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| You seem to be missing a W, Internet. |
Most is much less art than it is livelihood.
Tired chain link, unlinked, leans before moping gardens, the morning grey only mildly resisting the haphazard curls of spray cans.
Ashen faces are etched hollow by addiction. Many barely conceal their activities: a man, hunched over in a wheelchair, shudders with his hand outstretched.
Instead of coins, pills offered fall into it.
And yet, here I sit, tucking into a delicious Ruben Eggs Benedict at Jam Café. Delicious, but a reminder of my good fortune. Around the corner, the Gastown steam clock – one of the few remaining in the world – spouts a merry tune.
My journey carries me to Chinatown, where colours are both visual and olfactory: neon – although not what it once was, apparently – blends into dried seafood, lemongrass and fry oil. With an incense chaser.
Heading home, people and buildings alike are missing teeth, their makeup spray-painted. Reaching the west side a couple blocks away, I'm struck again by the contrast: high cheekbones set in glass.
Two Vancouvers.
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