A View From the Green Chair - The Climb

People ask me where I find these wonderful record stores.

The answer, apparently, is above my current fitness level.

On Saturday I drove Miss Vinnie to a wedding in Woodbridge. Like any devoted husband, I dropped her off a little early, wished her a wonderful afternoon, and immediately fired up Google Maps to plot a course to a record store I’d discovered online that morning.

Vaughan Record Exchange occupies the rather mysterious address of 7611 Pine Valley Drive—an address apparently shared by two buildings. The directory sign points with about the same precision as a medieval map warning, “Here be dragons.”

Naturally, I chose the wrong building.

Like everyone of my generation, I assumed the unit numbers would proceed in a perfectly logical sequence. So I drove slowly around the building watching them count down... 32, 31, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24...

Surely Unit 14 couldn’t be far away.

I rounded the corner.

Nothing.

No continuation of the numbering. No second wing. Just the backs of the units I’d already passed.

I circled the building again, convinced I had missed something obvious. I even consulted the directory monument, only to discover Unit 14 belonged not to Vaughan Record Exchange, but to a food company.

Then I remembered a small detail from the website.

“Second floor.”

One last effort, I decided, before concluding the store had succumbed to COVID—or one of the many other afflictions that seem to claim Canadian small businesses with an efficiency that would have impressed the generals at the Somme.

After enough wandering to qualify as light cardio, I found the correct entrance.

The lettering on the door appeared to have been designed for twenty-five-year-olds with fighter-pilot eyesight. As a seventy-year-old carrying the accumulated benefits of glaucoma, cataracts, and decades of reading six-point financial prospectuses, I regarded the sign as more of a philosophical suggestion than useful information.

Then I looked up.

Second floor.

I have climbed mountains and Mayan temples at Tulum that inspired greater confidence.

Somewhere around the halfway point I stopped thinking about Japanese pressings of Oscar Peterson and began negotiating with my lungs.

“Just get me to the landing,” I muttered. “We’ll discuss Bill Evans later.”

When I finally reached the summit—slightly winded and noticeably older than when I’d begun—I paused for the mandatory fistful of oxygen before surveying my surroundings.

The room was filled with senior citizens quietly browsing record bins, their heads gently nodding in time with the music.

For a moment, it was 1970 on Yonge Street all over again.

The customers were older.

The vinyl was better.

The climb was worth it.

Then I met Paul.

He greeted me warmly, invited me to browse without pressure, and assured me he was nearby if I had any questions.

Within minutes we were discussing Japanese pressings, jazz, and craftsmanship. He casually mentioned that he has a business partner in Tokyo who can source almost any Japanese pressing if it still exists.

Then he said something that explained everything about the store.

“I think jazz musicians are the best musicians.”

That wasn’t a sales pitch.

It was a confession.

Suddenly the immaculate Japanese pressings, the carefully curated shelves, and the thoughtful recommendations all made perfect sense.

I left with five records, a business card, and the pleasant realization that I’d found another place run by someone who loves the subject more than the transaction.

The records were wonderful.

Meeting Paul was the real find.

As for the stairs?

I’ve decided they’re not an inconvenience.

They’re an admission fee.

Beginning Monday, the StairMaster joins my exercise routine.

My new spirit animal is the mountain goat.

If beautifully preserved Japanese jazz pressings live on the second floor, then the second floor is exactly where I’ll be.

Some treasures aren’t hidden.

They simply require one more flight of stairs.

Perhaps that’s true of more than record stores.