July 12, 2013

Tales From Suburbia: A Tourist, A Stranger, A Wine Drinker

There’s something about living on the outskirts of your own city that make you an instantaneous tourist the moment you step foot upon its pavement again. While I’ve been commuting into Vancouver on a daily, either to work or to meet with friends, today I felt as though I was rediscovering aspects of Vancouver to which I’d turned a blind eye in recent years. Perhaps I was simply too caught up in the aforementioned routine I’d found myself in, no time to explore, or too tired to make the effort.

Stepping out of work late this afternoon, I found myself wandering into a bizarre locale, one I’d previously described simply as a ghost town, also known as the Olympic Village. Hugging the south side of False Creek, the overpriced development set up initially to house Olympic athletes, coaches, and organizers alike, found its proceeding inhabitants angry. Complaints of faulty construction resulting in cracks, leaks, and bedrooms so small that one couldn’t even close the door of their room when a bed was within its perimeters, led to a class action law suit. These issues, and legalities aside, I always felt there was something missing on this plot of land, even with its undeniable appeal, view of the mountainous skyline and all. A certain “Je ne sais quoi,” as one would have it.

Today, I opened my eyes to a new perspective; I chose to ignore the incessant mundane architecture, the wealthy yoga junkies, and the eeriness of the often grey and dreary streets of the development. The sun was shining, after all. Stopping by Legacy, my favourite new liquor store (because yes, rumours are true, they have points!) and grabbing a road pop, I decided to walk along the seawall to Granville Island.

I found myself a little secret hideaway not far from my starting point. But fret not, I’m not so naive as to think that it’s a secret, and I didn’t find myself there alone after all. A bird sanctuary that overlooks False Creek, and in viewing distance opposite the casino, I sat upon some rocks drinking a cider and having a smoke. I wondered why on a day like today, someone would rather paddle strenuously by kayak, rather than stare upon the rippling beauty of the waters, with a cold drink in hand. Then again, I was never really the outdoorsy type. I did try kayaking once, and that’s a whole other story, but I’ll let you know, I killed it.

Mere seconds into my first sip, a tall shirtless man with but a few teeth left to his name introduced himself and asked if he could take a seat. Cameron weighed about 120 pounds, had a farmers tan, wore baggy black pants held to his body only by tightening his belt on the very last loop, an awkward lump of fabric pulled together just above his tailbone, and came with an accomplice: Josh. Josh wore camouflage pants, a rock shirt with a logo that I couldn’t quite decipher, eyes protected by wrap around sunglasses, and his hair slicked back like a greaser. After suggesting I seriously consider some dental floss patchwork additions to my denim vest, Josh asked me if I was into metal. Because, apparently, my vest, “Is so metal.”

It wasn’t long before the boys broke into banter. Cameron, a self-proclaimed “scavenger” had grown up in the neighbourhood but had found himself wandering the streets of Vancouver without a map or a plan since he stepped foot on the Downtown Eastside 14 years ago. There was a story about a girl named Tammy, who’d gotten them into trouble with the cops after trying to smoke crack on the Aquabus, and later the city bus. I told him it was understandable, and that perhaps, smoking crack anywhere was probably a bad idea. He agreed. He free-styled a bit, something about “A hook under your chin” and maybe a lewd description of his cock in your mother’s mouth. Then he contemplated why a friend had pointed out that he calls girls “dude,” yet he only ever called me “young lady.” He also asked me to guess his age, to which I replied, “You already told me you were 34, so my guess would probably be biased.” Following a chuckle, he said he was happy to be alive. And Josh? I guessed he was 29, but I was way off — perhaps the shades threw me off. The 21 year old smirked, almost as if he was glad I’d guessed he was older than a recent teenager.

The two burst into an a capella rendition of Nirvana’s “All Apologies,” and soon enough, we united in three-part harmony (if you could call it that), singing, “Everyone is gay!” And so we were. I wished them a wonderful evening, to which they graciously replied that with the blessing of a pretty lady like myself, they’d have a better chance at one after all. Who ever said not talk to strangers?

And so I wandered off, along the seawall, stopped in my tracks by an orange and blue polka-dot piano perched just below the Cambie Street bridge. I stopped to watch a man play. He gave me the rundown of the piano as an office building, where the pinky was a CEO, and the rest of the fingers were the workers. I got lost somewhere along the analogy, when every other finger was a room, when he introduced the concept of different floors…but he was sweet to break it down in his own way. Running late to meet my family at Granville Island, I thanked him and hopped on the Aquabus and sailed into the sea…at least for a few minutes. And here I am again, in Burnaby, listening to the skytrain go by, thinking,”Hey, there’s a real nice bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge!”