The rain storm pelting the TransCanada Highway was so heavy and opaque it felt like we were driving through testimony at the Northern Gateway pipeline hearings.
"You`re coming up to the Port Mann bridge," said a voice on the phone as a choked combination of commuting drivers and Black Friday shoppers turned the surrounding traffic into a scene two parts Brazil, one part Blade Runner and a dash of Mad Max. "You`re in for a treat, it`s really quite magnificant."
UFO-sized saucers of soft white light penetrated the gloom, marking the footings of the three billion dollar testament to free enterprise Liberal government largesse. I expected, nay, demanded to see, as the sheets of rain gave way, a Brobdingnagian span flanked by colossal statues of Gordon Campbell in a toga, clutching the public purse in one hand and the head of Bill Vander Zalm in the other.
No such luck.
"That`s not the footings of a bridge," I said in a manner similar to the way Obi-Wan Kenobi first regards at the Death Star. "That`s a Toyota dealership."
People from Prince George are not northern B.C. yokels. But apparently I am.
So began my latest trip to Vancouver, a city that stirs up in me much of the awe and discomfort I experience when watching its beloved Canucks. One minute it`s a beautifully put-together mix of creativity, ingenuity and magic. The next it`s, well, a little flaky.
Where else can you see a Hare Krishna on the way to the airport in his Toyata Rav 4, which he probably bought from that dealership in Surrey but is no doubt fuelled by karma. In what other city could you think it`s worth it to pay $12 to park for three hours or be chased by bike cops on a 'traffic-calmed' street, slow motion, like that scene from the Way of the Gun?
You have to be from P.G. to do this, but where else could you be yelled at by a woman from the street and not know whether it`s for the U-turn you just pulled or the fact your studded tires on bare streets makes it sound as if you detonated an IED filled with castanets?
The studded tires drew stares but not the guy making giant bubbles on the corner of West 23rd. When we stopped to talk, he patiently explained he was an IT guy but was trying to create the perfect bubble formula. He'd spent the past eight months working on his plant-based gelatin solution, changing it by point-one of gram every day.
I don`t know what was more surprising - bubble guy or the fact a city acquaintance we met asked, without prompting, when we related the tale: "Is he using a plant-based gelatin solution?"
That said, there's a pseudoexistentialist tragedy that shrouds life in B.C.`s first city - it's become such a wonderful, desirable place to live that no one can afford to live there. Before my visit, the Royal Bank released the news housing prices had gone down in Vancouver to the point it only cost an average of 83.2 per cent of pre-tax household income to cover the mortgage payments, utilities and property taxes required to own a home in the city.
One alternative - hence the $3 billion bridge we just went over that`s the widest in the world - is commuting 45 minutes to an hour into the city from a nearby community. But, according to a house hunter, buying a typical Prince George home - three or so bedrooms, reasonable-sized backyard, etc. - could set you back $400,000-plus if it's within a decent mileage of Vancouver. And now you've got that murderous commute to look forward.
So that leaves either punishing rental rates or a half-a-million closet condo. I once wrote that Vancouverites were latte-sipping layabouts. After sampling life in the leveraged lane, I am prepared to retract that particular slur.
Some of the spirit of the slight, however, is apt. I'll admit that, like most of my writing, my observations are based on superficial, unscientific methodology but there is something to be said for observing the Vancouverite in a Starbucks, the human-urban equivalent of a watering hole in the Serengeti. I had a chance to examine this phenomena - and my significant other, whose natural habitat is the city - firsthand during our visit.
"I`ll have a venti non-fat vanilla latte," she said. `"Can you make it foamy but not quite cappucino-like?"
Her defence for this behaviour was: `"As a former barista, I can tell you there is a period between which the milk is half-steam and the milk is really foamy." It sounds like something one could pour into a bowl and serve to Schrodinger`s Cat.
Speaking of paradoxes, the man behind me in the line asked for a short coffee in a tall cup. When I asked the former barista to translate, she explained it was byproduct of urban living: by putting less coffee in a larger cup, commuters riding the bus or Skytrain don't have their drink sloshing over the rim as much.
A short coffee in a tall cup. It's as good a metaphor as any for life in the big city.
