There’s something about living on the outskirts of your own city that make you an instantaneous tourist the moment you step foot upon its pavement again. While I’ve been commuting into Vancouver on a daily, either to work or to meet with friends, today I felt as though I was rediscovering aspects of Vancouver to which I’d turned a blind eye in recent years. Perhaps I was simply too caught up in the aforementioned routine I’d found myself in, no time to explore, or too tired to make the effort.

Stepping out of work late this afternoon, I found myself wandering into a bizarre locale, one I’d previously described simply as a ghost town, also known as the Olympic Village. Hugging the south side of False Creek, the overpriced development set up initially to house Olympic athletes, coaches, and organizers alike, found its proceeding inhabitants angry. Complaints of faulty construction resulting in cracks, leaks, and bedrooms so small that one couldn’t even close the door of their room when a bed was within its perimeters, led to a class action law suit. These issues, and legalities aside, I always felt there was something missing on this plot of land, even with its undeniable appeal, view of the mountainous skyline and all. A certain “Je ne sais quoi,” as one would have it.

Today, I opened my eyes to a new perspective; I chose to ignore the incessant mundane architecture, the wealthy yoga junkies, and the eeriness of the often grey and dreary streets of the development. The sun was shining, after all. Stopping by Legacy, my favourite new liquor store (because yes, rumours are true, they have points!) and grabbing a road pop, I decided to walk along the seawall to Granville Island.

I found myself a little secret hideaway not far from my starting point. But fret not, I’m not so naive as to think that it’s a secret, and I didn’t find myself there alone after all. A bird sanctuary that overlooks False Creek, and in viewing distance opposite the casino, I sat upon some rocks drinking a cider and having a smoke. I wondered why on a day like today, someone would rather paddle strenuously by kayak, rather than stare upon the rippling beauty of the waters, with a cold drink in hand. Then again, I was never really the outdoorsy type. I did try kayaking once, and that’s a whole other story, but I’ll let you know, I killed it.

Mere seconds into my first sip, a tall shirtless man with but a few teeth left to his name introduced himself and asked if he could take a seat. Cameron weighed about 120 pounds, had a farmers tan, wore baggy black pants held to his body only by tightening his belt on the very last loop, an awkward lump of fabric pulled together just above his tailbone, and came with an accomplice: Josh. Josh wore camouflage pants, a rock shirt with a logo that I couldn’t quite decipher, eyes protected by wrap around sunglasses, and his hair slicked back like a greaser. After suggesting I seriously consider some dental floss patchwork additions to my denim vest, Josh asked me if I was into metal. Because, apparently, my vest, “Is so metal.”

It wasn’t long before the boys broke into banter. Cameron, a self-proclaimed “scavenger” had grown up in the neighbourhood but had found himself wandering the streets of Vancouver without a map or a plan since he stepped foot on the Downtown Eastside 14 years ago. There was a story about a girl named Tammy, who’d gotten them into trouble with the cops after trying to smoke crack on the Aquabus, and later the city bus. I told him it was understandable, and that perhaps, smoking crack anywhere was probably a bad idea. He agreed. He free-styled a bit, something about “A hook under your chin” and maybe a lewd description of his cock in your mother’s mouth. Then he contemplated why a friend had pointed out that he calls girls “dude,” yet he only ever called me “young lady.” He also asked me to guess his age, to which I replied, “You already told me you were 34, so my guess would probably be biased.” Following a chuckle, he said he was happy to be alive. And Josh? I guessed he was 29, but I was way off — perhaps the shades threw me off. The 21 year old smirked, almost as if he was glad I’d guessed he was older than a recent teenager.

The two burst into an a capella rendition of Nirvana’s “All Apologies,” and soon enough, we united in three-part harmony (if you could call it that), singing, “Everyone is gay!” And so we were. I wished them a wonderful evening, to which they graciously replied that with the blessing of a pretty lady like myself, they’d have a better chance at one after all. Who ever said not talk to strangers?

And so I wandered off, along the seawall, stopped in my tracks by an orange and blue polka-dot piano perched just below the Cambie Street bridge. I stopped to watch a man play. He gave me the rundown of the piano as an office building, where the pinky was a CEO, and the rest of the fingers were the workers. I got lost somewhere along the analogy, when every other finger was a room, when he introduced the concept of different floors…but he was sweet to break it down in his own way. Running late to meet my family at Granville Island, I thanked him and hopped on the Aquabus and sailed into the sea…at least for a few minutes. And here I am again, in Burnaby, listening to the skytrain go by, thinking,”Hey, there’s a real nice bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge!”

My secret hideaway, cider in hand.

The polka-dot piano…

Sailing into the sea…

A glass of white sitting next to the only little piece of my apartment that I carried with me here, my little red lady lamp.

When I first moved to B.C. at age 9 from Toronto, I found myself at Sperling Elementary School in North Burnaby. This was where I met a lovely and beautiful girl named Alissa, with whom I am friends with until today. Granted, we didn’t get along at first. I thought she was a whiny brat given her tendency to tell on me for swearing. I’m pretty sure she thought I was also a brat — one of the stuck-up Torontorian variety that was as crass and lewd as a 9-year-old could get. It took about a year for things to shape up and pave the way for years of hilarious adventures to come, as we weaved our way through the obstacles that our respective sets of over-protective parents had set for us. Secret trips to the convenient store to buys candies, chips, and slurpees in the cold of winter, not-so-solid alibis for riding in cars with boys, and pirating sex talk radio in the darkness of a basement; we made do.

Alissa, who has been living in Scotland pursuing a career in musical theatre, is back in town with a vengeance. She, like I, has given in to the bitter-sweet temptation of her parents lair; the endless supply of Costco products, the nonexistence of worrying if you’re going to run out of toilet paper, and the occasional tip-toe from one end of the house to the other in the middle of the night, worried to wake a parent.

Tonight, we reunite as adults, in an apartment quite familiar with our brand of debauchery. There’s likely to be reminiscing…and a lot of laughter. But hopefully the night won’t end with both of us puking, one in the toilet and one in the sink (and perhaps a third party in the bathtub) after making too many vodka cocktails. Because we’re grown-ups now, aren’t we?

It’s only been a few days since I left my humble abode for good, the little attic apartment I’ve called home for so long. Buried amongst the high-rises of downtown Vancouver, the 100 year-old house adorned in golden wallpaper, which shone multicolour into its halls through stain glass, is mere moments from becoming just another memory .  Against the better judgement of my pride and independence, I’ve decided to embrace what was perhaps inevitable all along — moving back home with my parents. But I assure you, or maybe I just insist on assuring myself, it’s temporary.

Meanwhile, a fascinating world exists beyond the borders of Vancouver proper, and the suburbs become a muse for a new lens with which to see the world. Burnaby, which my brother recently described as “a place where people wear sweatpants…as pants.” Burnaby, where I spent most of my childhood becoming the person I am today. Burnaby, where the sky train passing by makes for the heartbeat of the people that dwell just steps from the Lougheed Highway, and where walking by the shopping mall is just something that you can’t avoid.

Here’s to mom’s fridge, here’s to infrequent bus departures, here’s to awkward encounters with high school compadres…here’s to Burnaby!

Stay tuned kids, my Tales from Suburbia have only just begun!

…and wait, where’s the closest 7-11? I feel like a Slurpee.