Day 16 – 17 : Vancouver – “Today is my birthday.”
The flight from Toronto to Vancouver is unremarkable. I say this purely because, sitting here in New Zealand trying to recall it brings up a blank, so it must have been event free. We touchdown late in the evening and within 15 minutes we’ve been accosted by one of Vancouver’s legendary homeless elite.
There are numerous rumours as to why Vancouver has a homeless problem. The most fanciful tall tale (and hence probably specious to say the least) is that the city shut down its mental asylums and ushered the ex-inmates out on to the streets like spent barflies into the night without a care in the world. I can’t confirm this juicy rumour, but I can say from witnessing the glassed-over stares and demented gaits of some of the mendicants I encounter – it sure does seem plausible.
Our first bum-liaison happens as we walk through the dim streets of the East side attempting to ascertain which way is up and which is down. “Are you looking for the hostel?” he asks, after momentarily passing us and then swinging around in a grand display of hospitality. “Eh, yeah …” I say, hard to pull off “We’re actually going to see the symphony” while carrying 20kg of luggage like a snail and looking like we’ve just escaped a nut-house ourselves. Sheila, her mind obviously not dulled by the taxing flight like mine, chimes in “No, we’re not.” But he’s witnessed his opening and he jams his well-worn foot into it. He lavishes praise upon us, extolling my luscious hair and the beautiful lady on my arm. The second half I can believe but I look like I’ve been dragged through a forest screaming so such commendations are kowtowing to say the last. I mumble some lacklustre excuse but he’s already moving on, toward his next mark.
Vancouver skyline from Stanley Park
When we manage to find food a couple of hours later, another bum will have stuck his head into the restaurant window in search of change (or pizza) while another inquires about cigarettes on the way home. We will have been in the city a grand total of about two hours at this point. And the streets are practically empty. It’s not like we’re seeking out hot-spots of activity where the homeless cleverly would congregate.
For us, Vancouver was always going to be a whistle-stop layover; literally one full day and two nights to break up the Canadian leg of the trip before a few days in Hawaii. Neither of us had any great desire to see the city, though I did profess some passing intrigue into seeing the city one of my favourite authors, William Gibson, calls home. Gibson: author, futurist, possible draft dodger, his words have confounded and enthralled me for years and, by the time this journey is over, I will have read everything he has ever written. Even the short story material.
For the uninitiated, Gibson may have (or may not have – depends on which doctrine you espouse) created the cyberpunk genre. He also coined the phrase cyberspace and was one of the first (if not the first then at least the most descriptive) to envision what the Internet would look like. Cyberpunk, a sub-section of science fiction, is less about space-ships and aliens, and more about what our society will be like in the coming decades. As a gadget whore and someone with at least a passing interest in what makes people tick, reading about bizarre and newfangled technology and its affect on human culture has always been a guilty pleasure. Considering Gibson’s musings are quite dystopian by nature, I was curious to see what the city such a man calls home was like. Having experienced it for the tersest of moments, I’m beginning to see what the source of this pessimism toward the human race might be.
Big open spaces. Bridges. What more could you want?
This might be a tad unfair considering we encounter something in Vancouver of which we have not seen in many days. Clouds. There’s even a hint of moisture in air as we walk the streets of what is obviously quite the maritime of cities with its giant port stacked with ships and boats of various sizes, holding off the onslaught of the ocean beyond. So I will admit that any place will invariably look better when the sun is shining and in Vancouver, it’s not.
We’re staying in the St. Clair hostel which already gets off to a poor start in my book by posting a note on the door requiring us to ring up before access can be granted. What if we didn’t have a phone charged? Is that a “7” or a “4”? Just how rough an area are we staying in so that the door to the hostel must be barred shut after 9pm?
After a couple of unsuccessful attempts (should we include the international prefix?) Sheila manages to connect to someone inside and we venture up into the lobby area. We’re greeted by a helpful English gent whose name I forget the second he says it, my mind dutifully keeping my body upright. But that’s it; higher cognitive operations such as facial recognition and name recall are out of the question. Instead I decide to christen him “RICHARD!” in honour of the street we are staying on. He’s a peculiar chap with long lank hair, hawk-like features and a slow British droll. He informs us that he’s been travelling since January, originally hails from Brighton and that it’s his birthday today – like I give a shit. I wish him a happy birthday anyway and immediately recoil at the absurdness of the whole scenario. He takes our details and name recognition of his own kicks into overdrive. He asks if I’m related to Johnny Cash, a question I get asked about once a week when I’m seeking out new company. I humour him and say “Yes, distantly.” which might be true, but was simply the reply I chose because it seemed a little direct and standoffish to just state: “No, you pleb.” Maybe I should have just gone with “I don’t know”, but I was tired and operating on a low caffeine reserve with the promise of a bed somewhere at the end of this day. It easily adds another whole minute to an already painful conversation. In future, I remind myself to categorically state I’m not related to anyone. Famous or otherwise.
The room is simple and comes with the stupidest designed taps I’ve ever come across. So stupid that I insist they’re broken and tell Richard who, despite my assurances that it can wait until the next day, insists on moving us to another room with running water. Somewhere from the time he informs us that we’re room-hopping to the time it takes him to put the bins out, it obviously dawns on him what my issue with the plumbing actually is and he comes back all goofy to show us how to use the puzzling taps in question. He tells me not to fret, and how he too was stumped by them when he first arrived. Then why aren’t you telling people about how bloody stupid they are when they enter the rooms straight off, Richard?!
We venture out into the quiet night in search of victuals of any description. Vancouver appears disserted. Nothing like Toronto or Montréal with their metropolitan and bohemian scenes respectively, vibrant with an eclectic range of misfits and curiosities. In contrast, Vancouver appears sad; somewhat beaten down and grey; a dour reflection of the vast Pacific ocean to its port. A persistent gloom, sitting dankly like in visible canopy, envelops the streets we scurry down, vainly in search on any restaurant that serves food and not a beating.
Fatigue settles our decision and we enter a small pizzeria. Greeted by a proprietor who can’t stop smiling (I’m thinking goofballs), he informs us that it will be at least forty-five minutes before the pies will arrive. He’s not wrong about the delay but at least he counters the inconvenience by apologising profusely in a strange doped out manner whenever he orbits around our table’s area. We’re the only customers in the place. The only other people about are some other stoned or drunk people on skateboards, loitering outside the restaurant with nothing better to do than appear edgy and intoxicated. It’s one of these fruit-cakes that pokes their head in looking for change or whatnot while I await my pizza. Any pizza. Just serve me something before I fall asleep. He looks shit-faced and I’m pretty sure even in my jaded state I could make him eat the skateboard. I look away without deigning to reply.
We survive the pizza experience and what amounts to the semblance of sleep in the hostel. The next day I get a better look at the place and I’m glad we’re not here for much longer. It’s basically a rundown tower, spiralling upwards with small rooms sprouting like turrets off windy landings with gangways decorated in a consistent nautical theme. Posters inform me that a certain liner stops in France before going on to New York. What it’s doing on the west coast of North America, I have no idea.
This is exactly the spot where Sheila ran into her old friend.
The one full day we spend in Vancouver we mosey down to Stanley Park, a pleasant coastal outcropping that juts out into the Pacific and is circumvented by a 10km scenic track. We walk the extent of the ring-road after stocking up on muffins and other savoury treats. The sky, ominously the colour of hammered silver, holds back the threat of rain and we enjoy a leisurely preamble in the chilly parkland. The bay is constantly on our left as we pass joggers and cyclists out for some lunchtime exercise and I’m hit with pangs of being somewhat unfair on Vancouver as, admittedly, I’ve seen very little of it. I almost feel obliged to say that Stanley park, with its gaggle of anchored ships perched near the horizon like watchful gulls and towering iron bridges spanning overhead connecting the peninsula to the rest of the city, is well worth the visit – just in case any Vancouverians out there think I’m banging on their city for little to no reason.
In a strange twist of coincidence, Sheila runs into an old school-friend she’s seen once in about ten years. What are the chances? I spend the next half an hour trying to work it out; idly contemplating all the chance encounters we miss because one of the two stops to tie a shoe or leaves the house ten minutes later than normal.
During our walk a white-bellied seal surfaces beside us and follows for a couple of kilometres, playfully twisting and somersaulting near the surface of the still bay waters, always ducking beneath the waves whenever Sheila manages to get her camera out and point it in his direction. By the time we’ve passed the half-way mark and start to head back to the city on the other side of the park, the sun is out and small planes are taking off from the water, iridescent now with the sun scattering on its surface. We take in the harbour area of Vancouver overlooking the bay and Stanley Park and it’s easily a more idyllic view in more pleasant weather.
The official title of this piece is "Girl in a wetsuit". Obviously.
We ramble back into the city’s heart and pick a restaurant at random. It turns out to be one of the better meals of the trip so far and we dine on Italian cusine in a low-lit room. It’s more expensive than our usual fare (you can’t get much more low-key than Burger King) but it’s worth it. We travel back to the hostel as night starts to creep its way back into the city as, mindful of the weirdos we encountered the night before, I’m eager to get back before pounced upon by the dispossessed or other random eccentrics. Like the guy I saw collecting cigarette butts from the streets, obviously in a quest to fuse together some sort of super-rolly to fuel his nicotine addiction.
We climb back into the hostel-tower and prepare for more travel tomorrow. Hawaii beckons.
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