First, I had a piece in the TO Star today about turning your backyard into a cottage. Got the idea, wrote it in two days, sent it in, and here it is. If only this job were always so fast and easy!
https://www.thestar.com/gift-redeem?t=cfabf464-f233-4358-bb27-f120fcb39b0a
I’m sitting in Chris’s garden in paradise, aka Gabriola Island. His little fountain attracts small birds, so what I hear is burbling, twittering, and the wind in the trees. Oh, and a rooster somewhere, and the faint hum of Chris’s hot tub, in which I immersed myself yesterday and will again today. (PS Pictures to follow in the next post.)
He lives in a one-story log house on half an acre, and because there’s a remote possibility that he might be gay, creative, and aesthetically sensitive, he has spent his entire time here beautifying every square inch. The house is lovely, comfortable and filled with interesting artefacts and art, and the garden, where there was nothing when he moved in, is, after an enormous amount of time, energy, and work, spectacular. He even has a big kitchen garden, surrounded by a deer fence, with herbs, veg, and fruit in profusion. West Coast gardens have me drooling — mild climate, lots of rain and sun, lush and gorgeous. Envious.
Backing up — on the plane west, I watched two movies: Train Dreams, which is beautiful, wise, and haunting, I loved it and will one day watch again on a bigger screen; and Wicked, which, although about inclusion and prejudice, I found overdone and silly, with them breaking into song at the most inappropriate moments. I know it’s a fantasy musical, but there’s a good way to make that work, and a bad way.
And then I looked out the window and there were the Rockies, breathtaking. As we went west, tho’, the sky grew smokier. By half an hour outside of Vancouver you couldn’t see a thing outside the window, just smoke. The pilots must have been flying blind. Scary. Vancouver was shrouded.
I lived there from 1975 to 1983 and have many memories, although there’s sadness too — so many colleagues died in the eighties of AIDS, there are a lot of ghosts. And this stunning city has been transformed into a valhalla of wealth. But still stunning.
Friends Judy and Jim picked me up from the Skytrain and took me right away to a friendly neighbourhood coffeeshop, then to their airy, stylish house in Kitsilano. We went for a long walk by the ocean, something I’d been dreaming about. The first hit of that fresh, salty smell made me dizzy with pleasure, and so did picking my way over wet rocks and logs on the beach. Just like old times.
Had a great visit with them, and then next morning, after another beach walk to another friendly coffee shop, was picked up by Alison Green, who used to be the costume and set designer at the Arts Club. We drove out to UBC to visit our dear mutual friend Margaret, who had a fall last year and never went home again. After the hospital she was in cognitive decline and also refused to walk although apparently she can, so is in a wheelchair in long-term care. I was filled with trepidation before the visit; once a CBC producer, she was my editor for years, read my work and gave insightful comments.
But although diminished, she is very much Margaret, knew who I was, remembered names I’d forgotten. We took her out for lunch and we all talked about our kids and grandkids and past good times. It was as lovely as a visit like that can be. She’s resilient and cheerful, not a complaint, not a scowl, just a beaming smile. Did my heart good.
Then Judy kindly drove me to the West End, to stay with yet another old friend, Bruce. Bruce, Chris and I went to India together, and Bruce and I continued to travel — to Italy several times, to Spain, to France. He was the perfect travel companion who researched everything and booked all the tickets — how lucky was I? He has lived in the same small apartment since 1977; the interior is unchanged, but the view … he’s on Beach Avenue, with an incredible vista over English Bay. He walked me to the Granville Island ferry, a mini-ferry that takes you across to one of my favourite places. It was incredibly crowded this time but still, the market is phenomenal with many interesting stalls. I bought a “French traditional” saucisson sec for Chris.
Bruce and I went to a favourite venue, the Sylvia Hotel, for dinner on the patio with another view of the water, and then sat outside on the beach watching the parade of teeming humanity as the sun went down and a young musician played the double bass. It could not have been nicer.
What a city. Tons of bike trails and parks, wild spaces and beaches, the huge Kits pool right beside the ocean; everyone is health conscious here, jogging, biking, hiking, kayaking, sailing — I saw a new device, a bicycle on pontoons that you pedal across the water. If I lived here, I’d like one of those. But now it’s prohibitively expensive to live here. And anyway, I did not like living on the rainy edge of the continent, with ocean on the west side and the far north on the other. I like being able to go in any direction from smelly, crowded, noisy, central old Toronto.
A night on Bruce’s sofa-bed and then off to the new Hullo Ferry. It’s a catamaran that goes from downtown Vancouver to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island in 75 minutes or so, very fast and easy, what a great innovation. Got the free shuttle to the Gabriola ferry, walked on, and there was Chris on the other side. He had lunch ready to eat in the garden; in the evening, he brought back a delicious pizza and we followed his usual routine: dinner and a movie, diet Coke for him and rosé for me.
This morning we walked Sheba in the forest with Chris’s dogwalker group and had lunch outside at the Surf. Chris said when he was there once, a table of people ordered and when told it would be twenty minutes or so, went down to the beach for a swim and came back in time for dinner.
And so, pleasure. The world seems very far away. How fortunate some of my friends live in the most beautiful places on earth and are kind enough to put up with me for a brief stay. I will enjoy every minute.
