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Travel

The Waste Coast: Clubbin' on Granville Street

Granville Street got a makeover, so we did too.

Once upon a time, when I was merely a 16-year-old suburban girl dying for rebellion, Vancouver's downtown Granville Street was a cool place to go. In that special three block stretch between Nelson and Davie, Granville Street was a dark, seedy place where even though I was underage I could get anything pierced, buy a glass pipe in the shape of an orchid and score a Ramones CD for under five dollars. It wasn't as "real" as the drug-infested Downtown Eastside, but when a homeless man threw garbage at me, I could yell profanities back and pretend I was untouchable. Granville was the perfect playground for us suburban girls. I'd take the bus back across the water to my safe little bubble of North Vancouver feeling cool, independent and completely off the radar of my parent's stifling rules.

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But Granville Street is no longer the unsavoury dreamland my wanna-be rebellious self once adored. About ten years ago, our city threw 20 million dollars to the revamping of Granville Street in preparation for the 2010 Winter Olympics. Granville got a complete make-over including a Sky Train line implanted below its main drag. Television screens were hung over department stores, granite bands and bollards were placed alongside custom benches, the already impressive amount of neon tripled and, maybe it was the crop of new trees the city plopped down, but suddenly Granville seemed a little bit cleaner. Despite all the efforts to make Granville beautiful, something very ugly started to grow too. We now call that monster "The Entertainment District".

Granville had always been classified as a place where night life happened, but the Olympic prep caused four blocks of Granville to reinvent itself as the most horrible club zone in Vancouver. It's probably no different than any other club district in any other city: bar fights, endless line-ups, no live music, girls in mini-skirts in the freezing Canadian cold, and aggressive peacocking jocks. But it is a different kind of crazy than the one I was used to on Vancouver's Downtown Eastside.

I decided I'd better get out of my too-cool East side bubble, doll up in a one-shoulder dress and dance my tits off on Granville - in the name of journalism, of course.

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Surprisingly, it was not hard to get a group of my girlfriend's to go clubbing with me. They were all a bit too excited about it. And even more surprisingly, it wasn't that hard to weasel our way onto a few of the major club's guest lists. A significant percentage of Vancouver's mainstream club life is now owned by a family called The Donnelly Group - most famous for a gang shooting that happened in one of their most high profile clubs, Loft Six, a few years back - and I happened to know a promoter who worked for them on the side.

We met at my apartment on Friday night to begin our transformations. The Granville Street "look" isn't glamorous or sexy, it's juvenile. Mostly because the people who frequent these clubs are 20-somethings from Vancouver's surrounding suburbs like Surrey, Richmond, or Burnaby, who still live at home.

Our first stop was Republic, a laughable "London-style" two floor club that I'd once watched my friends get kicked out of for stealing two bottles of Gin from behind the bar. I felt awkward in my platforms and mini-dress, but I strutted to the front of the guest list line with purpose. The lineup curled into the next line as my friend Kate checked our names. The tiny door girl with a head set and clip board winced and snapped, "Guest list ends at 10:30 pm, ladies. Sorry." It was only 11:05 pm and we thought we had arrived early. We moved onto the next club. The same story. Turns out that at most clubs on Granville Street, promoters give guest list spots to any Joe Schmoe who asks, but you have to arrive at 10:30 pm. I mean, who's even done their after-work nap at 10:30 pm?

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After battling for sidewalk space with both police men and drunks, we got to a club called Venue. I remember Venue when it was called Plaza. I went there once when I was seventeen and befriended some guy because he was wearing a Tiger Army shirt. That's how bad it sucked.

The guest list drama repeated, but Kate refused to let this one go. "We're clubbing and we're getting in," she declared through glazed eyes as she straightened her leopard collar.

We all watched as Kate hurled herself up to a bouncer who was old enough to be her father, pressing his shoulder lightly. He chatted back and she flirted harder than a desperate virgin at Mardi Gras. She was a magical actress. We watched in awe as the bouncer ignored the enormous line of Axe-wearing douche bags, smiled at Kate and then whispered to his co-worker.

Suddenly a man emerged with passes for us all.

Inside the club was packed and I felt old. Boys in bright coloured pants, bad shoes and costume gold literally pumped their fists. Everyone was screaming and falling into one another to the beat of a bowel-blasting sound system. Maya and Kate got right into the action, dancing themselves into any guy they saw. Being young, unaware and on your way to full-blown-douche-bag seems to be the Granville way. These guys live for the "downtown weekend"; the "circus" where they can unload all the aggression of their outer-city life and shit job by grinding up on a stranger or punching out a college kid. Maybe it's the Red Bull-vodka and cocaine combination but rubbing up against a girl and asking her if she has Facebook doesn't seem very promising.

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We did what every good club girl should do. We pounded back over-priced drinks and took over the highest dance floor. Maya led us all up onto a platform and, for the first time in my adult life, I felt idiotic on stage. My idea of dancing is whipping myself in vicious circles to Hole songs until I feel like I need another line. Sexy dancing? In heels? We danced like we dance and the girls on the platform slowly vacated.

Truth be told, we didn't last long. We didn't make any friends. We didn't order bottle service. We didn't get any numbers or Facebook profiles.

As we walked down the circus of Granville Street deflecting stranger's rants and invitations to "come party", I realized that this wasn't that different than my scene. We all have dress codes and expectations for a good time. Anyone can work the part, get in the party and fake it, but that's not the kind of thing that makes for a good time. Even though we didn't care while we fell into drunken strangers at Venue, my feet hurt from the shoes and my underwear was lodged up my ass. It reminded me of being a teenager trying to be something I wasn't, cruising up Granville Street desperately wanting to adapt to some kind of false rebellion with a nipple ring and my skimpy thong.

The next day, I got a text from Michelle telling me that we should have stayed on Granville Street. Which was weird because Michelle was the least likely member of the group to keep the party going anywhere, let alone Granville Street. Then, she linked me to an article saying that Shia LaBeouf got in a huge brawl on Granville that night, at the club we had planned to head to next. I laughed as I imagined Kate wandering obliviously up to the famous actor, spilling her whiskey on her leg while screaming over the music, "Yo, you on Facebook?" Then without waiting for an answer laughing to herself back to the bar.

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Photos by Kate Brown.