Wonders of Wellington by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR At Fourth and Wellington, an old lady on a shiny red adult tricycle with a big basket in back wheels down the sidewalk before locking up and getting in line at Chaussures à Super Prix, a store with such great deals that 20 people patiently await its 11 a.m. opening. I’m not here to buy shoes. I’m just here because I often find myself feeling the urge to visit Wellington Street, Verdun, for no reason at all. The narrow main drag of the old City of Verdun is lined with curiosities, where cheap clothing stores sit under homes with inverted balconies, built as if architects worried that the original Protestant working-class tenants might otherwise be tempted to drop water balloons onto shoppers below. But enough imagery, I’m here to do some serious hyping. Excuse my unrestrained boosterism, but here’s the essential equation: Wellington 2002 = Mont-Royal 1982. The buzz is-and I unfortunately have no financial interest in saying this-that Wellington is in the midst of shedding its old skin and is about to metamorphisize into a strip that would finally make it a recognized place-to-be. The street, it is predicted, will pull the area out of unfashionability just like Mont-Royal did for the Plateau not all that long ago. If you can appreciate the charms of Wellington, you might note that large triplexes with big backyards near the river and the metro go for the same price as a measly basement condo on the Plateau. But first let it be noted that Wellington’s reputation as a haven for fourth-generation welfare guys wearing Philadelphia Flyers hockey sweaters isn’t entirely undeserved, an image reinforced in my mind by personal memories of a denture-sporting girlfriend I had long ago from the area. And there remains an air of pessimism, particularly among the many Wellington merchants I spoke with, who all seem prone to launching into cynical tirades about the poverty in the area. The smart merchants, like M.H. Grover-not unlike Sheinart’s and Schreter’s elsewhere-have survived generations by cashing welfare cheques and fronting money to those with no cash in hand. The occasional rough guy will make exaggerated eye contact if you stare at the tattoos on his neck, but consider that part of the charm of a town that named one of its streets after Buzz Beurling, a flying ace with a serious drinking problem. More evidence of the aura of roughness lies at a gym across from the rival vacuum stores at Fourth Avenue, which offers among its courses a class on “auto-défense de rue,” aka streetfighting. And indeed a couple of tattoo parlours, including the Blue Psycho, pen hopefully correctly-spelled tattoos onto skin at Hickson. Don’t let the title fool you though. Cute cafés are sprouting up nearby, and a sweet young couple runs the Blue Psycho. Wellington is a feisty lover. Golden oldies are piped onto the street from high, mounted speakers, and sidewalks diverted by wooden ramps make room for terrasses in front of places like Nick’s Pizza, one of my favourite souvlaki joints. Although Wellington buzzes as the Ste-Catherine of lowerland, it’s indifferent to city ways, as proven with its recent country music street festival. And any place with unintentionally retro barbershops and beauty salons is good people. Not to mention the many entre-aides and pawnshops where bargains are had by many. Wellington is one major office building-or one serious civic improvement grant-away from unstoppability. One wonders why former mayor and current councillor Georges Bossé doesn’t cash in his considerable clout to fight for a bit more cash to inject into the boulevard where his own jewellery shop sits prominently. The strip could use that government attention. The greyhair perched on the metal mesh bench drinking from a two-litre bottle of Coke and the five-year-old kid flashing his plastic vampire teeth-indeed all the characters on this magical strip-deserve more. : Comments? kgravy@openface.ca