halfacanuck: February 2005 Archives

Here, at long last, is my first impression of Vancouver:

Vroooom. Chirp chirp. Sswwwwsssshhhhh. Bark! Bark! Spare some change? Vroooooom. Brrrr-rrrr-rrrr!

My first impression. Geddit? D'ya see?? (In a surprise turn of events, that joke has already been nominated for and won the 2005 Annual Worst Joke Ever Ever EVER Award, even before I've finished writing this entry. My apologies to the other contestants, but, let's be honest, with a joke of the calibre of the above you really had no chance at all.)

My actual first impression of Vancouver, having been here a grand total of four-and-a-half days, is that it's a city of contrasts. A horrible cliché, I know, but my opinion nonetheless.

It strikes me as a wealthy city and yet I've been approached by more panhandlers than anywhere else I've visited, with the exception of Rome and London. For all the Vancouver-based panhandlers reading my blog, and I'm quite sure that's most if not all of you, here's a hint: if you want money from me, do something. Wash a windshield (not mine, obviously, because I don't have a car and your squeegee would not work so well on my glasses, but if I see you doing it I'll give you some change) or play an instrument, even laughably poorly, or do a little jig. Even a particularly inventive story will get you some money, like the guy pushing a beat-up old bicycle who needed money to "repair his tyre." But don't just stick your hand out, eh? That's not cool, and won't work. Here's an exchange I had this evening:

Panhandler: Dude. [Good start. Better than "hey you," anyway.]
Me: Yes dude?
Panhandler: I'm trying to get four bucks together for a slice of pizza. Think you can help? [Meh. Where's the backstory? Where's the heartbreak, the struggle, the triumph?]
Me: That's an expensive slice of pizza.
Panhandler: Actually I meant a sub. It's my birthday. [Better! His birthday. A nice touch.]
Me: Happy birthday!
Panhandler: God bless. [Awww.] So you think you can help?
Me: I only have... um... yeah. That's like, what, about 15 cents? Sorry.
Panhandler: I could show you where an ATM is. [I like this guy. If he were French-Canadian he could one day be a cabinet minister.]
Me: An ATM?
Panhandler: Yeah. How about five bucks? [Five now! Could this man be a future prime minister?]
Me: Tell you what. I'll buy you a sub.
Panhandler: Well, yeah, but it's okay, I'll just show you where to get change. I'll definitely buy food though! I wouldn't say I'm going to buy food and then not buy food. [A Tory, for sure.]
Me: No, look, here's a sub place. Let's get one right now.
Panhandler: Actually I... wanted McDonald's.
Me: Well then, let's go to McDonald's. I'll buy you food because it's your birthday but I'm not just giving you five bucks.
Panhandler: Yeah, but... No, like... I just want...
Me: Food? Yes? No?
Panhandler: ... You suck.

Anyway, as I was saying before I got sidetracked, it's a city of contrasts. Rich yet lots of homelessness. Urban yet set in the shadow of mountains, on the edge of an ocean, surrounded by forest. Sprawled, like all big cities, but eminently walkable in its core. Very Canadian yet somehow there's a difference I can't pin down, a difference between here and Ontario (not that Ontario = Canada, of course. It's just the Canada I know). Perhaps it's something in the air, other than the smell of pot I mean, or maybe it's the endearing way people here carefully sound out all the syllables in Tor-on-to (a.k.a. Tronna), or maybe it's the "Western alienation" thing Ontarians bang on about so often, or maybe it's the weather. It feels more similar to San Francisco than Toronto, more Californian than Canadian. Perhaps it's a west coast thing. I can't explain it. Maybe I'll be able to once I've been here longer.

breebop has a photo in her latest post that, for me, sums up what I was blathering about in the last paragraph. The skyscraper and the natural, the opulent and the raw. It seems a fitting metaphor for the city. I don't know if she intended it to be.

Speaking of breebop, she kindly pushed to the back of her mind the possibility that I might be a serial killer or a really dedicated stalker and agreed to meet me for coffee this evening. In fact we ended up sharing nachos and beer (well, we didn't share beer, but you know what I'm saying) and talking for a couple of hours. She began the conversation by saying "So I read your blog after you called and... wow. How do you feel about your decision now?" which was admirably direct if a little disarming, and I stammered out some nonsense or other, hoping to God she didn't think I suggested meeting up because I'm newly single and she's, you know, cute, but then she gave a raunchy laugh and said "Great way to break the ice, huh?" and casually mentioned her boyfriend, just in case. Later on, after two beers, I was able to talk about my situation much more coherently. It was good to say it to someone who wasn't judging me (at least out loud), isn't involved in it, and who doesn't have a vested interest. I think perhaps I talked too much, but if so, that's why.

It was fun and thus, as we parted ways, I did the usual I-just-met-someone-new-whose-company-I-enjoyed mental gymnastics where I try to figure out a way of hinting that I wouldn't be averse to hanging out again sometime without coming across as an emotional vampire or a letch or a weirdo, and in the process trying to figure out if that person also had fun and might not be averse to hanging out again sometime, which requires some quite complex arithmetic involving the time of day the meeting occurred, how long it lasted and how quickly the cheque was paid once it arrived and, as usual, decided it was safer to say nothing. So I blogged about it instead. I'm so lame sometimes.

To sum up, then: I like Vancouver, so far. I like the people I've met, too, even the abovementioned exceptionally audacious panhandler. It's definitely a city I could settle in long-term. Maybe I will.

Meanwhile, can any of you spare some comments?

I've been very quiet of late, as I'm sure you've noticed. I've not really known what to say. I've sometimes felt like blogging and have not done so because I'm unsure what to say, what I can say, what I should say. A recent and extraordinary uproar on Xanga has illustrated very clearly the need for sensitivity, whatever that is. It's a very difficult thing to quantify, at least for me. What is sensitive? What isn't? I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.

I want to blog again. I need to write. I have a new life here. Is it permanent? I don't know. That's what I'm trying to find out, to decide. I need to write about this, about Vancouver, being "single," living in a shared house, life in a big city. I want to share my observations. I want to blog, in other words. But I don't want to offend anyone, or cause any further upset.

So what do you think? Part of me says I should blog about whatever I want, talk about whatever, that that's really the point of having a blog. But I'm also painfully aware that my wife reads my blog, and so (I think) do my step-kids, and also their neighbours, my friends. Do I let them into my mind without censoring? Perhaps that would help them understand. Or perhaps those wounds, the wounds I caused, are still far too fresh.

I just don't know. I'd appreciate your input, if you care to give it.