Thankful in an Alanis Morissette kind of way to be alive and well in the belly of the beast learning how to make friends with the antibiotics.
Thank you terror.
Thank you disillusionment.
Thank you, thank you silence.
We had fun turning our road trip into a deconstructed feast of an extended thanksgiving spread. This was the second bite of esquites after a breakfast of fry bread “mcmuffins” using what was left of a batch that Christine had made with her students for Native American Heritage Month. It’s all so very meta but mostly delish.
This trip was mostly an elaborate excuse to drive down memory lane. Chocolate-covered Hobnobs, Tetley’s Chai, Nando’s—BC is the closest we can get to a life we once lived more than a decade ago. It’s always the littlest things.
We stayed at what turned out to be a heritage site called Hotel at the Waldorf, a tiki-themed hotel built in 1947 that used to be the coolest place in town all the way through to 2013, when it finally sold its soul to venture capitalism, or so I’ve learned. We didn’t know any of this when we booked it; we just wanted an affordable room in a relatively central location with parking.
At one point, they would have art exhibits here that interrogated “”the non-hegemonic condition of the gallery as a space within other spaces,”” apparently. Even Katy Perry’s visited. It was “”a cultural centre in the middle of nowhere.””
But that all went away ten years ago: “”the landlord’s attitude changed overnight and it was baffling.”” Even the mayor at the time lamented the sale: “”The Waldorf closing is a big loss to our growing creative community, they built a great culture hub.””
Not sure what those developers thought they were doing because the hotel’s still here – just minus everything that made it cool.
Despite its hollowing out as the “Disneyland” for Vancouver’s culture vultures, the hotel still retains its original “moderne” or “jazz age” feel – “boxy on the outside and curved lines on the inside.”
Today, the current owners call the place “an experience to be explored with a sense of whimsy and a relaxed attitude,” and, to be honest, I think they’re right.
We didn’t have many plans for our weekend in Vancouver. Unlike our trip to Montreal, there was no “agenda” – no months of research, no particular sites sought – just some rest and relaxation in a foreign but somewhat familiar place. I did have some preconceived ideas about the city, though; a few of the people we’ve met elsewhere who called Van City home seemed to be a bit cold and standoffish. One person in particular point blank told Christine to her face that she *hates* Seattle – this was after Christine had offered a friendly Cascadian point of connection, seeing as they were both in Beirut at the time. Others have deprecated the place, saying that there’s really not much to do here. I didn’t mind any of that – I don’t always love Seattle either and I didn’t want to do much. But it made me expect a less than inviting vibe, and that’s not what we found. In the words of the thirteen-year-old child of a new friend I made, “Vancouver is chill.” A significant contrast to what we experienced in Montreal.
The neighborhood we stayed in was technically an industrial zone, though several signs insisted that we were in “The East Village.” This area was bracketed on one side by a concentration of unhoused communities and organizations that serve them; past that was the historical core and the downtown business district itself. In the opposite direction, a ten-minute walk takes you to a strip of bars and cafes that reminded me of Badaro in Beirut. This was Little Italy. Japantown and Chinatown were not too far away either. There was a lot to see in a very small area, and we barely saw a fraction of it.
“Professional or for fun?”
“For fun.”
“Well, it’s a great day for it.”
“Yeah, I love these mountains.”
“Well, for some of us they’re just wallpaper.”
We stopped here because the dress caught Christine’s eye. Then we noticed the sign.
The border guard thought our answer to his question about what we were doing in Vancouver (“”vacation””) was boring, so Christine told him just how “”boring”” it really was: going to the Christmas market, hanging out with some friends… We’d literally bought toilet paper that morning, which we, of course, declared. I think he found us too mind-numbing to question any further.
“I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when I look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down.”(Leonard Cohen, from “The Spice-Box of Earth“)