Coffee Brake

18 October 2017 – Well, if they can talk about their Brake-fast menu, I can talk about my coffee brake…

I am in the Tandem Bike Café, having splish-sploshed my way around town for assorted reasons, and in the mood to reward myself for not whining — even to myself — about the rain.

See? Very wet.

Not the driving but relatively brief downpour I wrote about earlier, but the steady, determined kind of rain that you know can keep going for … oh … a week or so. As indeed is predicted.

But I am learning to be a Vancouverite. I am wearing my new Sorel rainboots, picked up at the local MEC (Mountain Equipment Co-op), and a rainproof jacket, and wielding a spacious umbrella.

At the moment I am wielding a steaming latte instead, peering over its froth to both sides of this shop’s dual identity.

Left rear = bike repair & sales. Right rear = rest of the café seating.

Click-thunk, go the sound effects, as a steady stream of customers come through the door.

“Hi Nicole, my usual…” says one young man, adding he has plenty of time because he has just missed his bus.

Next a woman who keeps her eyes focused on the front window as she orders a lemon loaf. Then, obviously thinking, Well, that’s a bit rude, explains: “Sorry, I’m watching for the bus…”

I’m seated by that front window, next to the goodies display case, so I hear all the chat.

So does the gnome.

Summer he props open the front door; rainy season, he stands guard with the space heater.

The legs behind him belong to the customer picking up his coffee & cinnamon bun order. And lingering, because Nicole & Sonia behind the counter are reading him excerpts from a book of short stories. “This guy just dropped it off, free,” says one of them. “His mother wrote it and he’s handing out copies. And look — this story, we’re supposed to fill in the blanks.”

So the three of them bend their heads to the challenge.

The next click-thunk announces a bike-repair customer, plus malfunctioning bike. He veers left, not right. The consultation begins.

I’m just gathering my belongings — stash my phone where rain can’t reach it, zip my jacket to the top, retrieve the umbrella — when yet another customer starts debating the characteristics of this particular rainfall. I listen. Of course I do! Vancouverites discuss rain like the connoisseurs they are, and I need to learn this stuff.

“I know it’s going on all week,” he says. “That’s normal! It’s just normal Vancouver rain.”

I look out the window before I head off. This is what normal rain looks like, I tell myself.

Where’s Lemon-Loaf Lady? The next bus has just arrived.

 

 

 

Boots

12 October 2017 – There we are, prancing along in our citified walking boots, and there they are.

Construction worker boots. Well-used & apparently abandoned, beneath a handsome bench next to the handsome landscaping around one of the new condo towers clustered at the north end of the Granville St. bridge.

The worker boots are just as appropriate as the bench, though, because new buildings are going up all the time.

Including this one!

I know. Upside-down and everything.

Meet Vancouver House-in-the making, a star project of the Bjarke Ingels Group (BIG), with condos above and retail below, the latter nicely scooped out to a 30-m. set-back from the bridge on/off ramps.

We go “Wow” and then our personal boots — worn by my Delightful Young Relation (DYR) & me — prance on.

It’s a day for discoveries. First the impossible-to-describe, very high-tech Fly Over Canada spectacle in Canada Place — thank you for the treat, DYR. Then from high- to low-tech, namely our boots on pavement as we walk south from Burrard Inlet to False Creek. Making discoveries as we go.

This outsized table & chairs in Mae and Lorne Brown Park, for example.

A confession. I know the bright-rust shrubs are that colour because they’re dead — but, still, even so, aren’t they pretty? Isn’t that green/rust contrast very pleasing to the eye?

But so is GRANtable, a madcap sculpture created by Pechet + Robb on commission from Parks & Rec for the City of Vancouver.

DYR lines it all up through a viewing aperture in the chair; I line him up, lining it up.

Plan A had been to catch a ferry once we hit False Creek (because I do love those ferries), but when we get there, we morph into Plan B instead. The weather is so appealing, and our boots are so made for walking … So we walk. Initially eastward on the north side of False Creek, which will in time take us around the curve to the south side (home turf for us both).

Still on the north side, a series of kiosks along the pathways, the words resonating — says an online page about False Creek art — with “the site’s natural and industrial history.”

I’m puzzled by some of the references, captivated by others. Somebody, please, tell me about that red caboose!

Almost to the stub end of False Creek now, approaching BC Place Stadium, and we gawk at the just-unveiled Parq [sic] Vancouver Casino.

Still finishing touches. Two ant-sized humans up there, see them?

One sitting on the roof, legs dangling; one partway up the façade, undoubtedly fitting something to something.

A casino, and a fine fit with the rust-by-design component of my recent R is for Rust post…

More rust soon after, this time rust-by-time, when I lean over DYR’s balcony for a bird’s eye view of The Flats — the industrial expanse just east of Main St., pretty well level with the end of False Creek.

And a nice contrast too, between the battered old building on the left, and the gussied up, be-muralled beauty on the right — but both of them equally workhorse, both of them warehouses.

I tuck down to water’s edge again, immediately behind the Telus World of Science building, to admire the curve of pilings at Creek-end, and the marine-life silhouettes glinting silver atop each one.

Westward now, along the south shore of the Creek. I’m approaching Hinge Park, my head full of fall and fall colours and fall odours and fall events.

I do not anticipate ice.

Great slabs of ice. Ice-as-art. Who would?

But there it is.

Oh, don’t even ask, I have no idea. No little signboard to explain what he’s up to, and no interaction by Ice Artist Guy with his mesmerized audience.

And they are indeed mesmerized. Especially Pretzel Woman.

After a bit, I smack myself upside the head, and walk on.

 

 

Reading in the Rain

1 October 2017 – First assignment, read this.

Oh good. Now that any lurking drones have buzzed off and we are all human together, let’s go read some art.

In the rain.

I first learned about “reading” visuals as well as text from listening in on art-director conversations. They wanted images to make sense, to be visually “readable,” at a specific distance or range of distances.

A billboard next to a busy expressway, for example, designed for passing motorists, has different readability criteria than a notice posted at a street corner for pedestrians to read as they wait for the lights to change.

Public art, ideally, will “read” at a range of distances, appropriate to each site and its work of art. Emilie Crewe, the young artist leading our tour of Burrard Corridor public art, uses Douglas Coupland’s Digital Orca as her first illustration of this principle.

There it is, leaping majestically and eternally at one waterfront corner of Jack Poole Plaza, today bathed in mist and rain. At this distance, it is one smooth graphic image. It reads beautifully, even from afar, even in the rain.

We move in, closer.

The work — as iconic as perhaps only a Vancouver native could hope to create — still reads, but differently. The aluminum cladding begins to assert its pixellated nature. The flowing curves break into craggy surfaces, each pixel dancing with its neighbours.

Emilie spins us around to Bon Voyage Plaza, another spatial subset within this same overall Convention Centre footprint. We’re about to read The Drop — a 65-foot polyurethane raindrop by Berlin’s Inges Idee, angled toward the harbour.

Today is the day for a raindrop.

 

Reads very well at a distance, and with the same power up close — even though, unlike Digital Orca, there’s no shape-shifting involved.

This is all great fun, despite the rain.

Hmmm. Maybe the fact I add that “despite” proves I am not yet truly Vancouverite. (As in, “Yes, it’s raining. And your point is …?”)

Next  up, a work of art that we get to read in the old-fashioned sense of the word. It is pure text — Lying on Top of a Building, the words wrapped around multiple floors of two sides of the Fairmont Pacific Rim Hotel.

I don’t photograph it this time, but if you’re curious, revisit my 22 June post, The Art of Quote-Unquote, to see and read (that word again) more about this 2008 installation by the British artist, Liam Gillick.

Then Emilie leads us to something wonderful, even more wonderful because I didn’t know it existed until she pointed it out.

At first, it’s not all that wonderful. Fine, I think, handsome set of axes and rectangles, very rectilinear and spare, OK-good.

Then Emilie adds, “Unfortunately, we’re here on a weekend, so it won’t be working.” Working? I ask myself, a thought bubble barely formed before Emilie bursts it with, “Oh! It is working! Somebody must be in the office today.”

So please look again. That far right low rectangle, resting on the horizontal, has just descended from higher up its vertical.

Each rectangle represents one elevator in Environment Canada’s Department of Fisheries and Oceans here at 401 Burrard Street. Every time someone takes an elevator, up or down, the corresponding rectangle makes the corresponding trip out here on the sculpture. Canadian Alan Storey calls the piece, Public Service / Private Step, and is that not the perfect title?

So I am charmed.

And equally charmed to visit another of his works, a sculpture called Broken Column (Pendulum), which dominates the multi-storey lobby of the HSBC building at 885 West Georgia.

I’ve seen it before, the massive (and motorized) pendulum swinging slowly and silently to and fro. Weekends, though, this one really is motionless.

Which allows me to appreciate the lines of the sculpture itself …

rather than sit entirely focused on & peacefully mesmerized by its motion.

Several more interim works, splish-splosh, and a grand finale in Robson Square. I have visited this space before, I’ve always really liked it — and I have never, until this moment, noticed Spring.

Not as in, a season of the year. Or, a coil. Or, a single dreadlock. Or even a Slinky-toy…

No. As in, Alan Chung Hung’s massive red steel sculpture that likes to pretend it supports the upper level of this public square.

Enjoy the coil, and please also notice the neat rectangular border of light grey. Today’s weather makes this an interactive piece: the light rectangle is dry, protected by upper-level beams from the rain that darkens the pavement, either side.

And while you’re busy noticing things, please peer into the murk, to the right rear of the sculpture. Yes! Vaguely humanoid shapes.

It’s a whole line-up of dancing fools — girls plus instructor, gyrating away to their music (kept respectfully low).

Isn’t this fine? Lots and lots of very permanent public art pieces, with  a passing moment of performance art thrown in.

Just because.

 

R is for Rust

28 September 2017 – Rust is on my mind, as I angle north/east-ish toward Dance House , this bright fall day, to discuss the volunteer communications project I’m about to begin.

Rust, a signature colour in nature each fall — and rust, a signature colour in metal, by time or design.

I see both, abundantly, in my zigzag travels along False Creek and then farther east to the trendifying old industrial area now home to Dance House, other creative organizations and, just this month, Emily Carr University as well.

First, as I hit 1st Avenue just west of Hinge Park, an example of rust-by-time.

I love the transformation of south-east False Creek from brownfield to green space — but I also love this battered survivor of the area’s industrial past. Toxic as it surely all was, it met the standards of the day and helped meet needs of the day.

And while that building has wrecking-ball written all over it, sections of old railway track right next door in Hinge Park will survive.

Rusty by time, but preserved by design, and rightly so. We need to honour the past.

Note, too, some companion rust-by-nature in the shrubbery, and just a glimpse, there in the middle-back, of my beloved “Rusty Sub.”

I round a corner.

More rusty leaves, to keep the sub company, and rushes turning tawny in the meandering little stream.

Then I’m down at Creek-side, right where Habitat Island juts into the water, and I start to laugh.

Looks like “R” has to slip-slide its way back up the dictionary from Rust, to Repose!

Goodness, he is so peaceful, chest rising/falling gently, relaxed in the still-warm afternoon sun. And, all around him, rust-by-nature in the shrubbery.

Lots more rust, all over the tree leaves that still half-obscure the Green Path signage. (Pedestrians this side; cyclists that.)

I’m almost at the end of False Creek now, right by The Village ferry dock, with its view of BC Place sports stadium on the north side and, to its left, a distinctly rusty-coloured building façade.

No ferry in sight at the moment, but I console myself with that bright red tug boat. I do love tug boats!

Still on 1st Avenue, just west of Main, and some more rust-by-design in the courtyard of a spiffy new condo complex.

Very minimalist, very appealing: the rich tones of the metal, the burble of the falling water, and sunshine & breeze teaming up to dance shadows on the wall.

On east I go, and I’m early for my appointment.

I wander on down to the cul-de-sac where East 1st Ave. does a dog-leg into a chain-metal fence along the cross-town train tracks.

Boxcars! Lovely rust-coloured boxcars!

With graffiti! (Bonus points)

See the young women sketching away down there, next to the inner fence right at the tracks? Students from Emily Carr next door, out on assignment. There are a dozen or more in the immediate vicinity, under the watchful eye of their man-bunn’d instructor, who circulates from one to the next, commenting as he deems appropriate.

And then I go meet Charlotte at Dance House, and we chat on the building green roof with its 180-degree view of the mountains, and we stroke a very insistent white cat as we talk — who assumes our adoration and so receives it, but that is another story — and finally I head south/west-ish back home.

Where, in an alley just east of Main, the letter “R” does another slip-slide and lands on the word “Retro.”

A wonderfully retro design, complete with the words “Todos borrachos aquí,” and … and don’t bother asking, I can’t explain it. No sign of a cantina, just an autobody shop.

But it’s fun.

 

A-Float with the Fishers

25 September 2017 – Lordy, I don’t even know what to call the thing, as I walk through the pretty-pretty archway and start down a distinctly grubby (OK, well-used) incline.

Wharf? Dock?

The archway spells out “Fisherman’s Wharf,” but what does it know? Looks like a whole other world down below. Boat after boat, each with a stall on the walkway and most with plastic tarps overhead.

I’m in Steveston Village, ‘way down on the South Arm of the Fraser River in Richmond. It has a long history as a centre for fishing and related occupations: boat-building, ship-building and, especially, canneries. In the 1890s it was home to a good half of the 45 canneries that then lined this river shoreline.

One cannery left, now a Parks Canada National Historic Site (Gulf of Georgia Cannery). No more ship or boat building.

But fishing? Oh yes.

So here I am on the float. For commercial fishers.  (That photo-opp archway, all set for tourist selfies, may still assign gender to the occupation, but the Steveston Harbour Authority knows better.)

I am in a happy state of pure ignorance. I no more understand this world than I would understand a souk in Marrakech, should I be plonked down in one.

So I have a wonderful time, just observing. I watch knowledgable customers ask their questions, make their choices …

and I listen to a woman, clearly as ignorant as I, stare at a fish and ask, in a voice of stunned disbelief, “What is that?”

“Dog fish,” is the laconic answer. She moves on.

Would she have been more impressed had she also been told that it looks like a teeny little shark because it is a teeny little shark? Squalus Acanthius, I later read online, one of the most abundant species of shark in the world.

But I don’t know this yet. So I too move on, and pay attention to the signs right there on the float.

I begin to realize just how much information we are being given.

Where they fish, for example, and how to reach them to talk about it.

And lots more information than that.

Stall after stall, the same data board, with every category filled in: name of the vessel, location fished, fish caught, when, harvesting method …

Many other signs too, ones not required by the authorities, to help us learn more, make good choices …

including good choices for the planet.

Along with all the hand-lettered signs, this official warning, up and down the float.

I blink. Are the Marine Mammals authorities serious? Never mind threatening me with a $100,000 fine, offer me that much instead, and you still couldn’t get me to go near a sea lion.

Boat names ring like a litany in my head. Silver Dragon, Ocean Odyssey, La-Barka, Autumn Venture, Norse Provider

I turn down another alley on the float, drawn by the crowd around one boat and its stall. They in turn have been drawn by this promise of a catch that nobody else has on offer:

I wriggle through, hip this way & elbow that, murmuring apologies as I go. I want to see the sea urchins! And I do.

The lady with dollar-bills in her hand is thinking how delicious they will be. I stand there thinking how beautiful they are.

No meeting of minds there, so I turn away.

And discover that, when it comes to foodstuffs, I am in perfect harmony with a pair of toddlers.

Back up the incline I go, to the line of waterfront shops.

Truth is, I don’t buy strawberry ice cream after all. Or even a latte. I order a fresh salmon burger — and it is good beyond your wildest imagining.

The New & the Known

18 September 2017 – And the becoming-known as well, all courtesy of my latest visit to Vancouver’s 22-Ha VanDusen Botanical Garden.

For example, I know the quote etched onto the Visitor Centre doors, the words of American naturalist John Muir: “When one tugs at a single thing in nature / he finds it attached to the rest of the world.”

But I hadn’t noticed, or had forgotten, the handsome trekking-poles that serve as door handles.

(Let’s all take a moment to honour the polite visitor on the other side, waiting for me to lower my camera before he approaches the doors.)

It’s a pretty fall day, I’m out for a walk, the VanDusen is half an hour or so from my place — off I go!

And on into the gardens, with one appreciative backward glance at the patio side, starting point for exploration, before I launch.

It’s to be a random walk, how can I lose?

I head through something Known, or at least familiar, i.e. the Eastern North America section. Then on to the relatively New, first via the wooden boardwalk over the Cypress Pond …

later through a grove of Giant Sequoias (so exotic to my eastern eyes) …

and in among Windmill Palms, seemingly scattered quite freely around.

Palms are not New. But seeing them right here in Canada, lying around outdoors and unprotected? Distinctly New.

Then into the Fern Dell, under a canopy of Douglas Fir, and full of both Known & New.

At the back, the Tasmanian Fern Tree — definitely New! Then lots of hedge fern, which maybe are New but look well-Known. And then, in front, all those Painted Lady Ferns. So very Known! And loved. I had lots in my Toronto garden, I am delighted to see my old friends.

Somewhere on the edge of one of the lawns, a bit of Vancouver / BC / VanDusen history — the Swedish Fountain.

So-named because a gift from the city’s Swedish Folk Society on the VanDusen’s opening day in 1975, with its bronze panels designed to reflect both BC’s pioneering industry and the Swedish homeland of the project’s prime mover. The panels now enclose a European ash tree, not a fountain, but the Swedish reference is not lost: in Norse mythology, the ash is Yggdrasil, the tree of life.

And life abounds, all around — in nature, and in that family in the background, the adults playing hide-and-seek with their squealing toddlers.

In the vicinity of the Cherry Grove, I pass the monument carved with winning entries for several years’-worth of the Haiku Invitational, associated with the yearly Cherry Blossom Festival.

Blurred by time, and hard to read! Visit the website, and read at leisure…

Along the edge of the Stone Garden, once the local reservoir (just as the VanDusen as a whole was once a golf course) …

and on past the Maze, guarded — and what could be more appropriate — by a Monkey Puzzle Tree. (Something else my eastern eyes still find wonderfully New and exotic.)

I, and many giddy bees, admire the flowering artichokes in a near-by bed …

I retreat, happily unstung, to sit on the bench in the Azalea Trail.

All this definitely in the Known category, from style of bench to azaleas & rhodos, to the call of chickadees in the trees.

And my final retreat, as by now you will have predicted, for a latte in the VanDusen’s café.

This post began with an inspiring quote, let it end with another inspiring quote — this one written in magic marker on the café mirror.

Oh all right, maybe “inspiring” is not the right word.

Choose your own adjective.

The Crab & the Golf Ball

15 September 2017 – For just one giddy moment, I want you to imagine a crab playing golf.

Now you must relinquish that image.

There is no golf ball in today’s adventure. Even though Frances instructs me to meet her “in front of the golf ball.”

She means this.

So I take myself off to the front doors of the building that punctuates the east end of False Creek, and faces Main Street, just beyond — the Telus World of Science, known locally as “the golf ball.” (And how chuffed am I, to learn this bit of slang!)

Not only am I denying you a real golf ball, I’m copping out on any real crabs as well. We are now going to march right up Main Street — up-up-up, northward through Chinatown, Gastown, the downtown Eastside — to tiny Crab Park, smack at the end of the road, on Burrard Inlet.

 

As consolation, let me offer you a lion and some giraffes, enroute.

The lion is one of several on the overpass over the railway tracks and Waterfront Rd., which curls us down into the park. He, and the rest of his stone pride, are a 1995 gift from the Shanghai Port Authority, to mark the sister-port relationship between these two cities.

The giraffes … What, you don’t see the giraffes? Look just left of the lion’s head.

More slang, this time perhaps unique to my friends Jai and Guninder, whom I visited recently in North Van. We were at Lonsdale Quay at one point, looking south to downtown, with Jai pointing out some of the buildings — along with the orange “giraffes,” i.e. the cranes that lift containers on and off the cargo ships.

I teach “giraffe” to Frances. It is the least I can do, in return for the gift of “golf ball” and a first trip to this magic little park. Just 2.5 hectares, caught between the tracks and the harbour, relatively unvisited, and so a peaceful spot from which to observe a busy harbour and North Vancouver just across the way.

Later, I learn that I am piling not-real upon not-real.

The real name of Crab Park is Portside Park, and even at that, it is not really a park (says Scout Magazine), it is green space on long-term loan from the Port Authority. And… and … the “crab” is no reference to crustaceans, it is an acronym honouring the Create a Real Available Beach committee that hounded the city into creating this little oasis, back in the early 1980s.

We don’t know all this at the time, Frances & I, we just enjoy the peace & the beauty, this sparkling fall day. Looking back west on the downtown side, for example, with the “sails” of Canada Place anchoring the view.

Right in front of us, all those busy little boats; beyond them, the orange giraffes and the containers, stacked up like LEGO in this container terminal. One giraffe full upright; two with long necks bent to the task at hand.

I stare at the containers. As once I trekked across the highlands of Iceland, agreeing with the colleague who murmured, “We’re walking through a Lauren Harris painting,” now I murmur: “That’s an Edward Burtynsky photograph.”

And that, immediately above, really is a Burtynsky photograph — an example of one theme this renowned large-format Canadian photographer has pursued in his continuing exploration of human activity and its consequences for the land itself.

We head back across the overpass, with one last look at the terminal …

a look at the railway tracks below …

and a sudden halt. To read, and respect, what happened right here, on 3 June 1935.

All peaceful now.

Gentrifying, in fact, rather like Toronto’s Port Lands. Where once those desperate young men milled about, grabbing at boxcars, we now see tiny verdant oases, their green curtains climbing high on adjacent walls.

Frances peels off that way; I carry on this way, somewhat at random, but overall zigzagging myself south and slightly west-ish. My route brings me to Cathedral Square, opposite Holy Rosary Cathedral at Richards & Dunsmuir.

And … to another piano!

Two young women playing this one, to a backdrop of café tables with human bottoms in almost every chair. (“Enjoy the sun,” I overhear one doleful soul tell his companion. “It’s gonna rain for seven months.”)

I do enjoy the sun. I turn from the piano/tables south end of the Square, and sit on a bench facing north. I blink lazily, the way my beloved Racket-cat would blink when particularly pleased with life, taking in the sight of the water, the sound of the water, and the dramatic shadows cast by that soon-to-disappear sunshine.

It is all very nice indeed.

Bonus! 

Your philosophic thought for the day, courtesy of this mural at Manitoba & West 3rd, which I discovered while heading for the golf ball.

The last few words are obscured by shadow. It says:

Every exit

is an entry

somewhere else

Check Mates

5 September 2017 – We’re on our way to the funky shops of Main St., my houseguests & I, walking shady residential streets as we go. Chat-chat, walk-walk, and then I’m stopped flat by the sign pinned to a tree at one corner of a little triangular parkette at West 18th & Ontario.

“We love our cheeseboard,” I read aloud, puzzled.

My friends shoot me worried glances, equally puzzled.

“Chessboard,” one of them says, with remarkable patience. “Chessboard.”

And indeed it is, just look.

Black and ochre squares underfoot, somewhat faded but sufficiently clear for the purpose, and a whole pile of suitably outsized chess pieces. Plus a community bulletin board and a take-one-leave-one shelf for book swaps.

My friends read notices, glad to cool off for a moment in the dappled shade. I move in on the chess pieces.

Lovingly hand made, everything accounted for.

A pawn, right on top …

and then a knight …

I don’t dig to the bottom of the pile for all the others, but I do walk to the parkette’s south apex, where they’ve erected a child-height king & queen.

With empty ovals for child faces and photo opps.

It is all entirely charming.

I look back over my shoulder as we walk on, and catch the sign facing east.

I have no trouble reading this one!

Not-Toronto Alley

31 August 2017 – No, no! You do not go looking for one city in another, judging the latter by how much it does, or doesn’t, resemble the former.

So I am slightly embarrassed to confess that this alley immediately reminds me of Toronto alleys that I have walked & loved.

But it is not Toronto.

It is Vancouver. Lower east side Vancouver (between W. Cordova & W. Hastings, and Richards & Homer).

Still, it is very reminiscent, is it not?

I am a tad nostalgic, as I watch this old fellow pause to light his cigarette and then slowly wander on his way.

A whole lotta paint on this walls. No wonder this aerosol can is lying flat, exhausted.

(The cat, of course, would not dream of slumping in exhaustion.)

Even a bare pole isn’t quite bare.

I haven’t seen this little red Angry-Mask before, but suspect it has been pinned to many other surfaces as well.

On the pavement beneath my feet, more art work.

 

Then there’s Peek-a-Boo, with Dumpster. (Vincent Van Gogh Division.)

And Peek-a-Boo, with Truck.

And Peek-a-Boo, with Shoulder.

I emerge.

And pretty soon, on the edge of Gastown, I’m enjoying a different vista entirely.

On the right, the 1910 Dominion Building, Vancouver’s first steel-framed high-rise (once the British Empire’s tallest building); on the left, and wonderfully sympathetic in its architecture, a market-price residential tower in the redeveloped Woodward’s complex.

Definitely not Toronto! Definitely Vancouver.

 

Rusty Submarine

22 August 2017 – “We all live in a yellow submarine,” carolled The Beatles back in 1969, but nowadays, here in Hinge Park, the palette runs more to rust than to sunshine.

And it is equally magical.

I love walking around False Creek, as you will have noticed by now, and I always wander through Hinge Park as I go. Repurposed land made beautiful for the community to enjoy, how could you not love it, rejoice in it?

The “submarine,” of course, isn’t one, but the whimsical structure is part of the park’s magic. Why just throw serviceable planks across the watercourse, when you can offer up some come-play-with-me sculpture instead?

Two periscopes, count ’em, and lots of portholes — places for humans to look out, and for the sunshine to peek in, throwing spotlights among the shadows.

I’m entering from the south, I’ll climb those steps at the north end up to a knoll where yet another channel of water starts tumbling down the hill.

That channel is narrow, contained, and sparkling clear. The water in the waterway beneath me is also clear, but right around here, it is carpeted in vivid pond weed, emerald contrast to the tawny bullrushes along the shore.

Peer the other way, see more of the Olympic Village condo towers in the background.

Soon I’m on the north-end stone steps, regaining footing having been nearly run down by these kiddies who charge on through, whooping with delight, their feet & their voices echoing the length of the chamber.

And then, whoop-wh0op, they reverse gears & come charging back. I’m in the grass by now, out of harm’s way, delighted with their delight, watching them dance hippety-hop from one sun-spotlight to the next.

See the little girl, still halfway through the tube? Hippety-hop.

On I wander, heading east, thoughts of a latte in Olympic Village Park beginning to form in my mind …

But I am distracted enroute by one of the City’s glorious flowing chaise-longues along the edge of False Creek. They fit the body beautifully, they stand up to the weather wonderfully, and I want one. For my body. Right now.

I hasten my steps, realize I’m on a collision course with a Nice Young Man & his Well-Behaved Dog. He has the leg-length & youthful speed to beat me to the chair. But — aha — I have the Old Lady card to play! And, shameless creature that I am, I play it. Nice Young Man steps back, courteously. I thank him, courteously. And sink into the chair, snuggle my bottom into position, wiggle my toes.

Me & the sunshine & a breeze & my wiggling toes, plus the passing cavalcade: assorted ferries (here one of the Aquabus line), dragon boat teams, kayaks, small pleasure boats …

Eventually thoughts of latte overpower all this beauty, and I move on.

I collect my latte, yes I do. I seat myself on the café’s shady patio, and discover the newest, not-yet-official Olympic Sport.

Climb the Giant Sparrow.

No sparrows — or young boys, for that matter — were harmed in the development of this sport.

 

  • WALKING… & SEEING

    "Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

    "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

    "A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"

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