The most exclusive addresses in the City of Toronto are located a few blocks north of Bloor Street between the Don Valley and Yonge Street to the CNR lines at Summerhill. The average household income is $170,157.00* and the average cost for a home is almost $800,000.00**. Residents of Rosedale enjoy living life at its fullest, driving SUVs and being obnoxious to the proles who cross their paths. They seldom realize that they are living in an area so rich in historic content and beauty.

Rosedale got its name when Sheriff William Botsford Jarvis began to develop the land in the 19th century. He named it for the wild roses his wife found growing in the dales that give this area its unique layout. Lots were formed on the natural contours of the land and it is easy to get lost, making it a very private place to reside, yet it is not even minutes to the Downtown core.

* Statistics Canada 1996 Census
** Toronto Real Estate Board

I live in Rosedale, one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in Canada.

Today, I went to buy a pepper. A red pepper from Summerhill Market, our only supermarket in walkable distance. I wish I could bring a lapel camera in there one day. The social interactions that go on in that place are fascinating. You can see the most plastic-surgeried women in Canada in their natural habitat, smiling in their unnatural Botoxed way, chatting about their latest stilettos and paramours.

Summerhill Market was founded in 1954, and the man who slices their meat is an Italian man who learned meat-cutting from his father 15 years ago when he was a young boy, and hasn't stopped since. It is the sort of place that sells 18 types of bottled water, but no grilled cheese. If you're looking for a $28 rolling pin made out of only the most endangered species of tree, you've come to the right place. Tinned beans? Probably out of luck.

I walk through their produce section until I can find the pepper section. I rip off one of those silly plastic bags, and choose my pepper. I carefully walk around the loose-knit group of three or four particularly Botoxed women chatting, skin stretched so tight it looks like it’s been bunched up at the back and held in place with a binder clip. I make it to the cash desk. The woman in front of me in line was there with her teenage son, buying around $180 of groceries with her Visa Gold Preferred card.

The woman who founded Indigo, Heather Reisman, lives a brief walk away from my house. She’s married to Gerry Schwartz, who founded CanWest and is a director of Scotiabank. On her husband’s birthday a few years ago, she bought him a Porsche. I’m told that they rent a century-old “summer house” in Nantucket, though they may have stopped doing that once they bought their Palm Beach house. Or when they built their Bel Air one.

While the cashier is scanning through her $180-worth of groceries, she notices that I have but a single red pepper. She glances over at me and inquires if I plan to live off red pepper. I have no idea how to respond, so I nod politely. When she notices that I am going into my pocket for actual money in the form of around 17 quarters (my red pepper cost me a little over $4.00) she actually scoffed. "Real money! Pah!" she must've been thinking. "My money is on this bit of plastic! It’s the way of the future. What a techno-peasant this kid is."

We have a subway stop, Rosedale, which is the 9th least-used subway stop in Toronto. Mostly the passengers on our bus route (#82) are private school students and nannies.

The cashier asks if they need help out to their car (it being parked at least 20 paces away from the cash desk). Her son says that no, they do not, as he picks up all but one of their five or six bags. He is struggling to get the last one, so he asks his mother to grab it. She sighs and replies, in all seriousness, that she is “quite frail”. She is, perhaps, in her late 30s.

She proceeds to walk out, son in tow, without having signed her Visa slip. The cashier dashes after them with a pen. She obliges, and inquires as to whether the cashier gave her her Visa back, as she riffles through her wallet to check. "Yes, you must have," says the cashier, glancing back at her cash register. Not like it would've mattered to her. She has at least two other credit cards in her wallet that I can see from where I am standing.

It’s my turn. The cashier looks dubious as I present my pepper. "Is that all?" she asks. “Yes,” I reply honestly. “That’s it.” "Just the pepper, then?" "That would be all," I reply, getting tired of this already. She raises an eyebrow. "Okay," she says. She weighs it and the appropriate amount of money appears on screen (if you can call $4.01"appropriate" for a single red pepper). At Summerhill Market, they never seem to tell me how much money they want from me. They just wait for me to present them with some sort of card. When my total appears onscreen, she watches me, surprised, as I count quarters on the counter.

As she puts them, one-by-one, in her cash drawer, ignoring me when I tell her I have given her $4.25, she offers me an opaque, Summerhill Market-branded plastic bag in which to put my clear plastic bag. "No thanks, I’ve already got a plastic bag," I respond pointedly. "So you do," she says suspiciously, clearly not amused. Her Filipino bagger asks me if I’m sure. I am.

I walk out through the automatic door, and think about how ridiculous my neighbourhood is. Then I jam my four dollars’ worth of pepper into my coat pocket, and listen to Feist on my iPod as I walk home.

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