My suburb’s so daggy, our local shops are known as the ‘Square of Despair’

The first apartment my husband and I ever lived in together was a tiny one-bedroom apartment near the KFC in Thornbury. We’d only been there a few months when our friends Alex and Alex – yes, really – moved into the identical apartment building next door. Our apartments were carbon copies; going over to their place felt a bit like being in the Twilight Zone. Eventually, the Alexes moved on to a townhouse in Brunswick West.

My partner and I are both transplants from interstate; though we’d been in Melbourne a few years and knew our way around Sydney Road – we basically lived in our Dejour jeans – Brunswick West had never been on our radar. When we went “out their way” for their housewarming party, riding the 58 tram through the parkland and out past the zoo, it felt like we were heading to the end of the line in the middle of nowhere. (Of course, the 58 does continue to “West Coburg”, which we later learned wasn’t a real suburb.)

A couple of years and dodgy rentals later, it was our turn to pack our bags for Brunny West, a street away from the Alexes. Now, it’s hard to imagine living anywhere else.

There’s a small-town community feel in Brunswick West that’s harder to find in other inner suburbs. The distance between Sydney Road and Melville Road is not great, but it’s far enough for us to remain undisturbed by all the goings-on over there.

It’s a perfect setup; close enough to walk home from Eddy Castle after a beer, far enough away that everyone forgets about us. If Brunswick East is the yuppie, apartment-dwelling sibling of the cooler, grungier Brunswick, Brunswick West is the older sister: long past caring what anyone thinks about her, a bit daggy, maybe a bit too excited about her new worm farm. (Or maybe that’s just me.)

We’re where all the real punks live; punks with really great veggie gardens, who spend their free time knitting jumpers for their rescue greyhounds. Though, while you’d think we’d be lumped in with Brunswick by everyone else, it’s more often the reverse: locals here are often hazy on the boundary where we end, and Brunswick begins. Technically, Gillon Oval and Gilpin Park don’t belong to us, but to longtime West Brunswegians, pretty much anything this side of Sydney Road is ours.

We’re out of the way a bit, a mostly residential suburb with nothing particularly in the way of office buildings or universities. Our shopping centre is Union Square, which almost feels like it shouldn’t count. Known fondly to locals as the Square of Despair for its retro, neglected vibe and horrific public toilet, it features a Coles, some takeout places, a dollar store, a tobacconist and little else.

Melville Road is our beating heart, with businesses scattered along it, mostly hairdressers, cafes, pharmacies and panel beaters. The people who frequent our businesses are mostly locals – or tradies in hi-vis, parking outside Mr Truong’s and eating banh mi in their utes at lunchtime. The pace is slower.

Yes, we’re becoming more gentrified. About 46 per cent of residents here rent (well over the city’s average of 29 per cent) and our hunt for an affordable rental in the area was significantly more stressful in 2022 than it had been only six years earlier. But there’s a thriving Greek and Italian population and the nonnas are still out in force. And while a couple of trendier fish and chippies have opened up since we moved here, you still can’t go past Con’s Fish and Chips, where the only thing better than the potato scallops (sorry, potato cakes – you can take the girl out of Brisbane, etc) is the service.

Whenever anyone came out our way, we’d take them to John Gorilla (now O.X Cafe) for brunch. It was a Brunswick West institution: the food was great, and Jo, the owner, made everyone feel like family. After our baby was born, we’d collapse, exhausted, in a corner out the back somewhere, and Jo would appear, whisking baby Tully away to help her wait tables while we drowned ourselves in oat lattes.

Cuppo also has a special place in our hearts; they do the suburb’s best coffee, and there’s always something cool to unearth at C-Mart, Cuppo’s little shop of treasures. I have a writing studio in their warren of artists’ studios, which includes a florist, tattoo artists, designers and a dog groomer.

Our rental house served us well for a long time – it saw us through various housemates, the adoption of a second rescue mutt and several lockdowns. We both turned 30 in that house and got married in the backyard.

Our home had problems though; the cracks were ridiculous and it was deemed structurally unsound – though for some reason, they let us keep living in it. When the earthquake hit a few years back, I called the Alexes to ask if they’d just felt something, unsure if it really was an earthquake or our house was finally coming down on us. On three separate occasions, we woke up with plaster in our hair. When I found out I was pregnant, we figured it was probably time to call it.

Our new place is the only home our son has known. If we felt like locals before, having a kid cemented our status as bona fide West Brunswegians. Now, we’re experts on all the parks (they all need more shade) and daycares in the suburb.

Gentrification is changing things. Olive York Way may as well be its own suburb at this point, so vast is the sprawl of apartments there. My little writing studio at Cuppo entitles me to a discount on coffees there, which is good, because I almost choked when a new cafe charged me $8.30 for a large oat latte the other day.

But it’s still the same old Brunswick West we know and love. Because we do love it here. Once my kid’s asleep and his dad’s got the footy on, I love taking my book up the corner to Shabooh Shoobah and sitting there with a glass of red and some complimentary pretzels.

We love celebratory dinners at Cirelli’s, where they remember our son, no matter how long it’s been since our last visit. And when I catch the 58 tram home from the city at night, weaving through the parkland, out past the zoo, it still feels like I’m being transported into the middle of nowhere – in the best possible way.

Sian Campbell is a writer and PhD candidate at RMIT’s NonfictionLab.

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