Living in the West End is like living in a human fishbowl. If you’ve ever lived in that stacked and packed Vancouver neighbourhood and you keep your curtains open (not a euphemism), you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. You quickly discover that apartment living in the West End is basically a cross between Rear Window and Studio 54. Everyone peeps on everyone else.
I was fully aware that my neighbours were casting glances into my domain, and I was okay with that, because I had nothing to hide and quite frankly didn’t really care what anyone saw, not that I was ever doing much beyond typing at the computer or playing records. If I ever spotted someone from across the way taking a prolonged gander, I’d give a friendly wave, which usually sent them diving for cover.
The first West End apartment I lived in was on the sixth floor at Nicola and Burnaby, with a spectacular view of the ocean, the mountains… and the interior of hundreds of other apartments surrounding me on all sides. I never went out of my way to look, but here’s a tip: if your blinds are up, your lights are on, and it’s dark outside, we can see everything.
And man, did I see (and hear) everything.
There was the couple who liked to make out on their living room rug while their pet boa constrictor slithered all over them, some sort of Adam and Eve kink, I assumed. There was the naked man who was constantly feeding the pigeons (again, not a euphemism) gathered on his windowsill, and the woman who would watch Judge Judy marathons at full volume all night long, every night of the summer, windows wide open. Every morning I woke up feeling scolded and guilty.
The next West End apartment I lived in was on the second floor on Beach Avenue, where you quickly get used to massive events like the Pride Parade, the Vancouver Marathon and the fireworks shutting down the street and taking over the resort-like neighbourhood. One hungover Sunday morning I awoke to the Sun Run pounding by. I stumbled out onto my deck in my boxer shorts to watch for a few minutes, absent-mindedly giving myself a morning scratch, before heading in for breakfast. Later that day, I received a furious voicemail from a friend, who screamed at me that his wife was a participant, and she was horrified to witness me pleasuring myself to the Sun Run. I couldn’t convince either of them that it was simply a morning itch that needing scratching and I was in fact not turned on by the sight of 60,000 people staggering past in too-tight jogging shorts.
The final curtain call on my West End Truman Show lifestyle came crashing down when my then-girlfriend-now-wife moved in and immediately shuttered the place. She couldn’t believe how “exposed” we were to every other apartment around us. I told her I liked the view. She called me a “voyeur”. I replied, “Do you see a beaver hat and a paddle?” For keeping the blinds open, she called me an exhibitionist. I told her that I had never worked a day in my life at the PNE. I explained that I was simply living the life of a West Ender, and that I was okay with that. We now (happily) live on the very furthest eastern edge of the city, as far away as you can get from Denman and Davie, but I’ll always fondly remember the explosion of humanity that was the view from the West End fishbowl.
