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Just four weeks after my last excursion to this wondrous city, I was headed back again. Even the residual aches from surgery just twelve days before would not deter my quest for new discoveries. As expected, the Alaska Airlines flight was right on schedule. Looking out the port window, I could see skies that ranged from the color of turquoise to midnight blue. It was unreal, clear and cloudless, until some fluffy cumulus cotton candy formations drifted in from the Pacific as we approached Canada. As I was folding one of my maps, the man seated next to me asked if this was my first trip to Vancouver. He and his wife were from Delta, a suburb that we were just flying over, and were returning home from a holiday in San Diego at the Mission Bay Hilton. We talked about the similarities and differences of the two cities, agreeing that Vancouver offered a diversity of sights and cultural attractions that placed it ahead in most categories. I never caught his name, but he gave me some good ideas for walking excursions, options to go over to Victoria for the day, and places to explore in Vancouver including Granville Island Public Market and Stanley Park. With these thoughts, and the mandatory two Drambuies warming my spirits, I headed for my next Canadian adventure.

The journey from the gate through YVR airport was now a familiar one, and went more quickly with my carry-on in tow. I bypassed the luggage area, skipped a visit to the bank to exchange money as I still had a supply of Canadian dollars from my last visit, and caught the Airporter bus just as it was ready to depart. There were only 4 other passengers, and we made what seemed like record-breaking time to the SeaBus terminal. Unfortunately it was rush-hour when all the commuters returned home from “The City” to “North Van”, as North Vancouver is more commonly called, and the SeaBus already had its quota of 400 passengers, so I waited not so patiently in line for the next departure. In spite of my efforts to save time on the transit from the airport to Sue’s Victorian Guest House (circa 1904), the trip still took the better part of two hours.

When I did finally arrive, I was greeted by Jen, a lovely woman who had just completed her courses at a haute cuisine school in Vancouver, and was doing an internship in the hospitality industry. She gave me a tour of all the rooms, the garden, the kitchen, and the cats. There were several of the latter, but my favorite and soon to be new friend was Boomer. I discovered his tail sticking out from underneath my bed, and following that appendage soon came upon the rest of his body. Boomer is a white cat with black markings and a loving disposition, making him a very sociable animal. Maybe this is what caused his problems with the raccoons, because Boomer only has three legs, having lost his front right paw in a tangle with a coon when he was but a kitten. I let him go back to sleep and explored the room. It looked out on the harbor and 3rd Street, a busy thoroughfare, and was much smaller than my room at Helen’s Bed & Breakfast where I stayed on my last visit, and where I would return tomorrow night. There were a couple of beds, a TV/VCR, and various decorations that could only be described as “cute” -- an embroidered sign that said “Life is one stitch after another”, a Victorian calendar, and various stuffed animals. The cheerfulness was tempered by the oppressive heat. It was hot. The late afternoon sun came streaming into the bay windows. I turned the overhead fan on as fast as it would go, and then made for the bathtub to soak away the grime and fatigue.

When I came downstairs, refreshed and smelling of the lavender bubble bath, I met Sue who was finishing her dinner at the kitchen table along with Jen. She invited me to join them for a lemonade. Sue was originally from New Zealand and worked as a school teacher giving cooking classes attended mostly by young boys who loved to eat. We talked about restaurants, and cuisine’s, and of course, raccoons. Both of these ladies had an adoring love of animals. It seems that they had adopted a family of the little masked animals (she called them Pablo and his relatives), and invited me to watch them arrive for their supper just after sunset, about 10:30 p.m. I made a mental note of trying to do that. I had heard that raccoons wash their food, like sea otters, and were just as cute and adorable.

All the talk about food had made me hungry, so I headed towards Lonsdale, the main commercial street just a few blocks away, and found a table at my favorite eatery from my last visit, “The End.” It was Rick’s day off, so I missed the chance to see if he remembered me. The pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, basil and oregano was just as delicious as I remembered from the last time, and keeping to form, the Shaftsbury Honey Lager still hadn’t arrived (truck had an accident), so I settled for a local draft. As there was no live entertainment this night up on the stage, after my meal I decided to walk over to Lonsdale Quay for a chocolate dipped frozen dessert. It was still light, at about 9:15 p.m. While it had been a long day and I was feeling tired, I decided to make the most of my BC Transit Day Pass, and take the SeaBus over to Vancouver. Just gazing up at the lights from the skyscrapers made the crossing worthwhile. My research on the Internet had mentioned an area on Seymour Street near Granville that was reputed to have the most beautiful hookers in all of Canada. So far, everything that I had seen in Vancouver had been pristine and unsullied. This would give me a chance to see the underbelly, sort of a “Ulysses in Night-Town” excursion. Taking the Sky Train to Granville, I walked up Granville until I arrived at Nelson, and turned left. The women were standing in groups of 2-3 all along Seymour and Richard Street, in the square block bounded by Nelson and Davie. They were exceptionally stunning, not too blatantly attired, and perhaps a little reserved in their advertising techniques. An array of cars and pedestrians wandered past. A few of the women asked me if I wanted their company, and regrettably I declined. It was somewhat of a sad and tarnished scene, repeated in different versions all over the world.

I found a bus on Granville and soon was again crossing Burrard Inlet on the SeaBus. Many of the other passengers wore Ozzie Osborne T-shirts, returning from a concert that the performer had just given. No time for the raccoons tonight, I was back in my room before midnight. Getting to sleep was another matter. First I arranged a conference between one of the teddy bears and the Raggedy Ann doll. Then I sorted through the various Victorian throw pillows, and journeyed from one bed to another. I was more comfortable, but still wide awake. Something was missing. In the darkness, I remembered there was an overhead fan and it was awfully quiet. Pulling a few chains, I soon had the propeller humming at maximum velocity, creating a white background noise. Soon after that, I must have fallen asleep.

I awoke early, anticipating a busy schedule. The room was filled with sunlight. It was going to be another flawless day, perhaps a few degrees cooler. In a few minutes I was dressed and had repacked my overnight bag. A passing bus took me one long block nearer to Helen’s Bed & Breakfast, and I walked the two short blocks to her front door. When I arrived, Helen was preparing breakfast for her lodgers. She offered me a cup of coffee, and took time to discuss the pros and cons of visiting Butchart Gardens in Victoria, compared to spending the day in Vancouver at Stanley Park. I decided on the latter, as it would give me more time for other activities. Leaving my bag, I headed for the Lonsdale Quay. Breakfast consisted of fresh blackberries, blueberries, raspberries and strawberries, kiwi fruit, peaches and bananas, a whole wheat bagel, washed down with a couple of cups of fresh coffee, all for less than five dollars. Afterwards, I stopped at the TicketMaster booth and inquired about concerts. Alanis Morrissette would be performing the following night, and The Cranberries were coming to town next Saturday. Timing is everything, and mine was off by just a few days. The only other choice was a ticket to the classic Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein musical “Show Boat”, based on the novel by Edna Ferber and starring Ned Beatty and Cloris Leachman. I had to see it, and I would.

The day was beginning to become organized. The general plan was to hike over to Stanley Park, the largest such acreage in North America, and explore the flora and fauna. I caught the next SeaBus, marveled at the activity around the harbor (a seaplane was landing just off the bow of an Alaskan cruise liner), and began my trek towards the park. On the corner of Howe and Pender, the sculpture display of an art gallery caught my eye and I walked inside. The Marion Scott Gallery (481 Howe Street) is perhaps the premier venue for Inuit crafts, painting and sculpture in Vancouver. This was a great place to pass some time, and chat with Judy Scott Kardosh, the gallery’s director. I asked about other “must see” visual art exhibits in town, and Judy told me about The Group of Seven exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery, just a few blocks away. That turned out to be my next stop.

Located at Hornby and Robson, the Gallery is the City’s principal art museum. The Group of Seven were painters who lived in the Toronto area in the 1910’s, and who set out to depict distinctly Canadian subject matter, reflecting the character and ruggedness of the country. Their founder was the artist J. E. H. MacDonald. Other members included Frank Carmichael, Lawren S. Harris, A. Y. Jackson, Franz Johnston, Arthur Lismer, and Frederick Varley. The art critics of the time hated their efforts, and mocked them without mercy. It wasn’t because their depiction’s were so distorted or radical, but because they departed from the idealized conventions of the 19th Century English landscape painters. Canada was a very provincial place in those days. Anything different was panned. MacDonald and the others hardly sold any paintings, but now their works are in great demand. I bought a T-shirt with a reproduction of MacDonald’s The Tangled Garden on it, attended some of the docent lectures, and wandered around the galleries until it was time for lunch. Museums usually have great restaurants, and I was not disappointed here. The Cafe was located next to an outdoor terrace, which afforded splendid views of the downtown skyline, awash in sunshine and reflections. I had the Teriyaki Salmon, wild rice, mixed vegetables, salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, seven-seeded roll, and a glass of local white wine. All this for under ten dollars, and a chance to eavesdrop on conversations from nearby tables, something I find very amusing. Everything was yummy.

The walk to Stanley Park took less than half an hour. I passed dozens of construction sites for new high rise condos. It seems that the Chinese are leaving Hong Kong in droves, and putting their money into real estate. The world is always on the move, somewhere. Stanley Park is on a peninsula, surrounded by water. I entered it by going past the Vancouver Yacht Club (social memberships available), and then discovering the terraced rose gardens. There were many different varieties, some more fragrant than others. From here I decided to head towards the zoo and the aquarium. After stopping a few times for directions, I found the aquarium entrance and bought a ticket. The place was packed with fish and people. The exhibits were designed to instruct and teach ecology and conservation. I especially liked the tropical waters exhibit, which combined steamy jungles and butterfly enclosures. The Killer Whale show was a bit tedious and too free form for me. Unlike Sea World and other more commercial ventures, which ran their sea mammals through set routines, the staff here spend more time observing and explaining animal behaviors, mating hierarchy, and relating who was in the dog house that day. They were much less demanding and intrusive towards their animals, which was good, but there were fewer splashes and no tricks. Soon I drifted off to watch the sea otters and have an iced cappuccino.

I decided to leave in late afternoon to head back to my B & B and try for a nap. While waiting for a bus to take me over the Lion’s Gate Bridge to North Vancouver, I met a woman named Jennifer who told me about the fabric of Vancouver’s social structure, at least from her perspective. She worked for the government, collecting monies owed by people who were in uninsured auto accidents. It seems that there are lots of people who drive without proper insurance, even though it is against the law. It was Jennifer’s belief that the breakdown in society and lack of personal responsibility was caused by the women’s movement. Their promoting self-empowerment and high paying jobs (for women), led in turn to more independence, the breakdown of the family, and an “in your face” attitude. I was a bit confused by her reasoning, but still it was an interesting way to get another perspective.

Back at my lodging, I offered Helen a bottle of Drambuie in exchange for a glass of ice. She countered with a bottle of white wine, and so we had some drinks and conversation. We spoke about investing in Internet-related stocks, my attempts to write and publish a novel, and the proper way to enjoy Drambuie. I felt that this was another one of those little benefits of staying at a Bed and Breakfast Inn.

Foregoing my nap, I changed clothes, and headed over to the SeaBus terminal to get to the Ford Center where Show Boat was playing. While waiting for the next SeaBus (and sipping an iced cappuccino) I overheard two men talking about what guys usually talk about -- finding women. Soon, I had joined their conversation. One fellow was rather drunk and soon drifted off. His friend was a native of Vancouver, and told me about some of the undesirable changes that resulted from the heroin trade, the largest in North America. Hastings Street was where the junkies shot up in plain view of the police. The problem was so out of control that the authorities just turned a blind eye. It wasn’t even possible to bust anyone because of limited resources. Some very young entrepreneurs were making huge sums of money selling drugs, and paying cash for expensive cars and condos. Their values were skewed, their work ethic distorted. Service and respect for their customers did not exist. It was the darker side of Canadian society, and a microcosm of what was going on in the world at large. I am always fascinated by such tales, partly out of morbid curiosity, but mostly from a desire to understand life better. We parted company after the ferry docked in Vancouver. I promised that I would avoid Hastings Street at all costs. I wasn’t that interested in the seamier side of this city.

Show Boat was an incredible treat. Over three hours long, the music, choreography, costumes, stage sets were all great. “Ole’ Man River” and its many refrains would send chills down my spine. The musical was more than just a show; it was a history lesson, a review of the American Musical Theater, and a cultural and social overview as well. I loved it. Ned Beatty as Captain Andy was great, Teri Hansen’s operatic voice and beauty pageant face (as Magnolia) were stunning, and the other performers all shined as well. Going to the theater was a great way to cap off a wonderful day.

I got back to my room around midnight, snacked on the turkey sandwich and fresh fruit salad that I picked up at the 7-11 on the way home, soaked in the huge tub, and fell asleep almost the instant that I hit the bed.

Morning arrived all too soon. It would be my last day in town, with plenty of surprises to fill my memories. At breakfast I met Gerard and Claire, the other lodgers. They were from Montreal, and she hardly spoke any English. Gerard was an interesting fellow to talk with. They were returning from a cruise to Alaska and had traveled extensively. We talked about the separatist movement in Quebec (symbolic egoism, Gerard thought), the migration of French speaking peoples from Nova Scotia to Louisiana (a history of the Arcadians, and geopolitics of the French and Spanish), centralized governments and their antipathy toward personal empowerment, and perhaps a few other topics. It was great fare. Helen reminded us that our breakfasts were getting cold, but I said that this conversation was our breakfast -- breakfast for the mind! Then it was time to say goodbye again, settle my bill, and catch the SeaBus one last time.

I sat in the back of the SeaBus looking towards the skyline of North Vancouver, half wishing that I didn’t have to leave so soon. On the other side, I walked over to the cruise ship terminal and checked my one bag. Then I caught a bus that left me within walking distance of Granville Island, my main destination for that day. Granville Island is located beneath some bridges and roadways along False Creek. It has narrow, traffic congested streets, spectacular views of the downtown skyline, and the largest public market in Vancouver, which makes the Lonsdale Quay look like a neighborhood 7-11. There are also street musicians, jugglers, mimes, a comedy club, and a site for a free outdoor Shakespeare festival. By all standards, it is a lovely place to spend some time. I wandered through the various stalls, tasting samples, overwhelmed by the variety of colors and odors and tastes. Finally it was time to get down to some serious eating. I settled on Chinese food, Hong Kong fine noodles, chicken and vegetables, which I managed to consume with chopsticks while sitting in the sun watching a magician entertain the crowd.

Instead of leaving the Island the same way that I had arrived, I chose to take a little water ferry which carried fewer than six passengers across False Creek. From the landing I look a bus along Burrard Street and got off at 555 Burrard, attracted by the sounds of a musical group called “Crosswinds” performing for the lunchtime crowd before the Canada Trust Tower building. The female lead vocalist also played keyboards and guitar. Her voice was rich and mellow, and the music a blend of rock, jazz and blues. Before heading back to collect my bag, I stopped off at a little park across the street and up the block. It had a series of steps and a waterfall as backdrop to shady trees and benches, and was a perfect spot to meditate and collect my thoughts.

Then it was a long wait at the Pan Pacific Hotel for the Airporter Bus which was running an erratic schedule, horrendous traffic, cranky passengers, and finally the rat maze through Vancouver Airport to the boarding gate. On the way, something drew me to the Duty Free Shop, a place that I always bypass, where I purchased 4 tiny bottles of Drambuie at a very cheap price. As usual, I was early for my flight. The Starbucks was out of Frappuccino Mocha . They gave me a free iced cappuccino instead.

Finally, I was seated on the Alaska Airlines MD80, in my favorite seat by the front bulkhead, 6A. At the last moment a German family arrived out of breathe, making a tight connection. Mom and dad sat next to me and their attractive children (in their 20’s) in the row behind. We introduced ourselves. They were from Hamburg, on holiday to Vancouver and San Diego where they planned to rent an apartment for ten days. Their names were Hartwieg and Petra. Their kids were called Nicole (Nikkei) and André. I told them all about San Diego, suggested places for them to visit, offered to show them around, gave them my card, and then had a great inspiration. As soon as we were airborne, I made my way back to the galley, and in a conspiratorial voice asked the flight attendant for five glasses of ice and an equal number of peanuts. She needed to know what I was up to. I told her that I was preparing a nice surprise for the German family. With that information, she delivered the goods on a little tray which I carried back to my seat, and distributed them, along with little bottles of Drambuie for each person. They were stunned. Could they accept this generosity? I told them it would afford me great pleasure. They accepted, the kids gleefully, the parents a bit more restrained. We toasted each other formally, then sipped away. The other cabin attendant seemed in awe of my resourcefulness. After all, I had landed five bags of peanuts, no small task these days! Hartwieg reciprocated with a round of red wine, a passable California Cabernet . I had the impression that they didn’t know what to make of my generosity, and was very amused by their confusion!

We landed right on schedule, light as a feather, just at sunset. I wondered if the family from Hamburg would ever call me. There always has to be an element of suspense in life. It was another great trip.