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Real estate is emotional. Why? Because a home is more than walls and a roof, it’s a container for our lives, our families, our communities. As part of an occasional series, we’ve asked local writers to share their stories on real estate and housing.

Like me, the building I live in is getting on in years. It is clear to any observer that we are roughly the same age. I was born in 1963 a few blocks west of High Park; it was built in 1966 half a block north.

Mine is part of a trio of buildings inspired by Swiss French architect Le Corbusier’s mid-century “towers in the park.” Designed to provide much-needed urban density, they were intended to be more livable than your average nondescript apartment blocks, by maximizing green space, light and fresh air.

Until some years ago, the property boasted a fountain and benches to foster socializing; longtime residents report the grounds were full of people on summer evenings. Nowadays, apart from the outdoor pool, there is nowhere to congregate, outdoors or indoors — yet a sense of community stubbornly remains.

Apartment buildings, like residential streets, have their own unique culture. The unspoken etiquette here is to say hello in the laundry room, to hold open doors, and to offer each other free stuff on our group Facebook page.

A few people are jerks, of course. There will always be those among us who toss butts and beer cans off their balconies. But most of the residents appreciate the three patient superintendent couples who do their best to keep each building looking decent.

It’s not easy — the flora in the humble gardens resemble Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, and the lawn is the colour of Dijon mustard from all the dog pee. The doormats are so frayed the supers repeatedly trim the edges with scissors to keep them looking tidy. When the hall carpets are steam cleaned, I marvel that the few remaining fibres aren’t sucked into the machine. But the supers take pride in their work, ensuring cleanliness, if not style.

The elevators are a polyglot — lots of Ukrainian and an increasing variety of other languages as well. Because the units were comparatively underpriced until recently, there are many middle-aged and older singles who can never afford to move, and an abundance of young couples. The biggest units have two bedrooms, so there aren’t a lot of kids, but some. The tweens have found each other and goof around outside the ground floor convenience store after school.

The pool is unheated and unglamorous, but a prized amenity nonetheless. My three-year-old granddaughter is delighted to store her pool noodle in my hall closet.

It’s a place where a small but helpful tenant committee sends emails reminding people of their rights whenever rent increase notices come around. People try to protect their neighbours, especially newcomers to Canada.

I’ve owned a few houses in the Junction, back when it was still grotty enough to be affordable. In retrospect, I should have rented out my last property, rather than selling it, before following my foolish heart to a new address. When that romance blew up and my arts business failed, I still would have had a patch of real estate to call my own. As it was, I bounced around for a while, searching for adequate esthetics, airiness, comfort and community within my budget.

As a late-blooming Canadian writer who is neither Margaret Atwood nor Linwood Barclay, renting is my future. I cannot budge, nor do I want to. For all its shabbiness, it really is a good apartment. It’s solid and safe, on the subway line and three minutes from the incredible oasis that is High Park.

I’ve lived here for six years, sliding in just under the wire, before rents shot up. I pay $1,753 for a two-bedroom with two big balconies. One faces west, where my veggie garden flourishes in full sun, and the other faces north, where I read in the shade and watch the sunset. I can just see the lake to the south. Out my living room windows is a wall of towers — rentals, condos and social housing mixed together. I choose to perceive it as sophisticated, like a Manhattan view.

From my reading chaise, the landscape is nice old houses surrounded by beautiful old trees. The square footage of my apartment is easily double that of a new build and the ceiling has vintage stucco swirls. Another quaint retro touch: the elevator goes from the 12th floor to the 14th, a throwback to the triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13) that was considered mainstream in the 20th century, and lingers in hotels to this day.

I needed a second bedroom when I moved in, but my nest is empty now. There would be no point in paying more in today’s surging rental market to downsize, so I can either enjoy the luxury of an office/studio or monetize the spare room, depending on my cash flow. At present, I am sharing my space with a very recent refugee. Our arrangement helps me make ends meet, and gives him a kick-start to his new life in Canada.

My neighbours and I worry for those who have moved into the new towers that have begun to pop up, where there are communal barbecues and everything is shiny, but the units are tiny and rent controls do not apply. Prices will skyrocket and these renters will be defenceless.

Proposed development for my area would infill virtually every open space and cut down much-needed mature trees, leaving Le Corbusier’s modernist vision in the rubble. I’m all for density, but every apartment-dweller — and every community — needs the modest luxury of access to the outdoors to thrive.

My plan is to keep aging in place, apace with my mid-century tower.

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