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Hello everyone!
Hours turn to days, days to weeks and so time rolls on interminably. Thus were the happy days in the Dunbar house and then at 'db' brought to a close. Yes, things certainly improved at the restaurant and this progression from dull despair to deep reluctance to leave when time called for me will shape the main substance of this entry. All good things must come to an end (allowing other good things to find the room to start).
The end of April arrived unlooked for and all too soon and with it came the conclusion of the University exam term. First James and soon thereafter Aja left the house in a swirl of last-minute packing, rushed goodbyes (goodbyes nearly always seem rushed in my mind, perhaps because I ignore their coming until the last possible moment) and heady, post-examination elation. They took with them something of the light that was in the house; its laughter diminished and the walls seemed to close in a little. By this point I had learnt that Ryan would also be leaving imminently and rather unexpectedly: he had determined to follow his heart south of the border in pursuit of a lovely young lady, a move that I myself endorsed whole-heartedly. It is a gift even to be able to court the love of another, one who is capable of moving a person to such greatness as only the power of love is able to achieve. How, deep within my soul, I envied Ryan this opportunity and yet, as a friend I could see beyond this natural jealousy to feel joy for him as well. It had been Ryan's hope that such a courtship might take place here in Vancouver, but destiny decided otherwise and so it was that he resolved to depart the city in mid-May: we did at least enjoy the benefit of a satisfactory farewell, spending a glorious day walking for miles within the shining metropolis.
The day of our walk, a rare break from the rigours of 'db' for me, dawned clear and bright - at least, I assume that this was the case: rising some hours later (never mind how many), to see such a clarity outside, I imagine that such a dawn would have been reasonably probable upon that day. It was all-too-easy to persuade Ryan that we should breakfast at my favourite brunch spot just down the road, where I satisfied my row of sweet teeth with banana and chocolate-chip French toast (yes, you did read that correctly). In consequent need of a vigorous walk to burn off but a mere handful of those calories (a token gesture I am sure), we proceeded to walk through Kitsilano, enjoying the colourful, cheerful shops on first Broadway and then Fourth Ave. We included a loop of Vanier Park, taking in the sea-breeze and the salty air before crossing the Burrard bridge into the down-town core. Our feet, dictated I admit by my devious stomach, found their way along the water-front to Denman Street, beside English Bay. Here we purchased decadent ice-cream and indulged upon the beach, watching the surf crash upon the sand, Jonathan gulls wheeling overhead. Our walk that day took in much territory, stretching through Stanley Park, back along Denman, out of the core across the Granville bridge and ending outside a Chinese restaurant famous - deservedly so as it transpired - for its soft, light, utterly delicious dumplings. That walk is memorable to me not so much for the distance covered, nor the many interesting sights seen, as for the deep, honest, searching conversation that punctuated so much of the outing. Both Ryan and I wrestled with topics that do not receive nearly enough attention through the spoken word, between even the greatest of friends or lovers. Ryan showed me a great deal that day; the courage and trust needed for such a display has left me humbled and grateful. Plato had Alcibiades show us the way, when he spoke with such tenderness of the unique experience enjoyed when a great man placed such faith in him. One does not need to converse with a Socrates to enjoy such an experience: frank openness, sizeable courage and trust are the ingredients for developing strong relationships through such intense debate. I have been incredibly fortunate to have experienced such heady, empowering moments with a fair number of very good friends, each highly personal and absolutely unique. My adventure with Ryan that day joins the ranks as a precious grain indeed in my time here, one that deepens my view of the wider adventure and gives nourishment to my soul.
Time, ever relentless, soon brought forth the day of Ryan's departure, hastened by a need for him to journey back to the States a day earlier than anticipated, to oversee the final procedures in the procurement of a new visa for that country (although he has spent large swathes of his life there, Ryan remains a Canadian citizen by birth). With his departure went the last remaining vestige of shared happiness within the house, leaving me - contented - with the dim echoes of past fruition for company. Whilst I have always regarded myself as a rather socially-oriented being, I found that living alone once more did entail some advantages: it was nice to be afforded the run of the house, to set my own domestic agenda unrestrained by concern for the lives of others. Furthermore, I now used the silence of my home as an added motivation to seek additional hours at the restaurant, building up a steady flow of much-appreciated over-time.
The situation at 'db' had been improving for some time: Chris, our general manager, was slowly but surely sorting through the list of prospective new employees to build a team that works well together and retains a pleasing balance of youthful enthusiasm mixed with practised experience. The kitchen, under the improved direction of a new, very likeable young chef, was becoming much more open and friendly, linking well with those of us working 'front-of-house'. I can write honestly and happily that the final month or so at the restaurant formed some of my favourite experiences in an Aladdin's cave of treasured events and encounters. I felt the thrill of camaraderie as I swept through the dining-area, supporting my colleagues, chatting amicably with an array of exciting, at times fascinating, guests. I felt the warmth of a positive team, filled with intelligent, devastatingly witty friends. I felt also the satisfaction of a managerial team that, in my mind, demonstrated a healthy appreciation for the work that I and the rest of our team produced. Thus it was that I found myself eagerly anticipating the end of shift one Saturday evening - an evening in which I had not initially been scheduled to work - so as to enjoy a 'staff appreciation' party, laid on by both 'db' and our prestigious sister-restaurant, 'Lumiere'. With service winding down around-about 11pm, we cracked open copious bottles of wine, multiple beers and served up a whole host of enticing dishes from both kitchens: the theme was very much centred upon hedonistic indulgence of cornucopic proportions. Staff poured in, both those who had been working alongside me that evening and others who had appeared simply to join in the festivities. The atmosphere was genial and relaxed and everyone seemed to have a brilliant time. Repeatedly, I would glance up from whatever it was that I happened to be eating or drinking - predominantly pulled pork and red wine - to intrude upon a happy scene of chefs reminiscing, servers sharing a joke, friendships being formed away from the pressure-cooker environment of the typical gastronomic protocol.
The night wore on and with it the contemptible abuse of my poor liver (really, it does have my sympathies). At some point, Ben - a very good friend and a magical bar-man - decided that of course it would be a good idea to drain all three of our draught ale taps of beer (we managed this alarmingly quickly). Thus it was that I progressed from wine (which had by this point run dry) to wheaty, meaty ale, an intelligent move that will no doubt be applauded by you all. At this point my grip upon sobriety was slipping swiftly away and conversations everywhere were becoming increasingly shocking and spectacular, not to mention decidedly speculative in places. Stumbling into one particularly heart-felt discussion, I wasted little time sympathizing and cajoling in equal measure - something along the lines of 'you are a great person and [the object of desire in question] should see that too - go for it!' I do not imagine for one moment that such monumentally awkward advice served any constructive purpose at all, simply highlighting my incredibly poor capacity for good sense, even with ample amounts of various alcoholic beverages within me. Despite such luminous efforts, I somehow made it to the end of the party unscathed and even enjoyed a delightful, directionless wander home with a good friend from said party. Equally amazingly, I was able to make my way to my door, into my house and even as far as my bed itself: believe me, but do not condemn me, when I type that such achievements were eminently laudable under the circumstances.
The following day should have seen me relaxing, attempting little and patiently awaiting some sense of cohesion and capability to re-enter my mind and body, however painfully and deliberately. Not so; instead I dragged myself from my hole some three hours after first slumping there, to wash and dress for a Sunday brunch shift at work. I do seem to recall some-such rebellious thought occurring to me the night before - whilst intoxicated, naturally - suggesting that I would be absolutely fine, fresh as a daisy, with so little sleep and completely capable of enduring the most hated, most demanding of shifts at the restaurant in an average week. Heresy. I arrived at work convinced that in other parts of the world, the mental and physical state that I presented would be considered akin to hell: not so the consumerism-driven capitalistic dream-world of North America. The day went downhill from there. True, I survived without committing anything too outrageous, managing to perform acceptably even when presented with serving tea and coffee at the table occupied by a smirking Chris, his sympathetic wife Paula and her lovely mother. My head pounding in a fashion that I wished upon Chris and his evil, utterly inappropriate amusement, I somehow held myself together and succeeded in landing the coffee in people's cups and - mercifully - nowhere else. Teamwork was never in question that day - we all shared in each other's pain - but communication was definitely below its customary par: I was struggling to fashion even the most basic of sentences, a situation not helped by my aforementioned pounding head, which did little to aid me in listening to the directions of anyone else. Not that my colleagues were voicing words worth hearing: my good friend and fellow Brit (sort of - he is half-American, poor chap) Ashley was unable to get much further than 'Oh god' every time he wandered past. How the kitchen staff survived, in such close proximity to so much grease and flour, I shall never know; I can but marvel.
I am not sure quite how - primative, ancestral instincts must have taken command - but I did manage to survive that day, finishing my shift in time to haul my devastated body home and back to bed, where I fell unconscious for the next thirteen hours (if ever this blog shows similar survival instincts, then I must surely edit it before god-children, potential mother-in-laws, constituents or any other people who may hold some power over my future are able to read such confessions - never fear, you may scrap the third group; I am merely jesting). This is but the chief highlight in a myriad of memorable moments during my last few weeks at 'db' that have helped to ensure that I shall look forever fondly back upon this period of my life in Vancouver. Whoever would have thought it: a restaurant of all places showed me a lighter side to life and a wide array of significant challenges at the same time.
Best wishes to all!
David xxx
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