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Hello everyone!
No sooner had I waved goodbye to Victoria, the keening solitude crashing back over me even as she disappeared through the entrance to the airport's inner sanctum, than I found myself stood once more in an arrivals area rapidly becoming familiar to me, the darkness of the late hour held back by the flood-lit terminal building. My mind wrapped in nostalgia, warmed by these memoires of the city airport and Vic's recent stay, but also of firmer, older mrememberings, of Cambridge once more, I awaited the entrance of another very good friend from that time. Madeleine became one of my closest friends during our Masters-year at Cambridge, when we both studied Classics, she a more literary type than I. Her studies now continuing upon the east coast of the US (yes, there is that 'brain-drain' once more!), Mad had been very keen to come and see the sights out west, surprising me with an excited, exciting request to visit some months ago. I was quite elated at the prospect of welcoming another dear friend to 'my' city and especially as, since our time together in Cambridge had ended, Mad had remained so close, despite the physical distances so often separating us. In fact, following a handful of similar relationships in my new life as a traveller, I would even reason that in some respects our friendship had strengthened since then, helped by occasionally sporadic, but ever interesting correspondence.
Mad safely arrived (a little early even) and our reunion continuing upon the Sky-Train back towards down-town and our temporary home, the conversation turned to what ideas I had concerning places that I thought we should visit over the coming days and whether Mad had any particular activities or destinations in mind herself. Ascertaining that in the latter case the answer pointed towards my working with a blank canvas (by which I simply mean that Mad was without special inclinations, beyond wishing to see something of the city), I ran some of my thoughts by her. I still smile to note the expression register upon her face as I mentioned one idea especially: I had recently completed a shift at the restaurant that centred upon a special fund-raising event for the local Vancouver opera - in place of the usual tip-out for this occasion, we had instead all been issued with complimentary tickets to attend the current programme of Puccini's 'Madama Butterfly'. I had, with a little help from a good friend, been able to procure an additional ticket to the performance, therefore; would Mad care for a visit to the opera during her stay? The running current of emotions across her face, flowing from shock to incredulity, to excited anticipation was fabulous.
The hour was late by the time that we emerged from the transit bus into the heart of Kitsilano, yet neither of us were especially tired and, crucially, Mad was somewhat starved after the customary lack of edible food on the rather short flight. At sometime a little past midnight in the quirkiest of neighbourhoods, there is really only one place to consider visiting for a quick bite - actually, not so much a 'quick bite' as a (very) substantial meal, fresh vegetables burdening the plate, threatening to spill out across the table in an effort to escape to a place less crushed by their fellows. Our excursion gave Mad a chance to eat, myself an opportunity to showcase a first point of interest within the local area and allowed both of us to continue our conversation of reacquaintance and planning for the days ahead. The meal over, our stomachs most definitely sated, we completed the short walk back to my then current place of residence: after moving out of my Dunbar pad at the end of May, some week earlier, I was now lodging with my friend Ari and his lovely house-mate Connie, occupying their rather comfortable couch. In a display of magnanimous generosity, these two stars had agreed without reservation to Mad staying as well, so long as we could work out sleeping arrangements between ourselves (this was not especially difficult; Mad took the comfy couch and I made a deceptively luxurious nest of pillows and cushions upon the floor). The time somewhere in the early hours, the house dark and still, we decided that introductions would have to wait until the following day, before simultaneously collapsing upon our allotted beds to greet that erstwhile nightly companion once more, sleep.
Just as with Vic previously, once again with Mad it was possible to see and do a great deal in a relatively short period of time. The opera certainly sealed itself in my mind as a particular highlight of Mad's trip. This was my first visit to the opera and I was understandably curious and slightly apprehensive: more accustomed to the medium of a Broadway musical, would I find the opera too ponderous, too elevated? I had been reassured multiple times before the onset of the performance that 'Madama Butterfly' is an especially good first opera to attend and this proved to be the case for me. The singers were powerful and gracious, the score wonderfully harmonic and diverse, whilst the set itself was rather minimalistic, the costumes of the performers were elaborate and elegant. Sung in Italian, like many others in the audience no doubt, I was appreciative of the electronic board above the stage that displayed a rough translation, although I was discomfitted by the simplification of some passages, when the English became ludicrously juvenile. Despite this, there was no toning down of the voices themselves and I found the music powerfully moving at times, especially in a climactic scene during which three singers strove with one another and something approaching the full symphonic range in the stalls below: here the opera was at its most breath-taking for me, effective enough that I would willingly attend a future performance, Puccini or otherwise. It was with a wry smile that I recognized the story of this opera from one such musical that I had previously attended, that of 'Miss Saigon'. Indeed, this is a very similar story: the musical is influenced quite heavily by Puccini's creation. Clearly the two forms interact and yet they are vastly different in approach and execution: whilst my predilection, coloured by past experience as much as actual favour, would hint at a preference for the musical format, nonetheless I came away with a new, welcome appreciation for the operatic mode.
As with Vic's stay, the companionship of Mad offered me another shameless opportunity to delve into the gastronomic delights of Vancouver, a gluttonous guide indeed. Mad provided the perfect excuse for a first visit to the pastry shop run by Thomas Haas, a chocoholic's Mecca. Here I tasted the finest hot chocolate to pass my lips in a very long time and bit down upon possibly the most delicious almond crossiant I have ever consumed. We sat outside, the gentle late-morning sun warming our faces, twin-cast in raptured repose, the bustle of Broadway passing us by. An adorable little girl wandered past with her mother, the thumb of one hand firmer clamply between her lips, the other hand anchored assuredly in that of her parent. The girl lingered, clearly every bit as interested in our sugary sensations as ourselves, but there was something more: I heard the mother's response to the young girl's whisper; 'well, tell her then, she won't mind'. A brief flash of a roguish old man, wrapped in yellow mackintosh, cast against a backdrop of the sea stole into my mind, but I need not of worried. The girl, with touching hesitancy, withdrew her thumb long enough to murmur to Mad that she looked reminiscent of Alice, from Wonderland. Although I am not convinced how much of a compliment Mad saw in this opinion, she was gracious nevertheless in her acceptance of it, the girl blushing anyway, inevitably, before finally allowing her mother to drag her away.
After this decadent pleasure it was on further east to the definitive quirky neighbourhood, compressed into a single street filled with bright, beautiful murals bursting from external walls and crowded with equally colourful characters. Commercial Drive is an institution in the collective consciousness of Vancouverites, deservedly famous for its relaxed, hugely cosmopolitan feel ad dizzying array of dining and entertainment establishments, with a slight favour perhaps towards those restaurants of Italian orientation, a lasting echo to the ethnic group that first planted itself in this locality. Here we wandered up and down the street, taking in the buoyant atmosphere, Mad even indulging me in a quick overview of the up-coming World Cup, reserving her judgement of my self-assured assumptions (which is more than can be said for the Algerians we passed, who jeered good-naturedly at the mention of England - a contentious name invoked by an English accent no less). On our way back up the street we called at an eatery that I also visited with Victoria, home to some of the best poutine in the city. Poutine, for the uninitiated, is the closest single offering that Canada seems to have conjured towards a national dish. I must be frank; for a country with so much international flair existing within its borders and home to a sizeable swathe of inhabitants claiming French descent no less, Canada has claimed a very disappointing national dish. This is not to say that poutine is disappointing in itself - far from it - merely that I would imagine a country as ethically diverse as Canada to have found something a little more impressive to herald as their gastronomic centrepiece. Still, poutine is simple, easy to prepare and devastatingly tasty and bad for a bod in equal measure: chips, topped with melted cheese curds and lashings of miso gravy. As my favourite 'Masterchef' presenter would probably say; its rich, warm, very deep, with a silky texture that holds you tight and a luxurious taste that gives you a great big kiss to round things off.
Towards the twilight of this day, filled with almond croissant, hot chocolate and plentiful poutine, somehow Mad and I found ourselves walking into 'db' ready for a second round (in my case at least) of fabulous, exalted service and sumptuous food that defied even our rather ravished taste-buds. Once again, Chris was on splendid form, he and our server Todd - a good friend - answering our every need, both those expressed and others besides. Again, there was complimentary food, including a delicious surprise course between the appetizer and mains of chicken oyster fricassee, bursting with rich, woody flavour and soft, supple texture. Chris repeated his previous feat of pairing some pleasing wines with our courses, before completely mesmerizing me with his final gift of a variation upon the port that I was able to select as an after-meal treat. Banyuls is a hauntingly beautiful dessert-wine, often referred to as the French cousin to port, it is grenache-based and older than its more established relative, discovered in southern France sometime during the thirteenth century. One sip and I was transported to a place and time far removed from the busy, low-lit dining-room, sultry jazz music woven into the background. Instead I found myself sat upon some ancient terrace, the sun bright across my face, boats bobbing atop a brilliant blue sea below. Ah, a discovery indeed!
There remained one final evening of excitement before Mad caught her plane back to New York, back out of my experimental attempt at the life of an expatriate. I had finally managed to pin down Chris for a social drink and so Mad and I started the evening early with a visit to Gas-town to sample a little of the drinking culture thriving in that neighbourhood. We wound up at 'Irish Heather', a lovely little bar, centrally located. It has a quite bewildering selection of whiskey from Scotland and further afield, each categorized by the name distinct to each country (much as is the case with champagne, 'whiskey' only qualifies for that name alone if produced in Scotland). Mad explored a little of this gammut, whilst I stuck to my new, Canadian practice of draught beer, for once decidedly underwhelmed by my choice, even though I knew the beer to be tasty from previous encounters. My mind was elsewhere and perhaps Mad picked up on that fact. In any case there ensued another defining conversation much like that enjoyed with Ryan some weeks previously. This can be a confusing and fantastically complex life and we humans are able only to discern so much: it is fortunate and - at times - absolutely necessary to be able to voice some of the struggles with those willing to listen and to explore the difficulties, side-by-side. That night pinned me, held me fast in a web of unanswered questions and undecided emotions. It was a rare - though increasingly frequent - occasion in which I considered my current direction, my aspirations and just how good a job I am doing of this 'living' business. Such doubt comes to many, if not all, of us of course, but this knowledge does little to assuage the pain, the panic and the perplexity of such internal interrogation, when it chooses to flame up, demanding to be acknowledged. Mad and I talked, we entertained some aspects of this metaphysical tyranny, confronted one particular issue appropriate to us both at present and then we moved on: Chris had contacted me and we were in danger of arriving late.
The cocktail bar at which we spent the remainder of that night, drinking inspirational creations crafted lovingly by the proprietoress, a good friend to Chris, proved to be an uplifting setting indeed. It was good to have the opportunity to chat with Chris and his lovely wife Paula away from the constraints of the work-place, in a more informal, convivial situation. Mad and I learnt a little more of this wonderful couple's background and Paula in particular pulled some surprises. As an actress, she has studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA) in London and wasted little time in reminiscing with Mad, who has also spent large periods of time in that city. She also excited us with the sensational news that she may well soon be starring alongside one of my favourite actors in an up-coming film production. Paula is witty and intelligent, a brilliant foil to Chris and I had a superb time in their company that evening. We were later joined by Ari, fresh from his own visit to the opera (our tickets were spread out over two different performances - it would not do to have everyone absent from work on the same night, even for such a cultured line of reasoning). Thus the evening passed pleasantly and we emerged eventually back onto the street to finish our conversation in the midst of excitable young folk out and about on the town. Our farewells complete, Ari, Mad and I made our way home via a late-night pizzeria; for once I relented and we took a taxi, saving our feet and the potential for another cultural experience on one of the city's late-night buses.
Mad departed the next day, insisting that I not accompany her all the way to the airport, where she would have to leave me so quickly anyway. It was wonderful to see her after so long and my pleasure to showcase a little of this fantastic city to so receptive and appreciative a guest (just as it had been with Vic - really; it is not at all difficult when the subject is so charming, so awesome a location as Vancouver). With some luck, we shall rendezvous once more upon this continent, when I arrive in New York sometime towards the end of my latest grand adventure. I can hardly wait, but there is much to occur before that reunion.
Best wishes to all!
David xxx
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