I wanted to quickly express my astonishment that my post about Davie Village received well over a thousand views in just a few days, a first-time occurrence for anything I’ve written on here. The majority of the traffic was visitors to my site–as opposed to subscribers–and only two things could possibly have brought that about: 1.) hundreds of people just happened to type all of my tags into their search engine of choice simultaneously, and curiously clicked on this blog, or 2.) my efforts at promoting my content via social media actually worked that day. I know which explanation is more plausible.

At any rate, if you’re back here, thank you for reading that piece, which I did my best to write with equanimity. It garnered quite a few responses, and they were, amusingly, split evenly: half of the people reacting to its contents were strongly defending this neighbourhood (“You have a skewed filter, I love it here, it’s magical”) and half were sadly nodding in agreement (“I’ve been here for ages and couldn’t have described it better”). There was absolutely no middle ground, which reminded me a bit of those old USA bumper stickers from the 80s:

(As MAD magazine wrote, “I just kind of like it. Can I live on the Canadian border?”)

Any way you see it, it seemed to trigger some strong emotions in readers, and I suppose that’s a job well done on my part. In my own warped way, I love Vancouver, despite it often being an unfair and infuriating place to live. It’s my hometown. It’s not very sophisticated, it’s not friendly, it’s unjustifiably and punishingly overpriced in every regard, but it’s my city, and we’re all still very lucky to live here. Given the fact that I came very, very close to moving to a crime-ridden, economically-depressed, beaten-down, sickly little town in Northern England, I have come to appreciate Vancouver and its blessings all the more. I want better for everyone in this particular neighbourhood, which is one of the most stupendous places you could possibly live in the country.

…oh, why did I almost leave everything I had to move to that sad UK town? Because I was misled and deceived into believing something existed that did not, and at the eleventh hour, I found clarity and remembered my self-respect. It’s not a long story, nor is it an engaging one. I think I wrote about it a few months ago, but I’ve gotten rid of most posts that surround that part of my life, which caused damage and detritus from which I still have not totally extracted myself.

All of this is to say that it’s nice to know people living here have such strong feelings for the West End. That’s as it should be. It runs contrary to the outward aloofness that characterizes a lot of the residents here, and the common thread is that everyone really wants Davie Village to be the best place in the city; it once was, and it can be that way again. However, to be fair, this is an exceptionally dark age for many right around the globe, and to ask perfect strangers to grin and me and greet me with “good morning”s may not be reasonable when we’re all doing our best to get by…although it does actually happen here sometimes, just walking up from or down to London Drugs (favourite store ever), and this quick demonstration of kindness and civility instantly changes my mindset to one of optimism and hope for a better world.

One thing I learned in recovery, and which can sometimes be difficult to remember, is that you have absolutely no idea what anyone else is going through. I had countless days of horrific hangovers, withdrawals, anxiety, self-abuse, and terror, and when I reluctantly left my neglected apartment to take care of a very basic task, I would look at people around me and think: Nobody knows how crazy I am. I am the craziest, sickest, most debilitated motherfucker on the street right now, just barely holding it together to make it to the store. Everyone appeared sane, calm, functional, happy, at ease, problem-free, and living normal lives. I can confidently report that this is absolutely, totally, categorically not the case.

It’s raging hot right now in Vancouver, and I really dislike this time of year. Give me a lightly-rainy day, a snow day, or a moderate spring day anytime over this. My apartment is from the early 1960s and traps warmth like a sealed-shut Russian banya; the motorcyclists with their unmuffled crotch rockets tear down my street at all hours, despite it having a speed limit of 30 kilometres an hour; my shabby hot-weather wardrobe means sweaty, slimy armpits sullying those garments within hours; the layout of my particular suite means I have no cross-breeze; my column fan escalates my electricity bill in a shocking way; despite living a few blocks from Sunset Beach, it quickly becomes unsuitable for swimming and relief from the heat due to E.Coli (to wit: rich, lazy, boat-owning dingalings dumping their human waste into False Creek); keeping my windows and balcony door flung open means the ongoing sounds of lawnmowers, weed-whackers, garbage trucks, and the unwanted presence of wasps.

One time, a few blazing summers ago, a bird actually flew into this place and somehow found itself on the floor, which obligate-carnivore and huntress Annie annihilated and dispatched to Avian Heaven in short order. It was incredible how my fluffy, peaceful little angel bounded across the parquet in half a second to take the doomed little swallow into her fangs. She then joyfully trotted into my bedroom with it, a few drops of blood along her pathway, and did unspeakable things to the bird that I had to clean up an hour later.

It’s also only a matter of time before the province’s annual summer wildfires makes themselves known in Vancouver, choking and smoking us all out.

This heat is also not aligned with the Vancouver I knew and grew up with, but I guess we just have to accept that it’s the world we live in now. I still love a great deal about this infernal rainforest, and am currently writing about another aspect of it that I hold dear to my heart. Hope to publish it very soon.

Stay cool, in both interpretations of the phrase.