Allston: From lamentable to lovable

Allston's charms can sometimes be hidden under the neighborhood's annual traffic-clogging flood of arriving college students, at least to the casual observer. (Wendy Maeda/Globe Staff/file 2007)

I never wanted to move to Allston.

As an arrogant Boston University freshman attending apartment soirées with my older boyfriend, I snubbed my classmates who cruised the Gardner-Ashford-Pratt streets in search of Busch Light-flooded frat parties. You know, the kind where you pay five bucks for a cup at the door only to find that the keg's tapped? Or the kind where everyone is tearing through the plastic handles of some generic, throat-burning vodka, but the bottle of Knob Creek whiskey is still half-full? (True story.) I swore I'd never reside among the overzealous rats, crusting sidewalk vomit, shattered glass, and unchecked potholes.

And then, reluctantly, I moved here.

After a semester spent abroad in New Zealand, I needed a sublet in January 2007 and a convenient arrangement popped up smack-dab in the middle of the madness. Nights - particularly Thursday through Saturday - were filled with the cacophony of giddy screams, constant group chatter, obscenities that led to fights, and consequently, the sirens of cop cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. And let's not forget the uncomfortably frequent gunshots and occasional homicides, the strings of robberies, and having to turn three locks every night before going to sleep.

Despite all this, Allston and I eventually bowed to our undeniable chemistry. Somewhere along the line, my perception of this oddball neighborhood shifted, and I began to notice the pockets of treasure amid the trash.

With my bed pushed up against oversized bay windows overlooking the street, I'd watch spontaneous snowball fights in the winter and pick-up games of soccer and Frisbee in the spring.

One Sunday last fall, I woke up to a dozen or so college kids raking leaves, picking up post-weekend debris, and painting garbage barrels. I almost dismissed it as court-ordered community service. Turns out that the group, called Keep Allston Decent, was just trying to beautify our neighborhood and send a message to area residents that they, too, care about being connected to the community.

My senior year on Ashford Street felt more like glorified dorm life than had my bout with the actual dorm experience my freshman year. My (new) boyfriend lives across the street; my former track teammates live kitty-corner; and several friends live within a two-minute walk. Housemates sit on their stoops most evenings and barbecue. Neighbors hang out with neighbors. Musicians of all genres practice in basements, and many are so good that often I forgo iTunes and open my windows. Tonight, for example, a beautiful rendition of Chopin's "Fantaisie" kept me lulled for an hour.

After living here for a year and a half, I've graduated school and will be moving on in September. I used to tell friends that I couldn't wait to uproot from Ashford with its incessant noise and "anything goes" attitude. But as I started looking into other Boston neighborhoods, I felt more and more uneasy about severing myself from Allston. I'd found an obscure comfort in this place and an anchoring sense of home.

So many elements make it hard to leave. My huge bedroom, for one. The smell of grill smoke (or dumpster fires, whatever) in the summer. The tiny Asian ladies with funny hats picking through the trash to salvage cans, bottles, and glass. (Alternative recycling!) The legendary characters - living and deceased - who routinely have conversations with themselves and others. (R.I.P., Mr. Butch.) The fact that I can order a Portuguese crepe, peshwari naan, and dim sum all within the same Brighton Avenue block.

Sure, the crime rate is high and the homeless people rattling their shopping carts over the pavement cracks at 6 a.m. are frustrating. We're never surprised by anything here. Furniture defenestration? Just keep watch for plummeting televisions. Weekly fireworks displays? Explosions no longer make me flinch. Cops on a mission to break up parties? We outsmart them. Some of the time.

Admittedly, I am succumbing to a quiet South End apartment next month. Allston was phenomenal during college, but as a card-carrying member of the "real world," I might need to get some sleep now. I can't help feeling like a sell-out, though. The opulent brownstones east of Kenmore are classy, for sure, but the charm and quirk of my current home will be missed.

There is indeed a sadistic allure to living here as opposed to the ritzier, debatably safer, and more picturesque areas of town. Or, as Allston-based band Love In Stockholm soulfully explains in a tribute to our 'hood: "It's not pretty, but if you want to know the truth it's a lot better than living by the river, cause where they got a river, baby, we got a mean old train."