African-Canadian Thunderstorm

It was a long hot walk up Lonsdale from the Quay. M and I had stopped at Kin's to pick up cilantro and other fresh produce after a stinking hot Caribbean day at Waterfront Park. Our clothes clung to us, the heat enveloped us and the hike up the hill lay before us. At 4 in the afternoon there was no indication that the heat was going to abate anytime soon.

Promisingly, unusually dark clouds were gathering against the mountain - not just any clouds - storm clouds. I felt the anticipation of a thunderstorm stir inside of me - I love a good storm. After a scorching hot day of relentless sun, the sight of the clouds held the hope of relief even if it rained out our evening barbeque.

The first drops of rain hit our windscreen just before 6pm on our way to Ron and Jean's. Not the heavy fat ones of a South African Highveld storm but more pregnant with rain than is usual for the West Coast. M helped Jean move chairs from her garden to the deck before the rain set in so that we could still enjoy our summer barbeque under cover. With chilled white South African wine in hand, the warmth of the air on our skin, the drops of rain harmonising our conversation and its splashes cooling the air, it was all the fir trees around us that belied any illusion that we were on the Highveld.

"Do you smell the wet soil?" Jean asked. I breathed in the air and remembered the occasion of Highveld storms I so enjoyed. In my pre-M days, I lived in the country an hour south of Johannesburg. When the late afternoon and early evening storms rolled in, I would throw open the patio doors (keeping the security gates firmly locked) and curl up on the couch with a glass of wine in hand. I had the best seat in the house for viewing the theatrics of nature's storm.

It was usually a matter of time before my country house lost power because of the storm. That was no concern to me. The darkness accentuated the splendour of the lightning silhouetting the trees; it heightened the roar of thunder and the flat plops of rain on the slasto floor. As the storm intensified, the rain pelting down on the tin roof drained out sounds and thoughts. There was really nothing else to do than watch nature's explosion from the sky. Still now, the thrill of a thunderstorm is intoxicating to me.

Those were the times I could enjoy an electric storm without any thought of a forest fire. As the lightning jolted around Ron and Jean's home, I was sobered by Ron's concern with each strike "as we are right in the forest." From their diningroom, I could see the trees teeming up the mountain behind their home. A strike on the dry forest floor was potentially devastating. Still, the raw power of the storm enthralled me.

The most spectacular showing was later that evening during the second fireworks display (see Celebration of Light, July 2009). Back home, from our balcony it was evident that nature was upstaging human attempts to mesmerize and impress. A bolt of lightning outclassed the imitators and drew a gasp of awe from our fellow spectators, anonymous on their darkened balconies.

West Coast thunderstorms are a rarity. I cannot experience a thunderstorm and not think of Africa. For me, these occasional summer storms will always be African-Canadian.

Caribbean Days

"Honey, hurry - we've got 5 minutes!" Honey managed to hurry from fresh out the shower to suitably attired in four minutes. In the minute to spare, we were racing down six flights of stairs discussing the intricacies of why he often runs late - "It doesn't start until 10:30". We flew through the foyer and fell onto the sidewalk with everyone else who knew that the Caribbean Days parade started on Saturday at 10am - sharp.

The front of the parade was right outside our door - perfect timing. The Caribbean calypso drums were enchanting the neighbourhood with escapism to tropical islands and the hot sun was doing its enticing part. It was cooler across the street in the shade. Honey and I found a gap once the calypso drums moved slowly along, and cut in ahead of the bright and scantily clad dancers.

The dancers were exotic in their short tasseled skirts, high heels, dark skins, sequined next-to-nothing tops and plumed headdresses. The music was infectious. I snapped some shots and found a rhythm start in my heels and move up to my hips. This was good fun. I smiled at M - the race down the stairs was forgotten, as far as western Canada is from the Caribbean. My sidewalk neighbour, a mid-life man of Southeast Asian origin, smiled too, "we all work too hard - this is much better." I had to agree!

I found the voluptuousness of the women appealing. So often,we Western women worry about our bodies, whether it be flaunting our body consciousness or insecurely hiding our imperfections. The Caribbean gals were comfortable with just how they were. No concern was paid to mid-riff voluptuousness, full thighs or any part of the anatomy that would not qualify as being gym-toned or skinny as a rail. There's something to be said for a woman who is sensually comfortable in her skin.

The parade was a good reflection of multi-cultural Canada. Some Caribbean Day participants were as Jamaican or West Indian as I am. Perhaps the Scottish bagpipes were a conciliatory hand out to the British colonialists. But where do the Chinese dragon dancers fit in with the history of the Caribbean islands? Then again, this is Canada where all are welcome.

One Caribbean dancer appeared to be living out her bucket list. Again with a nod to multi-ethnic Canada, her skin was as Caribbean dark as white chocolate. Her Caribbean outfit was a bright combination of shades of blue and touches of hot pink with a flamboyantly large plumed headdress. Her outfit caught my eye, but the rest of her kept my attention. She was on the older side of seventy - no doubt. She was sorely lacking in the suppleness and nubility of her fellow dancers; but here she was giving it a stiff but good go.

I was fascinated by her and by my response. Stunned, do I cheer loudly for her - "go, old girl, go - live out your dream!" or do I continue to wish she would dress and act appropriately for her age. It wasn't a pretty sight but she obviously didn't give a feathered plume what others thought. I settled on "good for you!" as she moved on by in her runners (which offered much needed stability over high heels).

As the end of the parade passed by, M and I moved into the middle of the street to watch it continue brightly down Lonsdale to the Quay. We looked up and waved to our neighbours, Rosie and Ginger who were watching from Ginger's sixth floor balcony. At 80 and counting, I wondered what daring activity either of them might have on their bucket list.

Celebration of Light

Every summer Vancouver hosts the Celebration of Light - four nights of fireworks over a two week period. All the stops are pulled as different national teams compete for the honour of the most spectacular and most entertaining display of the summer. Crowds converge on beaches, balconies and even mountain tops around Vancouver in anticipation of the first boom of fireworks at 10pm. Motorboats, cruise ships, and yachts are among the watercraft that converge on English Bay to witness nature's display of fading light be superceded by bright festivities in the darkening sky.

We watched our first show with my parents from the rocks in West Vancouver. The hard seats and distant view encouraged us to seek out better vantage points. M's company has spoilt us twice with dinner cruises. It is always a treat to be dined, wined and waited on while you are ferried around English Bay, albeit on a rather rickety tired boat. But rickety boat or not, it's a great vantage point watching the fireworks from right in the bay. The chocolate fountain dessert afterwards is also not too shabby.

M's company entertained us twice in one summer to salmon barbeques on a grassy verge near Kitsilano Beach. After the barbeque we'd set up our garden chairs and picnic blanket, pull out a game with friends and entertain ourselves while we waited for the sun to set and the fireworks to begin. Not a bad vantage point either. The only problem with both the dinner cruises and the salmon barbeques is the congested water and road traffic immediately after the display. Add at least an hour on to your evening trying to get home.

Every Vancouverite has to do two things to be counted a true Vancouverite - one is to survive Grouse Grind, even just once, and the other is to go to the West End to watch the fireworks up close. One year we did just that. We took the seabus across on a Saturday night and positioned ourselves just off the beach on the sidewalk with a good view of the fireworks barge in English Bay. Even more than an hour before the kickoff the beach was full - but with each minute that passed, the beach filled to overflowing, the crowds pressed in closer, personal space became a moot point, and the mood was heightened by anticipation and BC weed.

With the first crack, sizzle and boom of fireworks, the crowd is mesmerised by the display. There is something fantastical when you are close enough to feel as though you will be swept up into the fireworks. After the display, you are swept up in the crowds making their way through the streets. It's to be experienced at least once - and only once.

Last night we got to enjoy the first of the four summer explosions. This time there were no crowds, no entertainment or salmon BBQs and no traffic jams trying to get home. We watched in our pyjamas, with brushed teeth and washed faces. We oohed and aahed and listened to the accompanying music on the radio. At the end, in the dark, we heard clapping from other balconies and clapped too. Our commute was as long as it took to come inside and pad the 21 steps to bed.

Lest you think that we are too dull and boring in our mid-life years - our favourite fireworks evening by far was last summer. We had friends over for dessert and chocolate port after Rita had spoilt us all to dinner at her place - just two blocks away. Lest anyone think the evening was over once the fireworks were done, M threw on the ABBA CD, the coffee table was moved and a party broke out. We had a whale of a time dancing and grooving. M even tried some new breakdancing moves. Thankfully our closest neighbour is old and hard of hearing.

Queen Mary School

We can see Queen Mary school from our apartment. Soon after we moved in last year, I had to write a descriptive piece for my writing course. My instruction was, "Look out the window and describe something". Twenty minutes before I had to head out of the door for my Saturday session, I sat down, looked out the window and saw Queen Mary school. Here is my descriptive piece:

The red brick schoolhouse has a stately old-world presence. It stands with dignity against the backdrop of darkened mountains and snow-covered peaks. The blue hues of the morning sky and gossamer streaks of cloud lend a subtle elegance to the building. The sun has yet to reach around and warm the red bricks.

This citadel of learning peeps out above the disheveled rental apartments with its promise of order and opportunities. Its rectangular face is in equal proportions. Uniform windows guard the centre piece - a triangular arch in the black roof under which four beige-coloured pillars rest decoratively against the red brick wall. Two larger arched windows, stacked between the inside pillars, break the uniformity of the pawns standing side-by-side, two rows high.

The domed steeple adds a stiletto height to the schoolhouse. Sitting directly above the arched windows and triangular pitch in the roof, it oversees the order of the pawns lined below. Its crisp whiteness emphasises its prominence and authority.

The red brick schoolhouse is immobile in its properness. Just as a guard is at his post - not a flicker of an eyelid, not a twitch of a muscle. A seagull flies in to rest on the roof. Still no movement from the sentry. Except now, the chimney stack hiding low behind the steeple breathes furnace heat into the cool air. Its breath is evident for a short while. Then all is still and orderly again.

Yellow Submarine

Late evening sunsets and music concerts are two delights of a Vancouver summer. This summer we have had a plethora of the first and our first taste of the second. Summer concerts abound on the North Shore from June to August covering everything from salsa to the swing.

We spent Friday night with the Fab Four in Edgemont Village. Here a section of the street is cordoned off, a truck bed is the stage, the street is the dance floor and haphazard garden chairs complete the outdoor theatre. Patrons spill out of Delany's coffee shop on to the sidewalk adding a Parisian café feel to the scene. The trees cast the street in welcome shade - a cool respite from the heat baking the west-facing windows of our apartment.

We set up our garden chairs with a reasonable view of the four, replete in black suits and ties, white shirts and appropriate wigs to complete the beatle-look. The street is busy with families dancing, talking and enjoying the start of the weekend. Green and white balloons dot the festivities and occasionally one escapes the clutches of a child to soar up and up into the blue sky.

This is summer north of Vancouver!

There's no need to talk, or plan or explain - just sit back and relax. Enjoy the children dancing, the parents joining in the fun, the 60 year-olds who are transported to their youth and their feckless days when Lucy was not the only one in the sky with diamonds. As a pre-schooler I sang and danced to the 7 single 'Yellow Submarine'. It was right up there with Winnie the Pooh and The Teddy Bear's Picnic. "If you go down in the woods today you're in for a big surprise ... we all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine ... twinkle, twinkle little star ..."

The show ends after Sgt. Pepper, the crowd leaves, we sit talking with friends until we are almost the only ones left in the street with the clean-up crew. The sun is not yet gone; the stars have yet to come out. We pack up our chairs to catch the sunset from home over a cold beer. The weekend can only get better - and it does!

The Grind

The dread of the Grind knotted my stomach while I stirred between the sheets on Saturday morning. I felt some regret for having agreed to do the hike with Ilse. Back in March, it seemed a good idea but now reality was seeping in with the morning sunlight.

It is easily eight years since I last did the Grind. That summer M and I would hike up Grouse Mountain every other Wednesday night - and I didn't enjoy one of them. Grouse Grind is the outdoor stairmaster which takes you the cheap and hard way up the mountain. After that summer I decided I really didn't need to do this again - there are saner ways to get fit. Now here I was, lacing up to support a first timer.

Keep in mind this is not a walk in the park nor a hike on undulating trails but a climb straight up - one stair after the other. You feel it within the first ten minutes. It only gets harder and the last quarter of the hike is the hardest and most arduous. This is not a peaceful hike in the forest appreciating nature. Grinders take their hike seriously and time is crucial - so don't get in the way - you may just experience the less polite side of Vancouverites.

Our husbands were roped in to join us for our 7am start on the busy trail. By the defining ten minute mark, Ilse was taking strain. At twenty minutes, with some encouragement, she surrendered and offered to buy everyone coffee. This was far worse than she anticipated and, besides which, she wasn't fully over her bronchitis. All the more reason to go for extra hot, no fat, no foam chai lattés. Sipping our Starbucks speciality drinks and talking with fellow South Africans about the challenges of emigrating is certainly a saner way to start a Saturday.

The morning was still young at 8:45 when we said our goodbyes and headed for our car. I looked at M, "Should we?". "Do you want to?" he asked. We're here, we're dressed for it, we've got our water, it's still early - let's do it. We did an about turn and headed for the mountain. Doing the Grind is all about time. It's the Comrades Marathon of hikes. M started the timer on his watch and the challenge was on.

Being a retired runner of marathons, M's advice was to take a sure and steady pace - don't start too fast and avoid bursts of energy. I followed his advice with steady steps. Our first break was at thirty-three minutes, a record for us! I pressed on leading the way. When I stepped aside to let a faster hiker pass me, I used the opportunity to slow my breathing down. The best reward was three quarters into the hike when I looked back at M and saw his flushed face. I wasn't holding him back. I had set a good pace. We finished in 1hr09 - a great time for our first Grind in eight years. We were elated.

There are a few reasons why this Grind was more successful than the ones we did eight years ago - but more about those reasons another time. Suffice to say, I'm eager to take on the Grind again - I'd like to break the sixty minute barrier. So you may see my red face on the ever popular North Shore hike again soon.

Sunday Sprawls

On Sunday, M and I headed out for our second bike ride of the summer with two friends. Our trail of choice, Fisherman's Trail, is certainly more strenuous than our Canada Day dyke doddle. Just fifteen minutes from home, Seymour Demonstration Forest has a variety of trails from which to choose. Fisherman's Trail offers steep declines requiring concentration to push-your-bike inclines, flat boardwalks and scenic pathways.

One section of the trail always reminds my friend, Jean, of the time she ventured head first off the steep trail, down the forested embankment, with her bike on top of her. She was pretty banged up and bruised for weeks afterwards. It's not one of her warm and fuzzy memories. Until Sunday, I had no biking escapades to share as I have always managed to stay on my bike and on the trail.

Sections of Fisherman's trail seemed to be in worse shape than I remembered. A particular rainwashed gully got the better of me, as small as it was. In trying to pass a fellow rider who had stopped for a drink of water, I got too close to the edge of the trail, which would have been fine, if not for that small gully. My wheel caught the edge of it, I lost my balance and down I went - over the side. As I shifted from being master of my bike to middle-age woman meeting her maker, I thought, "How far down am I going to go?"

Jean, looking over her shoulder, saw me disappear down the embankment with my bike for company. This brought out her motherly instinct; the memory of her own horrible experience and - she braked too hard. She hurtled over her handlebars in grand style. I heard someone come off a bike as I came to rest against a rock.

I stood up, disengaged myself from my bike, and could see Jean running towards me with my husband in hot pursuit. "I'm fine - sore, but fine". I was helped back on to the path where M was making sure that Jean was fine too. He dusted dirt off her back and was graciously concerned about her health. I had to wonder if he realised that I had come off my bike as well. Sure I was fine, a few knocks here and there, but a little more attention from my husband right now would be nice. Hmm, wait until he sees I have a trickle of blood from my elbow.

My bumps and scrapes have healed quickly. I'm pleased to know that I still bounce. Jean, on the other hand, doesn't bounce like she once did. She has purple, blue and black mosaics on her arm and legs - and she is still sore. It's honouring to know that I have a friend who will risk life and limb out of concern for me. And, just as well, she's a trusted friend who is closer to my mother's age than mine.

M's attentions were those of a concerned long-time friend who, having been at the front of the group, heard Jean hit the ground and didn't realise that I had come off my bike too. Why did he think I was helped back on to the path from the embankment? He didn't really know as he was concerned for our friend, "besides which, you said you were fine".

Next time I'll be sure to exclaim, "I'm sore, I'm sore, I'm sore!"

Canada Day

July 1, 2009

My patriotism does not extend itself to spend a gloriously sun-filled morning lining the sidewalks with a crowd of proud Canadians. Instead M and I escaped the Canada Day Parade for a bike ride on the country dykes - my favourite place to ride.

There are fewer people here, more herons than elsewhere and, every time, we have been gifted with a sighting of an eagle. Within an hour's drive of my city home, I can sit on a bench along the river, eat cherries and ask my husband, "Is that a duck?". Not that I could see any in the two ponds behind our bench but I also couldn't quite identify the sounds. I shut my eyes, felt the sun warm my face and listened quietly. "Ribbet" - it was now unmistakeable - Frogs! When last had I heard frogs? With the delight of a child, I stood on the edge of the pond trying to spy the little creatures in the reeds. They weren't to be discovered but they were to be heard.

This was a far better way to celebrate Canada! Some time-out together with frogs, herons, ducks and an eagle - regal in the tree - still waters, blue skies, and majestic green peaks. We biked on discovering new trails. We doubled back. We talked, dreamed together, made plans, laughed and were silent, pedalling hard now.

With iced coffees in hand, we drove home with windows open wide, enjoying the warmth, the wind and what we could hear of the country music station. And that was just half of our Canada Day celebration.

We joined friends for a late afternoon potluck barbeque, good Okanagan wine and bocce. How many people do you know with a full bocce court in their back yard? It was great fun, the neighbours didn't complain, and the novices (that would be our team) beat the seasoned players. Happy Birthday, Canada! We enjoyed the party and all that you offer us.