After disloding myself from my new favorite place in the world - my hotel bed - I managed to throw on some already odiferous clothing and head back out to Stanley Park in the gloom of a Vancouver morning, for a run. Good for the mind, body and spirit.
This morning I decided to do what my sister claims I have done in my life - and take the road less traveled - or, at least a path different than the one I had taken the day before. I am not sure if pop music is profound or if sadness lends itself to seeing meaning in sappy songs and Instagram memes, but J. Cole was dropping some serious knowledge on me as I rounded the Inuit Totem Poles and gazed lovingly at the Lion's Gate Bridge. A long, if chilly run left me as it does this city everyday, reborn. My sins washed away from the morning baptismal rains as clouds part to reveal a new, clean afternoon, replete with clear skies and the warm glow of the sun. A brand new start every single day.
It was in this glow I made my way back down Robson to check out the Vancouver Art Gallery, listed amongst the must see things in this fine city. Of course this cultural institution was only considered after locating the real treasure of Vancouver - Amy's Loonie Toonie Town Dollar Store, in which I found everything I've ever wanted and nothing I have ever needed, including an Oh Canada sticker set used to create my daily artistic endeavor at Cafe Breka down the road where blueberry bran muffins are divine and smoothies served far closer resemble radioactive material than anything derived from a bush or tree. Thirst quenched and sticker art complete it was gallery time.
Van Art Gallery was easily located, with an upper Haight crowd lingering on it's steps. When the woman at the front desk politely asked for the $21 admission fee she sensed my hesitance, and insisted, gesturing to the other side of the double doors, that it was sunny and beautiful out and that I should go an enjoy the day and return, after 5pm, when admission is donation only. Maybe the friendly Canadian thing is true - or maybe when you volunteer at the local museum you just don't give a shit. Option 3, my travel clothes and makeup free face make me look even younger and more down on my luck than I do in my every day life and, if that vagrant appeal results in discounts and helpful hints - that is just fine with me!
Taking the kind woman's advice I exited the gift shop doors and headed left, my only plan to walk in the path of the sunshine for as long as possible. This led me downtown to the hustle and bustle of a city not unlike San Francisco, but without it's inherent enchanting appeal. This also offered the opportunity to do one of my favorite things - people watch.
I've said this about other places before - but fuck Paris - Vancouver is a city for lovers. Old, young, Asian, that one black dude - everyone is holding hands nuzzling into one another's neutral toned fleece, gazing lovingly into one another's eyes. It's like the setting for a romantic comedy, only set in the 90s, where they wouldn't even have to alter the Perry Ellis ads or the Birkenstock adorned feet.
I'll admit it - I had been looking forward to being able to utilize my very limited LA wardrobe by layering cotton blends and relying on work out wear if necessary when visiting this town. I was quite certain my fashion fortitude would not be tested - and it was not. As I perused the downtown shops of San Francisco and Lake Tahoe's illegitimate love child I could not help but feel the pangs of childhood memories and unresolved emotions, familiar in a city in which I had never before stepped foot.
Making my way through Gastown and past Smart Mouth Coffee, where I should most certainly buy shares, I crossed an idyllic bridge to a park/beach on the other side of the tracks - literally. Here I opted to enjoy the late afternoon cancer causing rays and relax with Billy Joel in my ears and the breeze in my just untethered glorious locks, thanks to the surprisingly wonderful conditioning shampoo all on one provided in miniature by the hotel.
Perhaps local Canucks or your standard Eastern European tourists don't notice his or her surroundings, but though I may be out of New York it is most certainly still in me. Therefore, when disheveled homie #1 split from his partner and tried to creep up behind me, no gorgeous view or Piano Man lullabies were going to distract me. He is messing with the wrong girl. Don't get thrown off by the sophisticated Trader Joe's tote or standard white person Chucks - a true gangster lies just beneath the surface. And by true gangster I mean loving aunt, loyal friend and perpetual smartass - but still! A quick turn of acknowledgement, and not the good kind, had him scurrying back to the rock from under which he came and left me feeling far more dangerous than appropriate.
I don't believe in soul mates. I think there are a series of people who one can connect with at the right time, can choose to make inexplicable chemistry and hard earned respect turn to love, and eventually commit. Now don't get me wrong, I am not getting on one knee for Vancouver, but I can't help but think I met her at this point in my life for a reason. She is up, she is down. Tears from heaven soak her skies every morning, washing her of her sins and soot, allowing for a glorious evening of natural beauty, just before it turns cold, then dark, and then it happens all over again. I can only assume her mood swings have existed for decades longer than mine, but I can relate to her cycle and appreciate her malleability.
Back at the Art Gallery there was a very long line of cheapskates like me and, after paying my generous $9 donation I entered the ground floor, perused the Cezanne watercolors and headed toward the elevators in the back. When I exited on the 4th (and top) floor, I took quick inventory and moved fluidly through the exhibition rooms. And then I found it.
I entered a light filled with only patterned light in which two grown women were shamelessly taking a selfies. I say, I watched. After the first change of imagery I became entranced. And then it dawned on me- why don't I put in my headphones, pull up my knees, turn on some Pink Floyd and really enjoy this. I sat for nearly 20 minutes in a white room with occasional patterns that changed, listening to "Wish You Were Here" on repeat - and man, did I wish he were there. After feeling adequately engrossed and fairly certain that life is better with the beautiful melancholia known as Pink Floyd, I moved to the plaque with information and saw it was "Wallpapers in Dialogue with Emily Carr," which I'd been asked about downstairs, as the artist was doing a talk on their work at 6:30. When I had heard wallpaper I immediately thought of the embossed atrocity hanging from my mother's dining room walls in the late 80s, not this transient and hypnotic experience that, if you asked me at the moment, could most certainly be the long-awaited cure for cancer. I was sad I'd missed out on the artist presentation, but so glad of decided to be the soberist stoner I knew how to and witness some truly beautiful art.
As I left the gallery, finding absolutely nothing worth spending my Canadian dollars on in the gift shop, it had turned cold. I made my way back down Robson, flanked with Asian men in shorts and souvenier shops, at which I made a few more purchases for my bound to be ungrateful nephews. Having turned in so early the previous night I decided to go crazy and take myself out to dinner. Seeing that I was in the Great White North, I thought I should get an authentic experience and located none other than - Indian. Finding a decent Indian restaurant situated above Robson street with candles on the tables and wifi at the ready, I languidly consumed my spicy cuisine and poured over my nonfiction paperback with endless cups of chai tea. Bougie as it may be I needed to eat and I needed to stay out past dark so, for me, it was a success.
Feeling full and satisfied after having listened to the entire restaurant chew on their respective vinadloos (thanks again Mom and Dad for teaching me table manners), I paid my bill, made my way down the staircase and headed home. Having made note of the weather pattern it seemed pointless to rise early and give another glum morning my attention, so the pressure to adequately rest for an early morning was not a concern whereas finding warmth beneath the covers who had server so well the previous night was.
And that is just what I did.
And that I did.
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