A love quad-rangle

Just to look at her, you know she takes her coffee with sugar. And probably with 35% cream. Because it tastes good and that is enough.

She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder and the straps are worn. She’s a Vancouver Film School student but you know she doesn’t carry the bag so that people know. She carries it because it’s comfortable and that is enough.

Her hair is a tawny shade of bottled red, her jeans are frayed. Her leather jacket is a size too small because it wasn’t bought for her. But it’s warm and it’s worn and that is enough.

Her boyfriend hands her back her thermos of coffee, a small hand poking out of a sleeve too long. He stares at her. She laughs.

“I’ll be back by ten,” she says. She promises.

She places a Dock Martined-foot on the first step of the bus, turns her broad, smiling face towards his. “Have a good day, babe,” she drawls. He stares. She laughs.

A barely audible sigh escapes from this small man, this boy, with a thrift shop plaid jacket and a walkman in the pocket of his Levi’s. He’s still wearing the Ramones t-shirt he wore to bed because it smells like her. He turns to walk away, to start his day, to start to fill the hours between now and 10 tonight, when his world will feel right again.

A couple gets on the bus. A powerful couple. His hair is full of K-Pax, his shoes are shined. He’s tired, he was up at 5 and in the gym; he doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t believe in coffee. He is conscious of the eyes that turn, he awaits their recognition. He welcomes and shuns them. He glances over at the film school girl and straightens the collar of his Banana Republic trench coat.

A woman sits down beside him. Her electric blue rain coat looks strangely obscene on such a grey day. She is thin in a nervous way, her face is pretty, but drawn. She will not be attractive when she’s 45 and she knows this. She drinks coffee in the bathroom and munches anxiously on soy beans during her lunch hour. An engagement ring fits loosely on her finger – no wedding band yet snuggles up against it. But it will come. Oh but of course it will come!

She opens up an oversized leather purse, pulls out a cellphone with a poodle charm hanging from it. She flips rapidly through the screen, and curls up next to her fiancé. ‘Look at that one, babe, isn’t it just soo cute of us?’ Arms crossed, he allows his head to tip slightly. A forced smile mercifully curls out from a strong, pronounced jaw – he remains silent. She is encouraged and tries again. “How about this one – adorable!” This time, he verbally agrees with the digital representation of their lives, of his life. He is in pain.

They get off the bus and she immediately tucks a bright blue arm in his. It is teeming rain – she shields her salon-styled hair with her purse. She stumbles in her heels – he doesn’t change his pace. He forges ahead, and they fall out of step. The distance between them grows.

And as film school girl bops off the bus, her face, her hair, her smile gratefully meeting the rain, I couldn’t help but think, how right would it be, how peaceful would it be, what an awakening would it be, were film school girl to spend a night in a smoky bar with Banana boy, for nervous soy muncher to spend a night laughing, really and truly laughing over a bowl of greasy popcorn and beer, with a man who actually saw her. Sometimes, all is just not right with our worlds, and it's such a shame that sometimes, only strangers on buses on rainy Vancouver days, can see this.

A city's finest

Alright.

So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.


And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.

A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.

Soul surfing

Some observations on Vancouver.

There are more dogs than people in this city.

A person's salary can largely be determined by the type of coffee he or she drinks. The sliding scale runs from Tim Hortons, to Starbucks, to rest at Antigua, which boasts a $200 cup, if you're so inclined.

Despite the strike that is running into its seventh week, the streets are exceedingly clean. And that is because all the city's litter is being dumped into the downtown eastside.

People here have disturbingly low BMI's. I am beginning to suspect that Vancouver ships all its overweight citizens out onto islands somewhere, along with the garbage that overflows from the downtown eastside.

People who pass you on the street at 6:30 a.m. as you trudge your way to school smile at you with toothy, soul-penetrating smiles that make you feel strangely violated that early in the morning.

Stores have insultingly obvious names, such as moMENtum, for a males-only spa.

Everyone is blond. Everyone is always discussing his or her existential crisis while simultaneously balancing a cup of non-fat-mocha-latte-extra-tall-extra-hot-extra-extra-blah-blah-do-I-sound-cool-yet-do-I-do-I, while stretching into the downward dog position on his or her LuLu yoga mat. Everyone has a gay best friend.

Oh. And I saw two complete heads of hair lying on the pavement as I crossed the Burrard Street bridge the other day. I'm not entirely certain how that fits in with anything, but there it is.