Investing in the possibility of a transformation.

It's been three months since I set up here in Chinatown. Every city has one, and ours is on the cusp of something big.

Remember three years ago, after those art galleries joined the collection of nickel-and-dime novelty shops in the Chun King Court pedestrian mall? Los Angeles magazine told us it was "a surprising new hotspot."

I found it hard to believe, too, but I've seen neighborhoods change. In Manhattan I lived in the meatpacking district when it was a gritty neighborhood of bloody cattle parts, transvestite prostitutes and all-night sex clubs. Today it is the home to million-dollar apartments and trendy clothing boutiques. When I moved to L.A. and settled in Venice, it was edgy and affordable. But times change. You have to change with them.

I joined the Chinatown encampment in March, buying a tall, mildly unattractive duplex on Grand Avenue. It's not paradise, like the little bungalow I'd rented in Venice, but that place costs $1 million now. I got this building for less than half that price.

For the last three decades it was the rented home of two Chinese brothers and their families. For me--for us--this is retirement. This is business. Good business. I beat five buyers out in the deal and the day after I signed the loan papers, I was offered $25,000 to walk away. I stayed.

Sure, I am 15 miles from the beach and only get those cold ocean breezes when a thick, day-long marine layer socks in Santa Monica. But now I am just north of downtown, a short stroll from some of the city's premiere attractions: the Walt Disney Concert Hall, MOCA and the much-hyped Grand Avenue Redevelopment Project.

Conde Nast's exploratory guide says that the area is "fast becoming a core of urban chic," although I have my doubts. Would you consider groups of elderly women holding umbrellas against the sunlight and grungy restaurants that always have tables as chic?

Getting acquainted

As a newcomer to the neighborhood, you must be prepared for the stares. When I take the dog out for a morning walk, I usually get the whole sidewalk to myself. I don't think my neighbors like dogs much. They walk across the street, or hug the walls and scowl. That's why they watch, I think.

In general, it's been slow making connections, but I'm making progress. Early on, a neighbor came by. I was taking a break from patching a wall and standing alone in the shell of an apartment. I had torn everything out to fight off the persistent odor of 25 years of neglect--the cabinets, the flooring, the sinks, the fixtures, the appliances--but still there was a persistent odor to the place that I could not fight off.

I watched her with a kind of excitement as she climbed, hunched over in a kind of frail determination, and held an umbrella open against the beautiful spring sun. She was the first one to cross over. I was about to make my first contact with the locals. As she made her way to the door, I checked to see that I had some water to offer. She walked in, taking no notice of me in the room and made her way along the bare concrete floor. I stood silent for a few seconds, smiling awkwardly until I was sure that she had no plans to say a word.

"Can I help you?" I asked as she turned back toward the door.

She smiled dimly and then left back down the stairs.

Since then, I have learned who to speak to. Like my tenant, the adult son of an elderly couple. The other day he was hacking away at the side of the oven I had set out as trash. Besides him and the filthy old stove were its various metal pieces scattered about the pavement, rusted, oxidized and barely usable. I invited him into the apartment--now cleaner, shinier, with new floors, lighting and a fresh new smell.

"Oh, it looks very nice in here now," he said as he looked around. "I can see you are a rich man with a taste for the high life. You are Italian, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Italians are smart people," he said. "The Mafia. Very smart, Mafia people."

"Thank you," I said. It felt like a hopeful--if tiny--step toward a common future. "But we--well, we don't really have those kind of connections."

"Oh," he said, as he turned back to the pile of trash. "Hey, are you going to throw out that sink? I'd like to have it if you are. It is better than the one we have. Do you mind?"

I shook my head and turned back to the door, but he called out before I went in.

"Excuse me!" I turned to see him holding a silver bar over his head. "Are you throwing out this shower rod?"

A good investment

No, it's not easy. The closest supermarket is two miles away in Silver Lake, but as more folks arrive there will be reason to bring one closer. Until then, we have to import our Gruyere cheeses, check out the downtown public library for its vast selection of DVDs and take refuge on the rooftop of the Standard, where they charge $20 for an overpriced, watered-down drink (and treat you like dirt in the process).

Just the other day I made some real forays into the community and it gives me hope. I met a Chinese, middle-aged man and, unlike most of his neighbors, he came with a beaming smile. We chatted for a bit about nothing much, and then he pulled me in close and lowered his voice. He glanced over at the two elderly gentlemen who were out for their nightly silent smoke, backs rigid straight against the chain link fence in the alley, eyes peering out into nothing.

"Let me tell you, you make good investment," he said, letting the word "good" linger long enough to make it seem almost like the note of a song. "In five year time this whole place like Fifth Avenue, New York City," he said, sweeping his arm left and right before walking off.

As he walked away he smiled and said a little more loudly: "Fifth Avenue New York City!"

So don't wait too long before you come. You are coming, right?

Robert La Franco is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer covering media, technology and culture.