Chez Moi.

How old do you think it is?

Not too sure.

That one? 

Couldn't tell you either.  

This was the oft-repeated and rarely satisfying exchange between my parents and I on road-trips.  As a child, I had a relentless fascination with decrepit old buildings.  I wanted to know the age of every crumpled grey barn we passed, and the story of each tired-looking farmhouse.  Maybe they didn’t even have one, and maybe I just read too much Little House on the Prairie, but my love affair with old spaces has endured to this day.  Now, I get to live in one. 

It’s not an abandoned farmhouse with its windows smashed in, but it’s still pretty great.  Two weeks ago I moved into a century-old house in Strathcona, Vancouver’s oldest neighbourhood.  I ponder the history of my home every single day, and feel satisfied each time I open its yellow front door.    

There are three of us in the house, plus a dear scruffy dog named Marsou.  My bedroom is small but lovely, with dental crown molding and a window overlooking Pender Street.  From it I watch people on the sidewalk below, and in this way I’ve come to learn how eclectic this area is. 

I still want desperately to know who lived here first, and what the sidewalk looked like then, but for now I’m just happy.  Happy to be in a home with creaks and quirks, and a kitchen that Laura Ingalls Wilder would have been happy baking pies in.