I'm back in the city in order to do some research at the university and catch up with friends. Oh yes, and I have a FIVE DAY wedding to attend. It will be a lot of fun! This is city is so beautiful and it's wonderful to be back, but after the quiet life in our sleepy university town abroad, and the peaceful rural life of my parent's place the last few weeks...the city is darker than I remember. Sunshine, a fresh breeze off the water, soaring mountains framing the horizon...and yet there is so much need here.
After being away a little while, the street presence of the homeless and needy seems oppressive. I forgot what it was like, and also I left before the weather got warm. Shopping cart homes abound and weathered men meet in parks and on sidewalks. Today I watched a transient man and his partner clean out their backpacks on the sidewalk, tossing Q-tips and food wrappers on the pavement. Everyone else at the bus stop averted their eyes. The city strike continues, the garbage and cigarette butts litter the sea wall and the grass grows longer hiding syringes in parks across the city. I took the bus down East Hastings to go to the PNE (the fair) a few evenings ago and we passed through the worst areas of the downtown Eastside. Swarms of the homeless and drug addicted flowed across the sidewalks and streets as the bus frequently braked. Dealer stood on corners. Police unlucky enough to pull foot patrol waded through masses of humanity, gesturing for people to move away from store entrances. Hundreds of people. Where does anyone begin? An angry wheel chair bound addict strapped himself in across from me, and a prostitute fingering her bags and screeching into her cell sat across the aisle. I fingered my necklace nervously, wondering why I chose to wear the small diamond pendant, the diamond from my great aunts engagement ring, reset as a graduation gift. And my only valuable possession. When I got off at the PNE, so did the man in the wheelchair, track marks running up his arm. He took off his baseball cap and began his panhandling at the gates.
After being away a little while, the street presence of the homeless and needy seems oppressive. I forgot what it was like, and also I left before the weather got warm. Shopping cart homes abound and weathered men meet in parks and on sidewalks. Today I watched a transient man and his partner clean out their backpacks on the sidewalk, tossing Q-tips and food wrappers on the pavement. Everyone else at the bus stop averted their eyes. The city strike continues, the garbage and cigarette butts litter the sea wall and the grass grows longer hiding syringes in parks across the city. I took the bus down East Hastings to go to the PNE (the fair) a few evenings ago and we passed through the worst areas of the downtown Eastside. Swarms of the homeless and drug addicted flowed across the sidewalks and streets as the bus frequently braked. Dealer stood on corners. Police unlucky enough to pull foot patrol waded through masses of humanity, gesturing for people to move away from store entrances. Hundreds of people. Where does anyone begin? An angry wheel chair bound addict strapped himself in across from me, and a prostitute fingering her bags and screeching into her cell sat across the aisle. I fingered my necklace nervously, wondering why I chose to wear the small diamond pendant, the diamond from my great aunts engagement ring, reset as a graduation gift. And my only valuable possession. When I got off at the PNE, so did the man in the wheelchair, track marks running up his arm. He took off his baseball cap and began his panhandling at the gates.
I recently sold my car. Got to fund the return airfare! And so I am experiencing my favorite city via transit. And what a different city you see. Sitting on the seabus one night, enjoying the short 15 minute trip across the water towards the glittering city lights, I was disturbed. Behind me sat a man. He looked perfectly normal, even carried a briefcase. But he could not stop screaming. His tightly clasped hands gripped his face, containing his wailing as best as possible. Occasionally he strode around, sitting back down to resume in a hoarse voice. Schizophrenic? Possibly. Everywhere it seems the mentally disturbed have been left to fend for themselves. And they take transit. And when it can't get any stranger, someone will do something marvelous. Late for a doctor appointment across town, I discovered too late that my change would only cover one zone of travel rather than two. The driver threatened to kick me off the bus as I rifled through my purse becoming flushed as tears welled in my eyes. It was all too much. As we lurched around a corner and I prepared to get off the bus and miss my appointment, a woman stood up and called out, "Do you need another dollar?" And the day was saved. I did spend the rest of the ride wondering if I could offer her alternate compensation. A stick of gum? A book mark? I will definitely pay it forward.
Anyways, back to my trip to the PNE story...Moments later, I was seated on the grass inside the gates after paying my $15 dollar entrance fee. Sitting on a blanket with my brother and his friends on a beautiful summers evening, listening to Emerson Drive. A grinning cowboy fiddles his way across the stage and a wave of jean clad girls scream in appreciation. I snicker along with my brother at the various antics of this Canadian country band. We're not really country. But we're having a good time. It feels good to be in Canada. And I don't take the bus home.
