Our rent cheque slides under the door as I sit here, and the swoosh against the hardwood is startling. After a year of wanting to leave and live somewhere smaller, I’ve become use to inner city life and I have a hard time imagining myself without it. To not be able to run to the bakery for french bread while the soup for lunch is simmering on the stove. To have to drive instead of walk for coffee or cheese. To not have equidistant two lingerie stores, a gourmet grocery store, a half dozen art galleries, a european cafe, an independant bookstore, and a large office supplies chain megastore. We live in the center of a city, in an area full of life.
And we say we want to live in a small town where there’s community, but a place without a variety of restaurants? A place without specialty shops where the rack of olive oil extends along an entire wall? After the plethora of choice available to us here, such a limitation would seem like emptiness.
We are not suburb people. We live in the place we sleep, a four square km radius that must provide for all of our needs. There will be no cookie-cutter house and lawn in our future, but perhaps our dreams of a small house in a smaller place aren’t realistic either. A lawn to cut, a house to mend, these are not our aspirations.
Perhaps we are city people. Perhaps we should be saving to buy a condo in Kerrisdale and embarking on life in Vancouver. Perhaps instead of dreaming of the future, I should begin living in the present.
Vancouver. A city which appears as cold as the glas that covers the downtown offices and condos of the people who dream of a new car or Whistler chateau.
Vancouver. A city where the crepiere and the sushi restaurant co-exist affordably. Where real estate bludgeons you with its prices but the ocean winds remove the smog and the air is clean and crisp. I am starting ever so slowly to fall in love and call this home.
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