gort8's Journal: Wandering

Wherever you go, there you are. (Buckaroo Bonzai)

Sitting outside in a sidewalk cafe. Second time I've ever been to Vancouver and to Canada. It's fucking freezing to my wussy American senses. It's a beautiful town. The feel is amazing. Smoke. Harbour. That's with a 'u'. Tuna tartar and a really good lager. The waitress with the most welcoming, transparent smile recommended the honey lager. She said it was not too hoppy like the other lager on tap. So I went with her smile and recommendation. It was a very good choice.

On the random walk here I was accosted by the wicked queen from Snow White. Really. She was bent over, crooked, and kept following me. I thought she was going to offer me a poisoned apple, but she kept asking for spare change instead. I was talking on the phone like an American idiot and she kept loudly talking to me. A security guard eventually chased her away. I felt bad about it but didn't know what to do. I'm apparently in a part of town that has a lot of homeless people.

Interesting people keep walking by. Amazing people. Every one has a story. Identity is a story, or so I've read. Identity is also about relationship, but I'm not sure what kind of relationship we could have. I would like to hear their stories.

What is the story for each of these people? What possibly could have happened to them to explain the twisted postures, the scars and pocked faces, the vacant stares, the too piercing stares? Why are there some strutting, semi-clad women in this cold? There must be some story behind the bizarre old man proudly riding the high-rise bicycle down Powell Street in Gastown. What's each story and what have we lost by not stopping to understand each one?

A sports car just went by. Lots of people in the pub looked and commented. I'm sure the story of the driver of the sports car is not less interesting than the twisted people. The sports car and and (I think) the story just has less texture.

What's with the guy with the quilt on his head?

I've got a camera but can't find a single good picture to take.

Maybe I should buy a souvenir t-shirt that says "Real Canadian men eat beaver". Perhaps that adequately sums up someone's story.

Walking. Trying to find a good Indian restaurant. My dad calls and wants to know why I haven't filled out the proper forms so that he can help my son with his college expenses. Sounds like a good thing for me to do. I'll get to it. Really. Right after taxes. Try to explain to my dad what I'm doing here. It has to do with identity. And human beings. Each with a story. He's amused. Wants me to promise to fill out the forms. Okay.

Back to the hotel. Concierge recommends an Indian restaurant. It's across the street from the pub where I had the nice lager.

Leave the camera and walk back in the dark. Now I see the really good images temporarily captured in my mind. Wish I could remember them.

Had a very spicy Lamb Rogen Josh with a local blended red wine. Very good indeed. Except that I kept watching the odd people as they shuffled by and wondering about who they are.