I’ve been immersing myself in all sorts of things Vancouver-related, largely because I’m stuck here.  I know, I know: there are worse places to be stuck, and no matter the myriad challenges that life can throw at you (my second cousin, a Saskatchewan boy and therefore one of the most down-to-earth people I know, listened patiently to my bleating recently and kindly shut me up: “Life isn’t fair, and always remember that”), I try to take stock of my blessings.  It isn’t an easy place to live; not at all.  Luckily, I know how to get by on very little money, because that’s how I’ve lived for my entire adult life.  Vacations?  A big salary?  Home ownership?  The heck are you going on about, dreamer?  

Among other things, I’ve been casually contributing to a pretty Gen Z-geared online magazine, writing very simply about surface-level aspects of this city, meaning I’m giving Vancouver even more thought than I ever had before.  Like every major city–and minor city, now that I think about it–this casual logging town that was abruptly, startlingly infused with foreign cash has changed enormously, and not necessarily for the better, either.  I’m blessedly old enough to grumble about the good old days, and because I was a child in the 80s and a young woman in the 90s, I treasure those decades and how Vancouver was so welcoming, unique, bohemian, and comprised of many idiosyncrasies and communities that gave it a superb character.  Not so much anymore.

This exact corner used to have a McDonald’s, a liquor store, and a comedy / theatre sports venue in the basement.  

However, in the midst of this sterile overhaul of many traits that once gave downtown Vancouver character–and its modest citizenry a laid-back bonhomie thanks to affordability and plenty to do–there is one stretch of road that has somehow remained untouched, and everyone here has a solid opinion of it.  Still gritty, still weird, still intimidating at times, still a sliver of a long-gone city: good ol’ Granville Street.  

This downtown strip has stubbornly, miraculously managed to stay its perfectly seedy self.  Actually, allow me to correct myself: five blocks of Granville between Drake and Robson is the seedy area I will always be fond of.  Granville goes on for a while, and once you cross the bridge to the south side, it turns pretty fancy-pants, catering to a well-heeled crowd that would never have me as a part of their elite gang (here’s where Groucho Marx’s famed quote comes into play).  No matter what you think, despite the sterility and sameness of so many aspects of downtown Vancouver, it’s just a thrilling dirtbag of a strip, and I can’t get enough of it.  Probably says a lot about the men I’ve chosen in the past, and in general, most people’s direction in life: you either gravitate towards the predictable, consistent path of stability, or you’re a downright glutton for a toxic good time.  

The bizarre, public-art installation known as the Spinning Chandelier beneath the Granville Bridge, hanging exactly where the strip begins. This seems entirely appropriate.

*  *  *  *  *

It’s a really young city, all things considered, and I had no idea that it was initially called the City of Granville before George Vancouver had his say.  I’m actually not going to dive too deeply into the history of the street itself, because that’s not what this piece is about.  If you’re interested, Professor Wikipedia can help you out, and you can also watch some rare, fascinating, existing footage of Granville (and downtown Vancouver in general) to marvel over and point out still-recognizable landmarks of the central city.  I’d rather take you on a short pictorial journey down those five blocks of Granville starting from Drake Street, with the next few stops being Davie, Helmcken, Nelson, Smithe, and finally, Robson Street, where the magic stops and chain retailers begin.

I don’t need to tell you that, past this point, there’s nothing noteworthy.  This, right here, is the drawbridge to the kingdom of consumerist and digital stupefaction.  

Granville is also the frontier dividing Yaletown from the rest of downtown.  No matter what you may think, or if you disagree with me (which wouldn’t impact me whatsoever, since this is my blog, guys and gals!  So there!), Yaletown is fear and loathing embodied, populated with unusual specimens I have never seen in any other part of the city who practically beg for the sort of rubbernecking that would bring great discomfort to most normal humans going about their business: women who are jacked and yoinked and pulled and inflated, men who are jacked and inflated and fragrant and douchey, and a generally unkind atmosphere that seems entirely out of place in midtown, as though some exceptionally tacky chunk of Los Angeles broke off from the California coast, drifted up north, and arrogantly lodged itself at the foot of False Creek.  

You know how back in the 90s during the Chretien-opposed separatist tension, some exasperated people would declare, “My Canada doesn’t include Quebec”? Or perhaps that was just some of my mischievous contrarian friends.  Anyway, my downtown doesn’t include Yaletown, and you’d have to provide me with evidence-based proof, some bar graphs, some Venn diagrams, and some substantiated comparative and contrastive analysis–all presenting quantitative and qualitative data depicting true Yaletown grace–that would change my mind.  

Oh, right: back to Granville Street and some of my prized, timeless establishments.

* * * * *

Once you come off the terrifying Granville Bridge heading north (as a pedestrian, of course…if you drive, you won’t notice anything except other useless people behind the wheel), you’ll hit Drake Street.  There isn’t too much here apart from a terrific thrift store called the Wildlife, which actually seems to cater to younger people with a bit of fashion sense, and the prices are incredibly reasonable.  Unlike the rapacious, department-store-priced sham known as Value Village, all proceeds here go to charity.  It’s quite possibly the best thrift store in the city, and it’s always crowded.

Not very big, but it’s one rare instance in which size doesn’t matter.

Directly beside it, however, is the site of one of many bottomed-out mornings for not just me, but a big chunk of the city: the Spirit of Howe liquor store.  God help us all.  

This place gives me the shivers. The police car is a nice touch.

Let me tell you something, as I’ve been very open about my past obstacles involving alcohol: when you’re way down in the hole, waking up with teeth-clenching physical withdrawal and The Fear (I’m not going to explain what that is…if you know, you know) is just unbearable.  The government liquor stores don’t open until 9:30, but private establishments such as Spirit of Howe open at 9:00.  It’s impossible to wait the extra half-hour to get slightly cheaper booze: you need to take care of this anxiety, this trembling, this terror, and you need liquor as soon as you can get it since you drank everything you had last night.  At the deepest part of my alcohol abuse, Spirit of Howe saw me drag my shaky, shamed bag of bones in there at 9:05 am–takes me roughly ten minutes to walk there from home, and I’d leave at 8:55–and there would already be a small lineup of desperate, quiet, beleaguered and bedraggled drunks like myself buying their calming agent of choice.

It always smelled like Pine-Sol in there, sickly and synthetic, and I’ll never be able to take a whiff of that stuff again without thinking of those pathetic mornings at this joint.

A few paces up right on the corner of Davie Street is the Two Parrots Bar & Grill.  I’ve actually never been in there, but I respect the place for being around for probably longer than I have, for being open until 2 a.m., and for being so stubbornly “Don’t goddamn fix what isn’t goddamn broken” in regards to their menu: the only plant-based option they’ve hastily thrown on there is a handful of edamame for almost nine bucks. 

For those of you who eat edamame, you can buy about two frozen bags of it at the grocery store for that price.  

One glance, and you know exactly what sort of chow you’re going to get here.

If you keep going up past Davie, you’ll see a few more honest little businesses around you, including a shop that will satisfy all of your old-school video game, DVD, VHS, and even audio cassette needs.  Trust me: there are plenty of us out there.  

You need the entire Roper-era DVD collection of “Three’s Company”? They’ll have it.

Suddenly you hit Helmcken.  And right there on the corner is the crown jewel, the magnum opus, the inarguably most consequential landmark of the Granville strip.

I’m going to petition to designate this a heritage site.

It isn’t special because it caters to the dirty, kinky, and downright randy segment of the population.  It’s a chain, in fact, and not even a standalone business.  No, the reason the Granville strip Fantasy Factory is of extreme significance is because, when I turned 19 and was just about to move out of the suburbs, my pals and I commemorated this event by coming downtown and doing what you do when you come of legal age: you drink alcohol, you watch strippers, and you go to a naughty shop. 

We, of course, did all three things the night of my 19th birthday: we checked out some hardened peelers at the now-defunct Champagne Charlie’s that was, I think, situated at the same intersection; we went to the Odyssey nightclub a block up to watch some oiled-up naked men humping the air to “When Doves Cry”; we popped into Fantasy Factory to feed 25-cent coins into a weary machine to watch startling peep-show clips.  This was nearly thirty years ago, and while both Charlie’s and the Odyssey have collapsed into dust along with my youth, this icon of the strip remains defiantly, quietly in business.  I’ve never seen anyone actually go in and out of there, but someone or something is propping it up.  

  *   *   *   *   *

Shuffling further along past some pretty decent, cheap eateries, we’ve got The Rock Shop, which is also an institution of Granville.  

These sorts of places are a dying breed. But not on Granville!

It’s exactly what you think it is: a shop dedicated to rock & roll that somehow remains fully-functioning and successful despite the genre gasping for air in a climate of inexplicably bland, unmemorable, studio-created rubbish lacking any and all musicianship or artistry.  Hmmph.  At least you can still buy Guns & Roses merch here, and it’s actually quite nice to see kids more than half my age happily walking around in Nirvana and Rush T-shirts, even though I would love for them to name three songs by those bands.  No matter.  It’s up to The Kidz to keep rock alive, and this place is a good breeding ground for accessories and education.

Further up on the strip we have, well, The Granville Strip.  

A class act!

You can’t open a peeler bar on this stretch of Granville and not use such an obvious, here-you-go name for your joint.  Not much to explain here since the front doors say it all (Girls, Girls, Girls!); it also looks respectable enough from the outside that you can claim you popped in here to merely satisfy your thirst, when you really just wanted to lose yourself in a twenty-year old dubiously named Candi, shaking her money makers and feigning attraction to you.  I suppose everyone has to have their specific needs met, and Granville, so far, is batting a thousand as far as providing those human requirements.  

…I should add that, as you’re making this short journey heading north, you will invariably run into some people who are brazenly Doing Their Thing, and all of you conformist, Tik-Tok-trend-copying clones can get bent, because nobody is going to make them change or compromise their sartorial choices.  Also, it’s clear that rock & roll truly does just survive on Granville Street, and nowhere else in Vancouver.

He and I will be friends one day: I just know it.

Then!  You hit Nelson, where you can get a tattoo and a very nice slice of pizza from Megabite.  Since it closes at the impressive hour of 3 a.m., I’ve heard that some brow-raising antics take place here during the wee hours, but I’m sure the same can be said of your own living room after you and the ball & chain go a little bit too hard on the Tylenol 3s and Grower’s cider.

What else do you need?

Keep cruising ahead, and you’ll see a fierce, exhausting juxtaposition: the legendary art-deco Vogue Theatre smack-dab next to the Roxy nightclub / cabaret.  

Where two worlds collide, yet never intersect.

Remember how I described Yaletown several paragraphs back?  The Roxy caters to that sort of clientele, except the patrons are usually from out of town and lacking in all sorts of taste to an even more impressive degree.  However, I will give this to the Roxy: for every “Britney Dance Party,” there are several live bands playing here, a regular rotation of DJs, and retro music nights.  It’s not my cup of coffee, obviously, but I respect its longevity on Granville strip, and I do believe there’s something for everyone.

I’m old and judgmental and believe that good music screeched to a halt around 2011, but…there really is something for everyone.  

A few paces up and we have the shuttered Movieland Arcade.  I don’t actually think I’ve ever been in here, but I love the classic sensibility of such a place, not to mention the neon sign.  Speaking of which, did you know that Vancouver used to be one of the neon capitals of the world?  

The breeding ground for countless pinball wizards.

Around Smithe, we’ve got another vintage theatre in the form of the Orpheum, which has been around for almost one hundred years.  That’s almost as old as Canada itself, really.  I think I’ve only been here twice, and the first time was for my younger sister’s high-school graduation ceremony.  We grew up in the ‘burbs outside of Vancouver, yet our experiences were shockingly different: her class of ’00 grad commencement took place in this posh downtown venue festooned with chandeliers and velvet seats, with all the teens gathering on a stage that is also graced by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra.  My grad of 1993 took place in a rec centre out in Port Coquitlam, where we all sat on plastic folding chairs and listened to Terry Fox’s parents give us a speech of congratulations (okay, that was pretty neat).  Maybe that’s what made me what I am today: non-materialistic, with accompanying nonexistent standards.  

If you ever have an unstoppable need to see Yo-Yo Ma play live, you’re in luck!

Almost done here, as we are in the final stretch between Smithe and Robson, after which you need not bother going any further.  We have Camouflage, which I believe used to be situated elsewhere on Granville back in the day, and where countless friends of mine have purchased combat boots, Doc Martens, inexpensive Vans, and boutique army-fatigue gear.  

No grenades or M16s, sorry to say.

Finally, and most majestically, we have The Commodore Ballroom.  

The pic sucks, but like with everything important, it’s the insides that count.

This is, hands-down, the best music venue in the city, and always has been.  I can’t explain it: it just is.  The floor bounces, there’s room for everyone, the layout is large and accommodating, and the energy in there is always electric, no matter who’s playing.  Apart from my failed adolescent attempt to see The Ramones, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen just about every band I’ve ever wanted to see at this place.  I’m not going to write out a list of those shows, because nobody cares except me, but I’ll just say I will die satisfied having seen my faves play live, and I got to see them at the Commodore.  I have faith that this incomparable mainstay of downtown Vancouver will survive the inevitable earthquake that is apparently going to turn the characterless, identical high-rises marring downtown Vancouver into a six-foot-high sea of broken glass.

Actually, I’ll say that for Granville strip in general: it’s not going anywhere.  The city and the province and the country and the world keep changing and shifting and accelerating in pace, but this stretch of downtown continues to sit there, largely untouched and endlessly appealing.  Some might say it stinks up Vancouver on all levels, and to that I say: long may you reek, Granville.  Long may you reek.  

UPDATED FOR SOME BIZARRE BREAKING NEWS…

I published this essay mid-afternoon yesterday (Monday, 22 July), and just a handful of hours later, this happened. It is horrific, it is terrifying, but it is also not something that occurs with regularity. While Granville strip is indeed a sketchy place (I shared this piece with a West End group I belong to on Facebook, and 99% of people replying had some version of “That place absolutely sucks, I never go there, it should be turned to glass” as a sentiment), I haven’t heard of anything quite like this happening, and neither has anyone else. That’s why it has made the news, and has rattled Vancouver pretty badly. I know it’s a fairly unsavoury part of town to wander during the evening, but like most parts of Vancouver, it’s generally not considered especially dangerous, especially to innocent civilians. We don’t really know any more details than what was published in that link.

I’m disappointed, but I’m somehow not surprised. Violent offenders, most of them being repeat offenders, are darting around all parts of the city without repercussions, consequences, or any sort of stern discipline handed down to them. It isn’t limited to Granville strip at all, but I just find it so strange that this frightening incident took place on the same day that I wrote and posted this.

This also happened in the West End, just a few blocks down the hill from my apartment, and it gave me the shivers. This is also something really weird and not characteristic of Vancouver at all. It’s unnerving and truly bizarre that these two incidents occurred within a day or two of each other, and I don’t know what else to say about it. Maybe the noise from the English Bay fireworks on Saturday night sent a few people utterly and officially bonkers (it was so intense in its noise it sounded like war, and my entire apartment vibrated with each startling explosion). Maybe it was the Buck Moon that took place over the weekend, although I’m not sure how this would drive anyone to acts of violence and / or lead to bodies washed up on the beach.

…or maybe, just maybe, we actually just happen to live in a major city that isn’t pissing rainbows and farting flowers, much as everyone here would like to think. I’m sorry to be so crass, and I’m sorry for all the people affected by the senselessness of these tragedies, but Vancouver is far from perfect. You have to accept that the beautiful, upscale, and relatively crime-free places like Kitsilano and Point Grey come with a flipside, a grim reality of urban life that is unavoidable. You can’t, and you don’t, live in a bubble unless you choose to live in delusion and denial.

I prefer to face the reality of where I am, and accept it for what it is. Fifteen years ago I lived in San Jose, Costa Rica for almost a year and a half, and things like this were daily occurrences. Part of life, except compounded by a hundred. Wouldn’t even make the news. It was unfathomably dangerous there, and this is no exaggeration. But it sure didn’t stop me from leaving my apartment.