual travel, and passing days like this one.

I pick up my new bike on America's Independence Day, which promises to be a little wonky this year.

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