Vancouver oh Vancouver
Last night I had pretty much the complete big city experience.
The Stroll
After finishing a long day of work at 6 I was met by my friend Kendra. A perfect night as it was cold but not raining. I led her throughon a walk through a dark warehouse area and then up onto the Cambie Street bridge. For once I wasn't concerned about the impending west coast earthquake and was able to enjoy the view of dozens of parked police cars and even the Incident Command Centre parked in the secure lot far below.
Once we crossed over into downtown I led us towards our culinary destination (would the French call this our destination culinaire? It sounds much better). The place that I had in mind was a Lebanese falafel house near the leftist bookstore on Hastings. Apparently not only is their remarkable, but as an embodiment of their commitment to the Palestinians they use the reputable and expensive olive oil produced by their cooperatives. This I had to try.
The Dinner
On arrival though we find it closed due to some kind of plumbing problem. Come back tomorrow they say. Disappointed we head further along Hastings, me acting as tour guide for Kendra who knows much less of the perhaps few charms of this city than I.
Having no idea where we will eat (and neither of us have much money to throw around or throw away) Kendra realizes that we are standing in fromt of a promising place, the Baghdad Cafe, which despite the name is primarily a Turkish place. T. and I had eaten lunch there once before in the summer and were extremely impressed, especially with the better than memorable baba ganoush. Of course we didn't pass up this chance.
On entering we were the only customers and my body quickly slipped into an unfamiliar feeling of relaxation tinged, more than tinged with a welling up anticipation of the lovely oily eggplant dish. Without further ado I'll cut to the chase: they must have been out of eggplant, I made the window fall out of the bathroom door, a whole bunch of people arrived to sit at the long empty table next to us and a young woman who was likely an addict came in and made a scene when she was denied use of the washroom. Despite these small setbacks dinner was enjoyable and I still anticipate the baba ganoush at some future point. And the window didn't break either.
More Strolling
What to do after dinner with several hours to pass until out film? Well we walked more of course. This time down West Georgia to do a little flanuer-ing along the row of exclusive shops clustered around the Fairmont and to A.Gregoriani, the men's clothier where I recently had a wonderful experience in choosing a shirt and tie. They were all closed but that wasn't the point anyways. After more yuppie and hootchy-mama watching along Robson we made our way to the repertory cinema for the main event of the evening.
The Cinema
Finally we settled into a decidedly uncrowded theatre to watch Shohei Imamura's 1970 documentary A History of Post-war Japan as Told By a Bar Hostess. Not much I can say about this except that it is fascinating, contains golden rare footage of Japanese left-wing demonstrations and riots and repression and is an unparalled document presenting a Japanese mama-san's take on her country's social history and her own professional, sexualand family life. am not setting out to write a review here (either of restaurant or film). Anyways, well worth the evening this was.
The Stroll
After finishing a long day of work at 6 I was met by my friend Kendra. A perfect night as it was cold but not raining. I led her throughon a walk through a dark warehouse area and then up onto the Cambie Street bridge. For once I wasn't concerned about the impending west coast earthquake and was able to enjoy the view of dozens of parked police cars and even the Incident Command Centre parked in the secure lot far below.
Once we crossed over into downtown I led us towards our culinary destination (would the French call this our destination culinaire? It sounds much better). The place that I had in mind was a Lebanese falafel house near the leftist bookstore on Hastings. Apparently not only is their remarkable, but as an embodiment of their commitment to the Palestinians they use the reputable and expensive olive oil produced by their cooperatives. This I had to try.
The Dinner
On arrival though we find it closed due to some kind of plumbing problem. Come back tomorrow they say. Disappointed we head further along Hastings, me acting as tour guide for Kendra who knows much less of the perhaps few charms of this city than I.
Having no idea where we will eat (and neither of us have much money to throw around or throw away) Kendra realizes that we are standing in fromt of a promising place, the Baghdad Cafe, which despite the name is primarily a Turkish place. T. and I had eaten lunch there once before in the summer and were extremely impressed, especially with the better than memorable baba ganoush. Of course we didn't pass up this chance.
On entering we were the only customers and my body quickly slipped into an unfamiliar feeling of relaxation tinged, more than tinged with a welling up anticipation of the lovely oily eggplant dish. Without further ado I'll cut to the chase: they must have been out of eggplant, I made the window fall out of the bathroom door, a whole bunch of people arrived to sit at the long empty table next to us and a young woman who was likely an addict came in and made a scene when she was denied use of the washroom. Despite these small setbacks dinner was enjoyable and I still anticipate the baba ganoush at some future point. And the window didn't break either.
More Strolling
What to do after dinner with several hours to pass until out film? Well we walked more of course. This time down West Georgia to do a little flanuer-ing along the row of exclusive shops clustered around the Fairmont and to A.Gregoriani, the men's clothier where I recently had a wonderful experience in choosing a shirt and tie. They were all closed but that wasn't the point anyways. After more yuppie and hootchy-mama watching along Robson we made our way to the repertory cinema for the main event of the evening.
The Cinema
Finally we settled into a decidedly uncrowded theatre to watch Shohei Imamura's 1970 documentary A History of Post-war Japan as Told By a Bar Hostess. Not much I can say about this except that it is fascinating, contains golden rare footage of Japanese left-wing demonstrations and riots and repression and is an unparalled document presenting a Japanese mama-san's take on her country's social history and her own professional, sexualand family life. am not setting out to write a review here (either of restaurant or film). Anyways, well worth the evening this was.
Evidence That My Cynicism and Survivialism is Justified
As we both live in different directions and as it was now late we decided that we would walk together into Chinatown and I thought that I would wait with Kendra at the bus-stop on Main and then walk on home alone through the Downtown Eastside. Everything is a normal. We talk about the movie, about Kendra's beau, etc. and then as we wait on Main Kendra comments that there are no other women about. True enough, although there are likely some prostitutes and addicts milling about a couple of blocks away on Hastings. And probably some street social workers. As we are standing around there are two guys lingering nearby and Kendra notices that one has taken off his belt. I figure he is going to use it to shoot heroin but then on closer look I see that he is wrapping it around his fist, "give me your money or I'll fuck you up" style. Or maybe I'll fuck you up and take your money style. After getting over a very brief appearance from my ego (in the form of "screw them I'm not backing off"playing through my mind) we turned and walked away and apart from an intense spike of adrenaline we came out unscathed. Once I got Kendra on the bus, and after refusing her offer to pay for my train fare (I'm not just tight-fisted with my own money) I was faced with the prospect of walking through the rest of the downtown eastside alone and a little overdressed. So I just started doing it, knowing that bosy language is everything, clutching my umbrella and reciting an inspired and make-shift mantra:
As I walk through the valley of death
I shall fear no evil
'Cause I'm the baddest motherfucker in the valley.
As I walk through the valley of death
I shall fear no evil
'Cause I'm the baddest motherfucker in the valley.
posted by Billy Jack at 10:16 AM
4 Comments:
Great post, Al! You can see why I only spent one year there, exciting as it was. Something about the innocence of Victoria seducing me brought me over from your side of the water. You running at all?
Thanks Jim. Vancouver is both sucky and great. Before I moved here I thought it only sucked. I am excited about the food. Going to eat at a Belgian Bistro this week.
Running, well, I've been held back for some time by my achilles injury but I have decided that the next logical course of action (after 4 or 5 gentle diagnostic runs) is to methodically burn off the scar tissue. I have had two little runs the poast three days and many more are planned.
Of course returning to the runnig life while the sidewalks and roads are coated in ice is no good at all but what real choice do I have? It's been a lazy January. No weights, a single visit to the dojo, a little skiing.
Have you been to the afghan horseman on west broadway? It's quite an authentic atmosphere (as best as I can tell) with the low tables and shoes-off at the door. The food, similar to indian or thai, is great for sharing. And after all, sharing doubles the fun.
jaker
Not yet Jaker. Viewing restauraunts from the outside it is so hard to tell what might be good. Thanks for the heads-up.
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