I’m house sitting. It’s a thing I like to do from time to time, in part to be a good neighbour, in part because it’s an opportunity to inhabit another world, just for a few days.

When I say I’m house sitting I mean it literally. This isn’t a condo, or an apartment. It’s not even a carved up house with a basement suite. It’s a whole house. One family lives here: a mom, a dad and two little girls. There is a big backyard with a trampoline, an amazing garden and a small menagerie. As I write this, I’m watching chickens scratch around for grubs and make a rather charming mess of the flowerbeds. The cat and the dog are taking turns gleefully stalking summer flies.

article continues below

It’s picture perfect. A scene so outwardly tranquil I can’t help but notice my heart pounding at a deafening volume. I want this. So badly it hurts. And that’s disappointing. For all the work I’ve done to temper my expectations and accept the trade-offs of living in Vancouver; for all the writing and espousing I’ve done on being happy with only part of a house; on being a renter; on pointing out the positives and potential in shared living situations; for all the ways I know the future of this city depends on moving swiftly and efficiently to more dense, multifamily neighbourhoods, a house, a whole house, just feels like a real home to me.

I guess it makes sense. I grew up in a house, like most people my age. And as I get further into my 30s the urge to nest, settle, and really build something of my own becomes exponentially stronger. I find myself wanting a house in a way I never have before. I walk around town sighing at For Sale signs and watching people flock into open houses with a mix of envy and awe. How are they so different from me that this is a possibility for them? Where have I gone wrong in my life choices? It’s a slippery slope, a downward spiral of self-pity.

As far as Vancouver renters go, I have it really great. I get along with my landlords and my upstairs neighbour, and my rent is incredibly reasonable. My roommate is great, meaning he’s barely ever home. I have a dishwasher, free laundry, and access to a yard where I’ve planted my own little garden. But I’m always cognizant of the fact that my home isn’t really mine. I don’t really feel like I can put down roots.

There’s something about the possibility of being able to paint the walls whatever colour I want, to retile the backsplash, even to spend my weekends mired in home repairs that pulls at something deep in my soul. I desperately want a cat, which isn’t allowed, and maybe one day work up to chickens. I want to play music and sing in the evenings without worrying I’ll wake the toddler sleeping upstairs. Knowing I won’t, can’t, and probably will never have that as long as I stay in Vancouver triggers a feeling I can only describe as grief. Frankly, it’s caught me entirely off-guard. But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

Whenever I write about issues of density or the tradeoffs we all need to make in order to make Vancouver livable, the same aspirational stories arise. We need to look to Europe, Asia, New York City as examples of places where raising children in apartments and renting for life is the rule rather than the exception. The difference is we are not a New York, a Paris, or a Hong Kong. We don’t have generations of multifamily dwellings under our belts to draw upon. Our city is not built around the concept of dense public hubs and we don’t yet have the kind of social tolerance for things that go along with that: noise, limited space, shared amenities.

I think we’ll get there eventually. We have to. But the learning curve is steep. Right now, we are not on even keel, not even close. There is a stark contrast between those who, for whatever reason, have been able to achieve the idealized norm society promised would be in reach for most of us, and those who are dealing with the fact that it isn’t. As part of the latter category, I feel like I’m watching the end of this era longingly from across the street, next door, and around the corner. The house I am staying in is about five blocks from where I live, but it might as well be another universe. That reality comes with some emotional baggage I don’t really know how to process. I guess just chalk it up to the growing pains of a growing city. But boy, does it smart.

Jessica.Barrett@gmail.com

@Jm_barrett