
LINCOLN ROAD
Browsing, before dinner, at Books & Books, checking out the new poems in the new journals, the vast glass panes thrust against by shoppers and gawkers on Lincoln Road emit a particular cautionary hum as they insist upon delimiting inside from out, tongued and grimed by the fingerless gloves of the homeless, bodies gesturing and melding back into the pyroclastic flow, someone considering black lingerie next door, bedside lamps of Italian design, something sleek to refresh the kitchen—honey, a silver pasta fork?—tattooed dance clubbers and waitresses slaloming trays through the crowd, a woman selling jewelry knit from optical fibers lurid as stationary fireworks, pages of a Carioca newspaper turning, foil off a champagne bottle golden against the tile, pink straws, the splash of modest fountains in common space, a baby in green hip-harness staring back at me goggle-eyed, recording it all like the tourists with digital camcorders pre-editing their memories and the ringing of cellphones broadcasting a panegyric of need with whichever hooks and trembles we have chosen in the darkness to answer.
- Campbell McGrath
The true impact of travel shimmers in the newness of old things our eyes are used to seeing presented with a twist, a dash of the unfamiliar. The highway, the trees, the market, neon signs and school yards, the couples entwined on street corners. All fresh images, jumbled unexpectedly together and recast in ordinary ways. A place and people one might just be passing by, like the night train, on the way to yet somewhere else. I have come to British Columbia, Canada. To Vancouver - oddly gothic, modern city on the gray waters of the cold northern sound. I hear suddenly the shift of vowels in the mouth, experience the strangeness of a politeness so endemic to the habits of this city it may be that mere manners represent a cultural shift in human interaction.
I love this friendliness. I am drunk on this pleasant vibe the entire city seems to run on. Are they all just serenely nuts? Medicated? Where's the room safe, the usual posted warnings alerting travelers to crime on the jogging trail? I inquire about the goings on this weekend and am told enthusiastically about an exhibit on Surrealism along with a passing remark on theater, followed by an enthusiastic nod to catch the Canadian Football League game on television tonight and a big grin regarding available tickets for the preseason hockey opener tomorrow. A waitress in black spandex sheath dress at a cafe with, as my brother tactfully put it "an attractive staff," addresses me sassily as "mi lady" while bringing out no fewer than four beer samples for my friend to sample prior to ordering. How on earth has this city gotten this groove on? Certainly not from the coffee sold in those familiar green mermaid emblem cups across the street. (Yes, even here.)
So, today's salute goes to Canada, To Vancouver, BC. To the smooth sweet glide of pleasantries exchanged (much to my surprise) between tourist and citizen. Special thanks to the anonymous, well-dressed young banker in gray, who stood patiently behind me during the rush hour commute as I navigated the unfamiliar light-rail train ticket kiosk. (No, Dorothy, your debit card won't work in Oz, but used as a credit charge it will!) This same suave young man, when I was at last successful in holding up a ticket and scrambling to hunt for a possible receipt, did not bark at me to move on, get along, or "go home" but nodded and simply said, "Yes, that would be your ticket." Elated to be successful, accepted and not yelled at, I turned, about to relate this kindness to my travel companion. He instead looked at me in his own state of wonder and held up a red ticket. "Some guy just handed me this!" A paid one-day half of a round trip ticket into the city, useless to him, he said pleasantly, as he was headed to Europe.
Go Canada.
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Browsing, before dinner, at Books & Books, checking out the new poems in the new journals, the vast glass panes thrust against by shoppers and gawkers on Lincoln Road emit a particular cautionary hum as they insist upon delimiting inside from out, tongued and grimed by the fingerless gloves of the homeless, bodies gesturing and melding back into the pyroclastic flow, someone considering black lingerie next door, bedside lamps of Italian design, something sleek to refresh the kitchen—honey, a silver pasta fork?—tattooed dance clubbers and waitresses slaloming trays through the crowd, a woman selling jewelry knit from optical fibers lurid as stationary fireworks, pages of a Carioca newspaper turning, foil off a champagne bottle golden against the tile, pink straws, the splash of modest fountains in common space, a baby in green hip-harness staring back at me goggle-eyed, recording it all like the tourists with digital camcorders pre-editing their memories and the ringing of cellphones broadcasting a panegyric of need with whichever hooks and trembles we have chosen in the darkness to answer.
- Campbell McGrath
The true impact of travel shimmers in the newness of old things our eyes are used to seeing presented with a twist, a dash of the unfamiliar. The highway, the trees, the market, neon signs and school yards, the couples entwined on street corners. All fresh images, jumbled unexpectedly together and recast in ordinary ways. A place and people one might just be passing by, like the night train, on the way to yet somewhere else. I have come to British Columbia, Canada. To Vancouver - oddly gothic, modern city on the gray waters of the cold northern sound. I hear suddenly the shift of vowels in the mouth, experience the strangeness of a politeness so endemic to the habits of this city it may be that mere manners represent a cultural shift in human interaction.
I love this friendliness. I am drunk on this pleasant vibe the entire city seems to run on. Are they all just serenely nuts? Medicated? Where's the room safe, the usual posted warnings alerting travelers to crime on the jogging trail? I inquire about the goings on this weekend and am told enthusiastically about an exhibit on Surrealism along with a passing remark on theater, followed by an enthusiastic nod to catch the Canadian Football League game on television tonight and a big grin regarding available tickets for the preseason hockey opener tomorrow. A waitress in black spandex sheath dress at a cafe with, as my brother tactfully put it "an attractive staff," addresses me sassily as "mi lady" while bringing out no fewer than four beer samples for my friend to sample prior to ordering. How on earth has this city gotten this groove on? Certainly not from the coffee sold in those familiar green mermaid emblem cups across the street. (Yes, even here.)
So, today's salute goes to Canada, To Vancouver, BC. To the smooth sweet glide of pleasantries exchanged (much to my surprise) between tourist and citizen. Special thanks to the anonymous, well-dressed young banker in gray, who stood patiently behind me during the rush hour commute as I navigated the unfamiliar light-rail train ticket kiosk. (No, Dorothy, your debit card won't work in Oz, but used as a credit charge it will!) This same suave young man, when I was at last successful in holding up a ticket and scrambling to hunt for a possible receipt, did not bark at me to move on, get along, or "go home" but nodded and simply said, "Yes, that would be your ticket." Elated to be successful, accepted and not yelled at, I turned, about to relate this kindness to my travel companion. He instead looked at me in his own state of wonder and held up a red ticket. "Some guy just handed me this!" A paid one-day half of a round trip ticket into the city, useless to him, he said pleasantly, as he was headed to Europe.
Go Canada.
Read More