Bright Lights, Big City

Location, location, location. Is that why Vancouver is listed among the three most expensive Canadian cities in which to live? Maybe. You can’t beat the ocean on one side and mountains on the other. On a sunny day, the glittering tangle of glass and steel soaring into the cloud against the North Shore is a truly majestic sight. Awe-inspiring, even. I always feel blessed to know such a beautiful city so well, though my visits have dwindled from one or two per year to one or two per decade.

Ter and I were over for a hockey game a few weeks ago. Neither of us realized it has been almost five years since we last ventured across the strait. Normally, we stay in the west end, the oldest part of the city where the beach runs alongside the street and trendy cafes are perched on every corner. This time, however, because of my compromised compostable container, we chose a hotel within hobbling distance of the arena, which landed us pretty well in the depths of the urban jungle. We arrived late in the afternoon, close to sundown on game day.

There are pockets of the city where no matter what time of year it is, the sun will never pierce the shadow. In February, you’re guaranteed that the only sun you’ll see is on the postcards for sale at the 7-Eleven. For us, a west coast winter was in full swing. The copious and unseasonable snow had melted away, but the persistent drizzle was chilly, the wind was raw ... and everywhere I looked, I was dwarfed by skyscrapers I didn’t remember seeing before. The last time we stayed in the downtown core, Library Square was the most imposing structure in the neighbourhood. This time, it was part of the view from our hotel window, but it dominated nothing. It had been surrounded and absorbed, just like our hotel, by condo and office towers. Our room was on the fifth floor, practically spitting distance from the street, and our view was almost exclusively into the softly lit windows of the building that housed the aforementioned 7-Eleven. The suite wasn’t dark at night, given the glow of all those residential lights, but it was sure dark in the daytime.

Our visits to Vancouver used to feel homey and familiar. That sense of being welcome was sadly missing from our trip last month. The city’s sense of individuality, of unique and original personality, seemed to have been swallowed by the same indifferent towers that loom above the library. The jewel of Canada’s west coast could have been any big city that night: an anonymous and impassive host to the frenzied little parasites (us) that feed off its bounty.

Until the next morning. I stood at the window once more, gazing at the darkened glass panes across the way and over at the intersection where the morning commute was in progress. The street was in shadow, of course ... but along to the north, between the man-made monoliths posted like sentries along a parade route, was a glimpse of the mountains. A single, snow-dusted, sun-kissed peak, a National Geographic image cradled between stone and steel, identified my location far better than a Google satellite. I knew then that I was indeed in beautiful Vancouver, the jewel of Canada’s west coast.

I should have taken a picture, but I’m still not quite used to having a camera in my phone.

Oh—and the hockey game? PHI 3 – VAN 2. Power pose!!

To Be in Paris

I’ve heard it said that when you ask yourself a question, your heart will answer immediately and honestly. One morning I picked up John Taylor’s autobiography to look for a particular reference, and got lost with him in the mid-80s when he was buying property all over the world. Eventually, he said, he gave up on the “perfume bottle real estate thing” he had going— John Taylor of London, Paris & New York—and finally settled in Los Angeles.

A step down, if you ask me.

The question I asked myself, just for fun, was of the three big cities, in which one would I choose to live? The answer came in the next beat:

Paris.

???

Quelle surprise? I think not. Considering how my new favourite tea is Murchie’s “Paris Afternoon” (thanks, Ter!), I listen most often to the Paris Café channel at jazzradio.com, and I have a thing for Musketeers, it’s hardly a surprise at all. Must be the romantic in my soul—or perhaps a memory from another life, where I am almost certain I got into trouble with a gang of dissolute artists, musicians and poets.

Ironically, I am not a fashion plate. I do not wear French perfume. I would never drive a Citroen, and when I think of red-white-and-blue, the Union Jack pops to mind. I do, however, adore champagne, baroque architecture, and sidewalk cafés.

While in my early twenties, I spent a few days in Paris. My companion was a native so language was no barrier, but I was too young to appreciate where I was for what it was. I visited the Louvre, was unimpressed by the Mona Lisa, took the train to Versailles and blew a whole roll of film on the statue of Neptune Rising from the Sea, ate street food because the restaurants were too expensive, and discovered the joy of Perrier Citron (mineral water with a shot of lemon cordial), though the café waiter was rude and I later found out why: tips were automatically added to the bill, so there goes the incentive to be well-mannered with the tourists.

Mind you, the Parisians are kind of notorious for dishing ʼtude at foreigners. They’ll warm up if you try to speak French—the worst thing you can ask off the bat is “Parlez-vous Anglaise?”—and the whole world has been advised of how immigrants are perceived by the nation as a whole, but still, it’s an elegant, magical, beautiful, romantic, noisy, bustling city of light, art and culture and I would definitely do it differently if I had it to do again.

Or maybe I’ll just live there again in my next life.