The first time I stepped into apartment 305, I knew I was home. It was February 2016, and Leah and I had recently decided to move in together. We began our search in earnest, scouring Craigslist at all hours of the day, and emailing potential landlords. We wanted a one bedroom, 600 square feet large or bigger, for no more than $1500 rent a month. If it was pet-friendly all the better. We were in our mid-twenties, and cautiously optimistic about our prospects.
That changed, however, as we began to attend actual showings. Though she’s earned a reputation for supernatural beauty, any renter will tell you that the city of Vancouver is a dog’s breakfast of unseemly accommodations. Think bathrooms stained with black mould, light fixtures housing spiders and other bugs, cupboard doors literally hanging off their hinges. At one particularly grim group showing, Leah and I passed a smashed window on our way to the unit. It was the weekend before February 1st and a cold drizzle floated in from West 4th Avenue. While we probably should have turned around then and there, our breaking point came minutes later, when we realized the unit’s amenities included free mildew in the bedroom (perhaps the rain in the hallway was to blame). As we made for the door, we watched other prospective tenants, many of whom carried the quiet desperation of needing a place for next month, scramble to fill out application forms, check books in hand. Afterwards, Leah told me she wanted to put a pause on showings for a bit.
She did, which is how I found myself viewing the Schenley, a nondescript three storey walk up in the city’s West End, alone. Despite the dated, garden-print carpet greeting me at the door, I remember thinking the building had a good energy. Leah would later call it a diamond in the rough: five minutes to the beach, five minutes to the grocery store, walking distance to both of our offices. It was also 800 square feet, pet-friendly, albeit just outside our price range. I knocked on the door and proceeded to introduce myself to Jon, the raven haired, bespectacled man who would be our building manager and friend for the next six years. As we spoke, sunlight streamed in through the unit’s south facing windows, some filtered through the nearby spruce tree, where Leah and I would later watch birds, squirrels and even a family of racoons from the comfort of our living room couch. Jon explained that he had originally listed the unit for a higher price, but didn’t like the types of tenants who applied. He was trying to foster a sense of community. And he actually managed to do it.
In Canada’s loneliest big city, we had the strange pleasure of both knowing and liking our neighbours. We would watch Wendy and her cat Television play in the hallway, or stand in the front lobby talking shit with Trevor and Sarah. Sometimes we would run into Fred, the building’s oldest resident, who would chat about the weather before he and his walker shuffled out the door. In the summers, Jon would invite the building to go play pitch and putt, or up to the roof for a quick drink. In winter, we would all deck the front lobby in Christmas lights, spraying canned snow on the windows. It looked insane but festive; a psychedelic snow globe courtesy the island of misfit toys.
At times it truly felt like we could stay here for the long haul. In a way, I suppose we have. Six years is a lifetime for millennials, with our short attention spans, low wages and lack of affordable housing. In fact, at 30 years old, the Schenley has been home for nearly one sixth of my life thus far. It’s been the scene of keggers, dinner parties, and one particularly dour Presidential Election viewing. People have fallen in love in this apartment, friendships have been solidified. Legends. Wedges. It’s also a place that has seen friendships change, and in some cases fade. Everyone who helped us move in 2016 has, in some way or another, moved on – be it to new neighbourhoods, new countries, or even new friend groups.
Leah and I have changed too, particularly in the past eighteen months, amidst a pandemic that nevertheless persists. Things like shared laundry and a lack of outdoor space never bothered us much before the novel coronavirus (though at $1.50 per load we spent a small fortune doing the wash). COVID winter, though, has a way of shifting your priorities. Things that seemed like a luxury now feel more like a necessity, particularly as another wave of hospitalizations breaks on our collective shores. Nobody can predict the future, but if I have to do another miserable twelve weeks away from proper society, I at least want a washer and dryer to keep us company.
In a city where the vacancy rate rarely sits north of 1%, it can feel risky and even ungrateful to leave a place like the Schenley. It’s like looking a gift horse in the mouth, spitting in the eye of the gods. How dare you want more, when you have already gotten so much? Leah and I have asked ourselves that question a lot of late, and I’d be lying if I said we had the perfect answer. All we know is that change is unavoidable. We figure we might as well embrace it.
Last month, we signed the lease on a new place on the other side of the Burrard Bridge, about seven minutes away from the Schenley. I cried when we sent the PDF, not because it was the wrong decision, but because I could feel a chapter of my life closing in real time. It’s a beautiful and devastating sort of grace to know the end as it is happening. As of Saturday, Leah and I will no longer be, as Shomas so kindly put it, “the king and queen of the West End.” We have new neighbours to meet, new routes to explore. Like all change, it’s exciting and scary. But also familiar. The minute we crossed the threshold, we knew we were home.
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