For the years I have called Vancouver home, I have found refuge in the West End. The location is perfect. I work downtown, so the morning commute is on foot, and if laziness overtakes me, I can jump on a bus. I am not sure what drew me here in the first place; perhaps it was the fact that the beach is a mere spit away, but I am starting to understand what keeps me here.
It is a bizarre little enclave to be at the heart of Davie and Denman. Denman with its semi-tropical beachy feel – and yes, those are real palm trees that cluster around the intersection of the two streets. And then there is Davie – the strip in the gaybourhood that is lined with rainbow flags and dotted with bubble-gum pink garbage cans that of course match the bus stops.
What I like most about this place is the character. Walk a few blocks in the opposite direction and all you see are the towers of glass; fishbowl living at its best. Ok, there are some funky old lofts that have been renovated, but they seem to be lost in the shadows of box-on-box condos. My hood, however, has retained its character. Sure there is that gaudy green and yellow building on the corner or the 1970s apartment tower affectionately named Vaseline Tower, not because of the population of homosexuals, but from the former paint job of cream and blue (or so the legend goes). There are 3-story walk-ups made from brick, and heritage houses painted to the original colours thrown into the mix that follows no theme, unlike the upscale Yaletown or Coal Harbour.
And then there are the characters. It is a mish-mash of working professionals, gay and straight, students (local and foreign), drum-lugging hippies, yoga-toting divas, pot-smoking teens, stroller-pushing moms, dumpster-divers, crack-head homeless junkies and retired folk craving a property developer’s offer. It’s no wonder why tourists make it a stop on the double-decker buses.
In the summer, it is a hub of chaos – imagine up to 400,000 people walking down your street to admire fireworks set to music, or 100,000 lining it to cheer on banana-hammock clad gay boys and bare-breasted dykes all in the name of pride. Even in the winter there is mayhem with the polar bear swim. Hell, there is bedlam all year long; a run for this, a run for that, naked cyclists on their annual outing, Critical Mass rides at the end of every month, protest this and protest that parades, you name it. If something big happens in this city, you can be sure it will somehow start, end or pass through one of those streets.
There is no other place where you can walk 200 meters and fill your belly with schwarma, gelato, sushi, kimchi, burgers, cupcakes, curry, pho, dim sum, pizza, nasi gorang, coffee and more coffee. And did I mention that this is within 2 city blocks? Walk a few more and the options are limitless. Add African, Mexican, Japanese-fusion, Greek, Italian, All-Day Breakfast, and even a Doggy-Deli for Fido.
Oh, yes, Fido. You cannot forget about him. In fact, besides the groomers and day-cares and delis dedicated to the furry friend, stores in my hood are well aware of their doggy-loving clientele. Most stores, besides the restaurants, encourage the entrance of the four-legged creatures in the hood. The liquor and video stores have cookies for the mutts, even the Chinese lady who owns the corner store lets animals in. I’ve sat on many patios with my pooch, including the one at my local pub. I swear some days the dog gets better service and attention than other customers. Fresh water, often with ice is brought out even before my order is taken. Walk the kilometre or so along Denman, and there is at least one dog bowl full of water on each block of the street.
There are of course the downsides to living downtown. In the suburbs you don’t have crack-heads screaming, or the clatter of a shopping buggy storming down your back alley brimmed with cans and bottles at 3am. You don’t see police take-downs or someone hopping into your garbage bin to be the first to score the tossed out goods in your back yard. You don’t see homeless men drinking beer for breakfast on your back stoop, or the kid outfitted in Nikes and wrapped in a sleeping bag begging for coins at your front door. You see neither the sex shops with neon advertising peep shows, nor drag queens scurrying home at 7am.
But that is all part of the landscape and the flow of downtown life. If I didn’t like it I would have moved to the suburbs years ago. I feel safe to walk home alone at night. I love the banter and exchanges with homeless men drinking beer on my back stoop. I get a rush out of running down two flights of stairs to the give some bottles or cans to the binners I’ve befriended rather than complete strangers. I’ve got rapport going with my neighbours, be it they live in a house or on a street. I flirt with the falafel man who has a crush on me and I get laundry tips from the Chinese lady at the corner store. I get dibs on furniture a homeless man finds. I chat about breeds of dogs to a crazy guy and I get “gonged” by the Asian man who wears his rice field hat and hands out “how to get good karma” from his salvaged buggy loaded with cymbals, gongs and triangles.
The West End isn’t unnaturally pristine, or sterile. It is a muddled up mishmash of life and character. But this is my hood. It has grit and moxie. I love it.
It is a bizarre little enclave to be at the heart of Davie and Denman. Denman with its semi-tropical beachy feel – and yes, those are real palm trees that cluster around the intersection of the two streets. And then there is Davie – the strip in the gaybourhood that is lined with rainbow flags and dotted with bubble-gum pink garbage cans that of course match the bus stops.
What I like most about this place is the character. Walk a few blocks in the opposite direction and all you see are the towers of glass; fishbowl living at its best. Ok, there are some funky old lofts that have been renovated, but they seem to be lost in the shadows of box-on-box condos. My hood, however, has retained its character. Sure there is that gaudy green and yellow building on the corner or the 1970s apartment tower affectionately named Vaseline Tower, not because of the population of homosexuals, but from the former paint job of cream and blue (or so the legend goes). There are 3-story walk-ups made from brick, and heritage houses painted to the original colours thrown into the mix that follows no theme, unlike the upscale Yaletown or Coal Harbour.
And then there are the characters. It is a mish-mash of working professionals, gay and straight, students (local and foreign), drum-lugging hippies, yoga-toting divas, pot-smoking teens, stroller-pushing moms, dumpster-divers, crack-head homeless junkies and retired folk craving a property developer’s offer. It’s no wonder why tourists make it a stop on the double-decker buses.
In the summer, it is a hub of chaos – imagine up to 400,000 people walking down your street to admire fireworks set to music, or 100,000 lining it to cheer on banana-hammock clad gay boys and bare-breasted dykes all in the name of pride. Even in the winter there is mayhem with the polar bear swim. Hell, there is bedlam all year long; a run for this, a run for that, naked cyclists on their annual outing, Critical Mass rides at the end of every month, protest this and protest that parades, you name it. If something big happens in this city, you can be sure it will somehow start, end or pass through one of those streets.
There is no other place where you can walk 200 meters and fill your belly with schwarma, gelato, sushi, kimchi, burgers, cupcakes, curry, pho, dim sum, pizza, nasi gorang, coffee and more coffee. And did I mention that this is within 2 city blocks? Walk a few more and the options are limitless. Add African, Mexican, Japanese-fusion, Greek, Italian, All-Day Breakfast, and even a Doggy-Deli for Fido.
Oh, yes, Fido. You cannot forget about him. In fact, besides the groomers and day-cares and delis dedicated to the furry friend, stores in my hood are well aware of their doggy-loving clientele. Most stores, besides the restaurants, encourage the entrance of the four-legged creatures in the hood. The liquor and video stores have cookies for the mutts, even the Chinese lady who owns the corner store lets animals in. I’ve sat on many patios with my pooch, including the one at my local pub. I swear some days the dog gets better service and attention than other customers. Fresh water, often with ice is brought out even before my order is taken. Walk the kilometre or so along Denman, and there is at least one dog bowl full of water on each block of the street.
There are of course the downsides to living downtown. In the suburbs you don’t have crack-heads screaming, or the clatter of a shopping buggy storming down your back alley brimmed with cans and bottles at 3am. You don’t see police take-downs or someone hopping into your garbage bin to be the first to score the tossed out goods in your back yard. You don’t see homeless men drinking beer for breakfast on your back stoop, or the kid outfitted in Nikes and wrapped in a sleeping bag begging for coins at your front door. You see neither the sex shops with neon advertising peep shows, nor drag queens scurrying home at 7am.
But that is all part of the landscape and the flow of downtown life. If I didn’t like it I would have moved to the suburbs years ago. I feel safe to walk home alone at night. I love the banter and exchanges with homeless men drinking beer on my back stoop. I get a rush out of running down two flights of stairs to the give some bottles or cans to the binners I’ve befriended rather than complete strangers. I’ve got rapport going with my neighbours, be it they live in a house or on a street. I flirt with the falafel man who has a crush on me and I get laundry tips from the Chinese lady at the corner store. I get dibs on furniture a homeless man finds. I chat about breeds of dogs to a crazy guy and I get “gonged” by the Asian man who wears his rice field hat and hands out “how to get good karma” from his salvaged buggy loaded with cymbals, gongs and triangles.
The West End isn’t unnaturally pristine, or sterile. It is a muddled up mishmash of life and character. But this is my hood. It has grit and moxie. I love it.
