So I married a man who lives in a neighbourhood that, for all intents and purposes, falls within the confines of the city of Nassau. Why this is unusual is hard to explain without going into a full history of Nassau and The Bahamas, but let’s just say that it’s the kind of neighbourhood that was built on the outskirts of town, and, like a sand castle at high tide, has been swallowed up by the municipality as time has passed.
It’s also the kind of neighbourhood that’s undergoing a little urban rejuvenation. When I attended the University of Toronto back in the 1980s, the areas around Huron Street between St. George and Spadina were undergoing the same kind of rejuvenation. The Annex, particularly, was up-and-coming, the kind of place that was ripe for the kind of real estate speculation that the Thatcher-Reagan economic revolution had opened up. This neighbourhood has the same feel, only the people buying houses round here are middle-class people with young families who want well-built homes for bargain prices.
The road behind us is normally a quiet one, with a few small exceptions. One of them is the fact that the man who owns the house across the street from our back wall is engaged in a long-term process of renovation and extension. He’s adding on to his house in his spare time, which means that he works weekends.
Add to that the fact that it’s winter, the breeze is fresh, and we’re sleeping with our windows open. (In the summer we have them closed — my husband is a firm believer in the conditioning of air.) So our alarm clock these past two mornings have been the whir of a circular saw and, today, the beeping of the horn of someone come with a delivery.
Oh, the joys.