“I live at the intersection of Hastings and Crackhouse” I used to say, without much exaggeration. Across the street from my apartment was a squat, crummy building that regularly had a police cruiser parked in front. Gutted, refurbished and under new management now, this structure is no longer an eyesore that houses druggies. But change has come slowly to my neighbourhood. In the four years I have lived here, the closest major commercial intersection still consists of the same Dairy Queen, auto parts shop, Seven-Eleven, and an empty lot. That’s the sort of place it is.

East Vancouver is an ugly duckling among swans in a city of stunning neighbourhoods.  It has no beaches, forests or wilderness trails, no dazzling skyscrapers, and few youthful, lycra-clad beautiful people. If you’re a tourist, the area won’t be on your check list. It’s next to a port and warehouse district offering none of Vancouver’s attractions. If you’re commuting into the city on Hastings Street, the one lasting impression you will have is of the poverty and mental illness that spills over from the Downtown East Side.

I chose to live in East Van for pragmatic reasons. It was close to work, transit, and groceries as well as a three public pools. But I also really like it here. It is liveable and unpretentious. And it has character in a way other beautiful but bland parts of Vancouver don’t. Nearby Commercial Drive has a bohemian loopiness to it. Incense-scented shops, a bicycle polo court, sushi restaurants and Italian cafes. But I didn’t even need to go to The Drive to get a real dose of urban East Van life. In fact, I didn’t even need to leave my living room. A few memories from my old apartment, as I sit here packing up:

The View. Mist-shrouded, snow-capped, fogged in or topped by clear blue skies, seeing the North Shore mountains in all of their moods has been an amazing experience. All that, and a grain elevator too. I like my visual cocktail half-natural, half-urbanized.

The Soundscape. Seaplanes drone overhead as they make their approach towards Burrard Inlet. At noon, on the dot, a ship’s horn blasts the first four notes of “O Canada” while crows and seagulls squawk. From the alley below comes the occasional jangle of a shopping cart pushed by a dumpster-diver collecting recyclable items.

The neighbours in the buildings across the alley

• the amorous lesbians who practiced the accordion to get in the mood.
• the amateur poulterers who keep chickens in their back yard. they set up lawn furniture in front of the coop to watch as if it were reality television.
• the alley cats; on patrol for intruders, dozy during the day, scrappy at night.
• the absentees, who sometimes rent out their house as a film set, so the whole block is taken over by movie trucks and floodlights
• the tortured souls, who played and sang rock music badly out of their garage

One of the neighbourhood hens. The roosters should have kept their beaks shut at dawn and were evicted.

It only looks as if kitty's tails is on fire.

Alley regular.