Hallelujah!

14 August 2020 – We are at the foot of Burrard St., smack on Burrard Inlet, and headed for Hallelujah Point — not that we quite precisely know that.

As we look north across the water, with the “sails” of the Vancouver Convention Centre (East Building) soaring into the sky …

what we do know is that we plan to follow the seawall north-west along the water, around the great scoop of Coal Harbour into Stanley Park.

Like this. (Ignore the “you are here”: we aren’t, so you aren’t.) From that wine-red building lower right; past the Vancouver Harbour Flight Centre; all along Devonian Harbour Park; around the curve into Stanley Park; then (as it turns out) eastward along that park lobe that looks like Vancouver’s answer to the Italian “boot” beloved of map-readers; and right out to the heel of the boot, Hallelujah Point.

Cormorants stare north-west across the Flight Centre toward Stanley Park, and so do we.

Float planes all lined up, today’s tidy remnant of Coal Harbour’s long industrial / maritime past.

Col. Moody discovered low-grade coal here in 1859, giving the area its name. The coal was never commercialized but the area was, especially after it became western terminus for the CPR (Canadian Pacific Railway) in 1884. Decades and decades of ship yards, seaplane ports, shipping piers and commercial activity followed, but then a series of fires in the 1950s destroyed the docks, ushering in a half-century of massive redevelopment (hotels, condos, parkland).

I’m not complaining. I love the parkland; I love the Sea Wall; and I respect how much signage, and how many installations, ensure that we connect with the history piled up behind us.

The Komagata Maru Memorial, for example.

On 23 May 1914 the Komagata Maru steamed into the harbour, bearing 375 Indians from India and other British colonies who claimed right of entry as citizens of the British Empire. Only a few were allowed ashore; the rest were refused entry under Canada’s assortment of regulations designed to prohibit Indian immigration. The stalemate lasted until 23 July, when a Canadian naval vessel escorted the steamship out of the harbour and sent it back to India, with the great bulk of its passengers still on board.

Attitudes have changed. The memorial was donated by the Khalsa Diwan Society (which in 1914 fed the people trapped aboard the ship), funded by a branch of the federal government, and supported by the Vancouver Parks Board. This incident, says the plaque, was

a catalyst for change to Canadian citizenship and immigration laws. This monument reflects Canada’s commitment to a nation where differences are respected and tradition honoured.

Here’s what I find so powerful about the memorial. Those walls are pierced with the names of the ship’s passengers. We are not just recognizing a seminal moment in history, we are recognizing — and thus honouring — the specific people caught up in it.

I think about the power of naming-the-name. The Vietnam War Memorial in Washington leaps to mind. So does Toronto’s memorial to the 329 victims — each one named — of Air India Flight 182, brought down by a terrorist explosion off the coast of Ireland in 1985. And Ireland Park, also in Toronto, honouring the starving immigrants trying to escape the Irish Famine of the 1840s — but only able to name a handful, though paying tribute to them all.

And always, as backdrop as we walk, rolling parkland, tranquil with shrubbery and benches.

But water’s edge is focus, and there is always more to look at.

Light Shed, for example, Liz Magore’s half-scale tribute to one of the freight sheds that used to line Coal Harbour …

and a ship’s bell, engraved not just with names of the industries that used to be active here, but names of the employees as well.

There are marinas full of boats, some of them owned by Americans who have no chance of visiting them this summer — and, amidst all that glossy wealth, a trio of sassy houseboats.

We’re around the curve now, in Stanley Park, heading east down the “boot.”

Maritime history is also maritime right-now. This stretch will take us past the Vancouver Rowing Club, still housed in its 1911 building; HMCS Discovery out on Deadman’s Island, which has recruited & trained thousands of Canadians since being commissioned as a naval reserve facility in 1941; and the venerable Royal Vancouver Yacht Club. (You’ve got “Royal” in your name? You are venerable.)

All that on the water side of things. On the Park side… lots and lots of trees. This one a soaring great cedar, but there are plenty of other varieties to keep it company.

“We’ll go as far as The Gun,” says my friend. “Okay,” I say, no image springing to mind but practically hearing the capital letters of respect in her voice.

The Gun is a Vancouver institution — a “naval type, 12-pound muzzle loader,” cast in 1816, brought from England to Vancouver in 1894 or thereabouts, and still busy today.

It is not just The Gun, it is the Nine O’Clock Gun. There is an astounding amount not known about its history, but this we know about it now: it deserves its name. Every night, at 9 p.m., it is fired.

And that is quite enough.

So… hallelujah!

We are at Hallelujah Point, and at the Nine O’Clock Gun. We turn smartly on our heels to head back to town.

One last moment with nature, with parkland still at our backs but the traffic of West Georgia St. very much in our faces.

Otters!

We swivel our heads with the inscription. It tells us that otters hold hands so they don’t drift away from each other.

Umm, well, I’m not really sure about that…

But I love the thought, and I carry it with me on my bus ride home.

 

 

In Plane Sight

5 August 2020 – We see the planes, all right, not that they’re paying any attention to us. One after another, they are too busy making their final approach to YVR (Vancouver International Airport) across the shining mudflats exposed by low tide in the Strait of Georgia.

Well… let me modify that. The occasional passenger face might be pressed to a window, wondering about that pair of long, skinny jetties visible just to the north, like a pair of jaws stretched wide.

We stand at the hinge end of the jaws, in Iona Beach Regional Park. The park is truncated on the north where it smacks against the private/industrial North Arm Jetty,  but it stretches the full length of Iona Jetty on the south …

… where it offers us 4 km of trail with rocks & sea-debris & dune-happy plant life to either side.

My first visit here, so I’m not sure how high the tide ever rises, but at the moment it is low indeed. We admire the grasses and the tangled piles of flotsam …

… and also the energy of the tide, even at low water, carving its pathways through the flats beneath.

The film of water, and the flats beneath, glisten in the sun. They catch and reflect a billow of white cloud, dead centre above mountains far off to the north.

Vegetation thrives, often a burst of yellow …

sometimes the magenta of dune-stabilizing beach pea, a sight that brings back my time on Sable Island, so very long ago.

Where “found materials” may be found, someone will play with them. (And this evokes many memories of Leslie Spit, not so long ago.) Here, it’s storm-tossed lumber, propped at jaunty angles in the convenient riprap below.

Out we walk, & back we walk. We’re almost off the jetty when my friend points out the plaque. She has sharp eyes; the plaque is low, to one side, and almost hidden by vegetation.

RIP. A name, dates, a life cut short by a “plane crash at sea.” The tribute is offered by his fiançée and joined by his parents. We pause a moment, are silent, draw breath.

Back to the life & potential death of right now.

Park Dept. signage at the start of the trail reminds us to “help keep parks open” by observing the 2-m. rule for social distancing.

They do it in a site-specific way. We’re not in Pacific Spirit Regional Park any more, are we? So we won’t be able to measure it out against a handy passing cougar, will we? Of course not.

We are instead invited to imagine a handy passing Bald Eagle.

Wing-tip to wing-tip.

 

The Rough with the Smooth

26 September 2019 – Some days, you get it all.

We encounter the rough while walking westward through Thornton Park, just in front of Pacific Central train station  …

and later on I encounter the smooth while walking eastward again past David Lam Park on the north side of False Creek.

This is one of my favourite sculptures, Marking High Tide by Don Vaughan, and look — rising tide is just beginning to lap across the lowest of the stepping-stones.

Into the Sunshine

23 May 2019 – Let me sort out my prepositions. Not into, but up. Up the Sunshine Coast.

Out of Vancouver, and up the 180-km stretch of mainland that — thanks to those convoluted mountain ranges — is only accessible by air or water.

I choose water.

Love those BC Ferries  Away we go from Horseshoe Bay, starting the 40-minute ride that will weave around some intervening islands in Howe Sound and deposit us all at the Langdale Ferry Terminal.

Then it’s pavement again and a local bus. I’m off at the next community along the route, Gibsons, a town of some 4,600 people just 6 km down the road. My plan? To mooch about.

And I do.

And I have a good time.

I hear great snippets of conversation. “Had a bear in my back yard yesterday,” says one woman to another as she buys some stamps. “Three hundred pounds. Totally destroyed my bird feeder.”

I see delightful things. Places to park while charging your e-vehicle …

and places where you better not park at all. Unless your name is Ribbet.

Mostly, I head for the waterfront, walking the pathway that borders crowded marinas, with pleasure and working boats both, and a long, busy public wharf.

Over here, a float plane …

and, over there, a couple of houseboats, gloriously smothered in plants.

I see tiny shells, carefully arranged on a weathered log …

and an old boat, its hull still bright, the interior bleached and collapsing.

Kiddies hurl stones at a convenient jetty …

kayakers diverge, as gulls converge …

a jaded fish swims into a parking lot …

while much happier fish swim across the community centre wall.

Of course they’re happy! These are rockfish with a purpose. On June 7, Gibsons’ inaugural World Oceans Day Festival, they will be auctioned off to raise funds for the local Marine Education Centre.

Locally created, with local resonance, for local benefit.

I’m happy too.

 

Before the Rain

5 April 2019 – Vancouver a Temperate Rainforest? Nicknamed “Rain City” for a reason?  You wouldn’t know it, by March stats: 31.7 mm of rain all month, versus the historical norm of 113.9 mm.

But then rain slapped its forehead, remembered its duty, and got back to work. (It is oozing gently down as I write this sentence.)

Which makes me all the more grateful for those first still-sunny and suddenly-warm days this month, and the walks with which I celebrated them.

One takes me along the north-shore seawall on False Creek, past the Burrard Bridge all the way to Second Beach, tucked into the edge of Stanley Park.

At Sunset Beach, I stop to visit one of my favourite False Creek sculptures. This one.

The work of French artist Bernar Venet, it was acquired by the Vancouver Biennale Legacy Foundation in 2007. It has one of those cryptic titles that usually make me very cranky: 217.5 ARC X 13. This time I am not cranky, because it succinctly describes the work, which consists of 13 arcs of metal, each curved at an angle of 217.5 degrees.

Crankiness threatens as I read the subsequent artspeak about the meaning of the work, but I do agree with the final observation that “the seemingly unfinished surface invites you to give the raw material a closer look.”

I move in for a closer look.

As did those two crows above!

My next walk is again largely waterfront, but this time along the south shore of Burrard Inlet. It gets a kick-start in Mink, a café overlooking a sliver of walk-through park just south of Canada Place.

The café’s website promises that “the view in spring when the cherry blossoms are in full bloom is awe-inspiring.”

They’re right.

In fact, the starting logic for this walk is just that: to admire the cherry blossoms. Now suitably caffeinated, Frances & I head on up to the water and begin walking west toward Coal Harbour.

We dawdle as we go. Lots of cherry blossoms to enjoy — and apple blossoms, and magnolia, and forsythia — and other waterfront visual treats as well.

Float planes, for example, with a whole mix of tourist/private/business purposes animating them now, and with a long, rich history of innovation, exploration and adventure behind them.

Plus … they’re just fun to watch.

Rows of them here at the Vancouver Harbour Flight Centre, this particular line-up leading the eye across the water to one of North Vancouver’s distinctive sulphur piles glowing an incandescent yellow in the distance.

Extracted from natural gas, this powder has gone from waste-product status to sought-after status as a component of fertilizer. Some 35% (I read online) of the world’s trade in sulphur passes through the Port of Vancouver.

Something else I love to observe: houseboats!

We see various groupings as we amble along, this bright duo in a marina just off Cardero Park at the west end of Coal Harbour.

We keep walking, more and more, and eventually there we are at Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park. It seems a fitting turn-about point, so that’s what we do, and then head for our separate destinations.

I finally hop a bus. As I cross the city eastward, I watch the clouds roll in.

City-Busy

15 May 2018 – I’m busy returning library books and, all around me, this little wedge of city is busy being itself. It bubbles in every direction.

Poppies pop …

Colours pop …

A hydro pole struts the alley …

Motorcycles gleam …

A doorway dispenses wisdom …

Pedestrians time-out their walk along False Creek …

Junior dragon-boaters time-out their heats in a day of competitive racing …

A wedding couple poses …

And Tess turns 25.

I read the banner, grin, and carry on home with my new crop of library books.

 

Honorary Tuesday

3 March 2018 – It isn’t Tuesday, but the original Tuesday Walking Society is out in full two-woman force, and in honour of our reunion we declare the day to be Honorary Tuesday. Makes us happy.

As so often, for all those Toronto years, we meet at an agreed time & place — this time, the Pape subway station.

I just have time to admire the frosted-glass artwork on the stairs …

when Phyllis appears. Back onto the subway, on to Main station.

Where we walk down-down-down, headed for Lake Ontario and, eventually, this year’s Winter Stations art installations along the waterfront in the city’s Beach neighbourhood.

Memories of other walks, as we walk… Once more alongside Glen Stewart Ravine as it broadens into Glen Stewart Park. This time with a fresh dusting of snow, and a snowman-in-the-making.

Mum is doing most of the work; small child pats the snowman occasionally; dog watches peacefully from one side.

The sun comes & goes; the wind comes & goes (but, mostly, comes); we reach the boardwalk and head east. The water is cloudy and choppy, wind-driven.

This is the city’s fourth annual Winter Stations — the idea being to have some wintertime fun with the lifeguard stations that otherwise just stand there, cold & bleak behind the snow fence, until it is summer again.

Here’s the wintertime fun: invite design firms internationally and universities provincially to come up with art installations that will each wrap themselves around one of the stations.

We reach the first installation.

Shazaam! Inside lurks one of those frames; outside, it’s Pussy Hut, an American tribute to the pink pussy hats worn worldwide on Women’s Day.

Beyond the hat/hut, you can see more of the installations — Revolution, with its megaphones; the ovoid Nest, with its colourful criss-cross of tapes; and then the boxy, bright-red fabric panels of Obstacle.

Nest, the work of Ryerson University students, is designed to offer “comfort and introspection within a system of complexity and disarray.” On a windy day like today, the concept becomes physical reality.

I enter, I peer up through its shell, through the lifeguard station frame, out to the clouds above.

On to Revolution (OCAD University). Much friendlier than it sounds: 36 vertical tubes, at different heights, easy to swivel — to revolve! —  that invite everyone to shout their opinions into the air.

I don’t shout. The tubes strike me more as telescopes than loudspeakers — perhaps because we are water-side? — so, instead, I peer through one of them and enjoy the change of perspective.

We can’t find an identifying sign for this next installation, but its anonymity doesn’t keep it from providing what they are all meant to provide: pleasure and comfort on a chilly winter day.

At the moment, it’s to the benefit of a tired gentleman and his dog, bright red ball still clutched firmly in its mouth. (Later, online, I learn this is Rising Up, the work of U of Guelph students.)

On to that boxy collection of bright-red fabric panels, each swivelling quite forcibly with the wind.

I put a hand to one, thinking I’ll slide inside. Oww! I’m smacked by the wooden frame that holds the fabric taut. And I discover why the UK design team called their creation, Obstacle.

“At first it appears impenetrable,” they tell you, but with closer inspection and especially through cooperation with others, you can make your way inside.

Phyllis and I have a long history of cooperation, but we don’t make our way inside — we move on to Make Some Noise!

Who can resist? It’s an “oversized noise box,” say its German designers, with black horns and red hand cranks to get ’em wailing.

So we do. And so does everybody else that passes by.

We are veterans of previous Winter Stations exhibitions; we are veterans of blustery Toronto winters; we are veterans of the impact of those winters on the city waterfront.

But we do not expect what we see next.

Three surfers! In wet suits, mind you, and surely insulated wet suits at that. But still …

They offer one more tribute to lakefront fun in winter — the perfect grand finale to Winter Stations. We admire them, but have no desire to emulate them.

We head north to Queen Street East, correctly anticipating a different kind of water, the hot kind that brings you lattes.

What we don’t anticipate is what happens after that.

Next post. You’ll see.

 

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

Notes from the Dock

5 August 2017 – Pen & paper notes, yes, how old-fashioned, how satisfying (how functional)… but other notes as well.

You’ll see.

The forecast is 30C, the heat wave is due to last at least a week. I decide to head for the water right after breakfast & just hang out. It’s a favourite stretch of water, and close to hand.

So I walk north on Cambie, walk right on under the looming bridge, cross some bike paths, jog slightly west then north again, now beside the bridge not under it …

and I’m almost there!

You’d guessed. You know my love affair with Spyglass Place. I will sink into one of those Muskoka chairs, and let False Creek life unfold around me. There will be cyclist traffic, and foot traffic, and ferry traffic, and distant car traffic on the bridge.

And there will also be, there already is, music. Because — look again — there’s that “Jazz Cats + Mice” public piano ‘way down in the curve of the landing, and an old fellow is playing it, and the air itself dances to the strains of “If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy…”

He segues into a succession of rags, played very stride-piano style.

His legs may need that Zimmer frame to get around (parked next to the bench), but by golly, his fingers fly all by themselves.

So I sink into a chair, adjust my hat, pull out my notepad, look around, & settle in.

To the west, long curves of the False Creek seawall, with cyclists and walkers on the path, a mum cuddling her toddler on the balustrade (his chubby little legs barely visible), and anchored boats bobbing in the water below.

Ferry boats bustle back & forth, linking Spyglass Dock with all the other stops both sides of False Creek. Passengers stream up & down the gangway.

For just a moment, a dragon boat hangs motionless in the water, the coach bellowing his critique of team efforts so far.  Then it’s up-paddles and away they go again.

Much more peacefully, a double kayak glides beneath the bridge, passing between striped pillars of the A False Creek art installation, the top stripe depicting a 5-metre rise in sea level.

There is a butterfly at my feet …

and crows up there on the railing, their peculiar rolling-pebbles chuckle filling my ears.

I exaggerate. What really fills my ears, keeps filling my ears and the ears of everyone else here at Spyglass Dock, is music. Provided by one musician after another.

Blue T-Shirt man plays a few scales, slowly, carefully, accurately.

Black T -Shirt man (the logo advertises beach volleyball somewhere) at first runs more to School-of-Sondheim. But then, before picking up his bike and riding off, he gets all bouncy with stride. (What is it about public pianos, and stride? The two seem to go together.)

Red Cap Guy plays quite a long time. It’s pretty darn E-Z listening, is what it is. He does it well, he is happy, people applaud; I tell myself not to be so snotty, and relax into it.

Then — reversal. Grey-Hair Man, who was listening so intently to Red Cap, is now at the keyboard. I pick out “Qué sera, sera, whatever will be, will be…” before he starts to doodle around, very at ease at the keyboard.

So at ease, he invites some children not just to come listen, but to imagine that they too — really! — could learn to play the piano

The kids linger, quite fascinated.

Grey-Hair moves on, Red Cap plays again, this time with classical riffs thrown in. (Debussy’s “La Mer” for example.) He stands up, steps back; Black Cap arrives, sits down, and disappears into his music.

He’s more bravura than his predecessors, with more chords, more emphasis, & more experimenting — it seems to me — with modulations and progressions for their own fabulous sake. Red Cap hangs in, listens, really listens. When Black Cap finally gets up to leave, they bump fists in mutual appreciation, chat a moment, exchange contact info.

Red Cap plays again, also doodling with chords for a while, but then drifts through some Bach and a flourish of Hungarian czarda. His fingers are up to it all.

A passing cyclist leans over just long enough to plonk a few keys …

but another cyclist throws down his bike, and gets serious.

Followed by a young boy, who with slight hesitations but not bad technique works away at his piano lessons while his family consults the near-by pillar map.

Dad sticks with the map-reading; mum and baby sister join the boy at the piano. The little girl becomes very busy exploring sound; the boy cheerfully yields the keyboard to her chubby fingers while mum praises them both.

Almost all male pianists, have you noticed?

Now a young woman sits down, settles in, props her smart phone in front of her, and begins to play and sing. I think she’s recording herself, I’m not sure.

I finally leave, her voice floating me away from the dock.

I was there a good four & a half hours; the piano was silent for perhaps 20 minutes, total.

 

  • 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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