Vancouver, BC
Biking like Vancouverites
After spending two weeks in small towns and remote areas, far from the hustle-and-bustle of cities, N. and I were looking forward to the hustle-and-bustle of Vancouver. We had heard and read enough paeans to the city, rhapsodies about its multicultural and cosmopolitan vibes, its beautiful location between the mountains and the sea. But before all that, we had to deal with the more mundane facts of life: where would we park our van in the city?
In large cities, our van’s ability to park itself in a regular, single parking spot was one of its many conveniences; the one challenge that remained, though, was its required height clearance: 10 feet. That meant that we could not park in parking garages — an open air parking lot was required. Usually it was not an issue, but in downtowns — where each open spot was precious and costly — solutions required more flexibility.
Option 1: park close to our hotel, near Stanley Park. The common rate of CAD$80 per day made this prohibitive. Option 2: park at the airport’s long term parking with troublesome transit from the airport to the hotel along with the inconveniences of not having all our stuff close at hand. We had resigned ourselves to Option 2, but the hotel doorman pointed us to Option 3: there was a parking lot around the corner from the hotel; he just wasn’t sure if one could park overnight (a common prohibition to prevent surreptitious camping).
After about an hour of downloading parking apps, calling the developer and parking lot management for clarifications, talking to security officers about the shattered glass in the lot — likely from broken windows — and the bike-riding parking fee enforcer, we parked our van and fed the meter generously.
We were able to catch the sunset by the English Bay.
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Just like Portland and Seattle, Vancouver had been intentional about planning for bike lanes in the city. Important thoroughfares around the city had 2-way bike lanes with dedicated bike signal lights. We went to test them at Stanley Park.
Although the park itself was criss-crossed by bike lanes, we stuck to the outside perimeter along the waterfront. It provided a gorgeous view of the northern Vancouver skyline: the bridges over Vancouver Harbour and Burrard Bay, the houses dotting hills, the snow-capped peaks beyond. All along the trail were interesting stops — the Seawall, the Totem Poles, the Brockton Point Lighthouse. There was even a Hallellujah Point, which my father-in-law would have loved. It was a warm sunny day, so lots of other people had the same idea we did; it made for a happy and festive mood on the trails.
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After lunch, we rode to the Bill Reid Gallery of Northwest Coast Art. It was a marvelous little gallery with works by Reid and other local First Nations Indigenous artists.
The gallery along with many other businesses in the area posted a variation of the following official acknowledgment by the City of Vancouver:
“The City of Vancouver acknowledges that it is situated on the unceded traditional territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations. This place is the unceded and ancestral territory of the hən̓q̓əmin̓əm̓ and Sḵwx̱wú7mesh speaking peoples, the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and has been stewarded by them since time immemorial.”
In fancy words, the statement was recognizing, “Hey, this land we’re sitting on was actually stolen.” This was but a tiny example of one of the values of travel: learning how other countries and cultures addressed thorny challenges.
Another local example: from a very cursory reading, I gathered that the Canadian government recognized and attempted to redress the practice of removing indigenous children from their communities, placing them in government-run schools, and erasing their language, culture and family ties — ethnic cleansing. According to a government website, “The Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement, the largest class-action settlement in Canadian history, began to be implemented in 2007. One of the elements of the agreement was the establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada to facilitate reconciliation among former students, their families, their communities and all Canadians.”
I imagine that was the first step in a long healing process.
Now what would the possibilities be if something similar happened back home?
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We must have let the bike lanes go to our heads, because we decided to bike from our hotel in Vancouver’s West End neighborhood, across Granville Street Bridge, to Granville Island Public Market — a measly 3.1 miles. What hard could that be?
We discovered early on that, although Vancouver was a great bike city, it was not a perfect bike city. Yes, in many roads, dedicated bike lanes and bike signals followed main arteries around the city, protecting riders with high visibility green paint and curbs or tall lane dividers. No, such bike lanes did not exist in every street, so sometimes, we merged into car lanes. “Share the Road”, read the signs, an admonition that we were praying Vancouver drivers took to heart. At one point, I was trying to stay ahead of a public electric bus and was successful for a couple of blocks only because of the many red lights and bus stops along the way. When we hit a long stretch without either, the bus driver finally lost patience with me, honked, and passed me.
We arrived at the Granville Island Public Market in one piece; it was a marvelous little place. Instead of underground byzantine dens like in Seattle’s Pike Place, Granville Island was laid out with several warehouses dotting the area; each warehouse contained many artists’ studios, restaurants, a comedy club and other entertainment spaces and, in the main attraction, vendors for everything from fruits and vegetables to meats, seafood, cheeses, pastries, and coffee. There was no salmon-throwing ala Pike Place. But there were Canadian geese — in Canada, where they belong.
A busker by an open air picnic area was trying to entertain visitors with jokes, juggling, and circus acts. A representative sample:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been working four years to perfect my juggling act. In that time, I could have gotten a bachelor’s degree…”
“C’mon, guys, a big round of applause. For our American friends, you don’t need to clap; just fire your guns into the air…” (A bit dark, that one.)
I left Granville Island reluctantly, but was happy to oblige N.’s desire to visit the flagship store of his favorite outdoor clothing brand, which turned out to be super disappointing. The only other trivia remotely worth mentioning was that Ryan Reynolds had grown up in the neighborhood; I read that fact because was the marketing team for the town of Kitsilano had found the fact worth putting out there. Not sure risking our lives biking on roads with cars and drivers eager to get home at rush hour was worth either of those things.
The day ended with dinner at a Malaysian restaurant that put mango on everything — in the appetizer salad, in the main prawn dish, and in the sticky rice mango dessert. We ended up striking a lovely conversation with a young couple at the next table, locals from North Vancouver who were curious about our van-lifing. Mangoes did not come up.
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Because we had already seen Seattle’s Space Needle, it was not easy to be impressed by the Vancouver Lookout. It was 553 feet (so Seattle, you win in the lookout category, with the Space Needle coming in at 605 feet), but it looked much shorter, perhaps because the round structure was sitting on top of a building, so it lacked the svelte elegance of the Needle. The Vancouver Lookout also sat among many other taller buildings that made the viewing platform shorter by comparison.
Considering our quickly diminishing expectations, once we walked out of the see-through elevator doors — which were covered in abundant amounts of the effects of well-fed birds — the views from the top were better than expected, maybe even more romantic in a way.
Vancouver prided itself on being a city where one could ski down a mountain in the morning and go sunbathing in the afternoon. From the lookout, we could see geographical proof of these claims. There were the mountains of North Vancouver; the diverse neighborhoods in the east and south; BC Place, the stadium for the games for the Canadian Football League (who knew Canadians played football?); and Stanley Park. And water, water everywhere, with a busy waterfront serving huge crowds of tourists, in the beaches and piers (the city was a major port for cruise ships headed to Alaska). We even stuck around long enough to watch a ship sail away slowly and make its way under the Lions Gate Bridge. I was secretly hoping that something exciting would happen, oh, like maybe the ship not clearing the bridge. Alas, everyone made it under safely.
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After a treat of a lovely brunch (a break from our usual van breakfast), we decided to walk to the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden. It was billed as, “a registered museum and one of Vancouver’s top tourist attractions[...] This Ming Dynasty-style garden-home is the first among its kind to have been built outside of China, and continues to be unique among the world as the result of the joint collaborative effort of community members, the Canadian Government, and the People’s Republic of China.”
It just so happened that a few days before, a news website had put out another episode of its series, “36 Hours.” It consisted of tips for visiting a city — usually a city — with recommendations for sightseeing, restaurants, cafes, entertainment. And here was the newly published “36 Hours Vancouver.” I always made sure to read the comments: locals chimed in to support or criticize the recommendations, to lament the secret local spots which would now be mobbed by tourists, to quibble and argue. In Vancouver’s version, quite a few mentioned — as I imagine locals from San Francisco, Portland or Seattle might — the challenges of gentrification, housing crisis, homelessness.
Walking from our brunch spot to the Chinese Garden, we saw evidence that those locals were not exaggerating. After just a ten minute walk from the financial district — with multi-national accounting offices, world class universities, and expensive restaurants — we felt the vibe change. More store fronts were boarded up, more people were loitering in the streets with bags and shopping carts, and more quickly we began to walk.
Upon turning a corner, we saw the homeless congregating in massive numbers in the next block; there must have been at least a hundred people or so. At first, N. kept insisting that it was a weekend farmer’s market of sorts. I could see plainly that was not the case. From far away, I saw several canopies set up on a street and my best guess was that city or volunteer organizations were offering meals or other services for those living on the streets. While walking, I saw a young woman snorting drugs inside her tent; a disheveled man repeatedly trying to pick up some candy wrap from the ground with shaky hands; a discarded syringe on the street. I tried to walk as quickly as I could without being obviously panicked. I felt better after crossing the metal doors into the walls of the enclosed Chinese garden.
According to the garden’s docent, all the rocks, wood and other building material used in constructing the garden were brought from China; workers also used traditional construction techniques of joinery, without use of nails or screws. There was symbolism in the placement of rooms and in the natural or geographical motifs used to adorn the many walls, windows, screens — for example, the bat was considered a symbol of good fortune in Chinese culture. There were also trees, bushes, flowering plants — all of which I found difficult to enjoy because all I could think about was the gauntlet I had to walk through outside to get back to our hotel.
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In the same afternoon, we drove outside the city center to the Queen Elizabeth Park, whose face was also on many bills and coins in Canada, and whose aunt Victoria was the namesake for the capital of the province. Because it sat high on a hill, it offered another vantage point from which to enjoy the Vancouver skyline.
Inside the Bloedel Conservatory were samples of many trees and plants of the rainforest, alongside many birds that were allowed to fly free. Perhaps because of our sad morning adventures, I could not help but look with some sadness at the intelligent and socially complex parrots, for example, ensconced under the glass dome, in simple wooden posts, gawked at by visitors. (A recent online article shared findings from a study from Northeastern U. and the U. of Glasgow: parrots learned how to use Zoom and benefitted from social stimulation in interactions with other parrots.)
A sign by the exit door requested that visitors make sure to close the door to prevent birds from escaping. I closed the door completely, but only after the thought of leaving a crack open flitted through my mind.
Coincidentally — or maybe not — we ended the day with dinner at a place called Little Bird.
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