First views. Lasting Views.

Step out of the bus, nervous, unsure, but you move ahead through the maze of escalators. The space is not too chaotic, but, is not orderly by the new standards that you have recently set for yourself. You do not stop for directions and instead move along with the moving crowd. It seems like the wave of men and women and infants have decided where you’d move. You still have been exposed only to recycled air, bringing along a level of staleness that you are not discerning enough to notice. Without any warning a set of doors open and you are now out in the open on the sidewalk. Promenade ordinaire. There is a stream of vehicles that you were not expecting. Scene wouldn’t be described as chaos where you came from. You raise your head, there it was in an olde english font. New York Times.

This time you had company. Sunday mornings were always a toss-up between a life reclaimed and one that was spent lazing on a high thread count hotel mattress. White linen you reminded yourself. The two of you walk down the street. It was early July, but, the rains were still around. Rain-city not without a reason. You reminded yourself that you loved it this way. For a busy street of a busy city, the street was quite deserted. Maybe it was the time of the day, and the day of the week. You continued to walk a block till the T-junction. White washed promenade. A raised platform with three, four, or was it five, stairs. The place, when dry, was where skateboarders gathered, perhaps those adolescents with backpacks, dark denims and cotton hoodies as well. This morning, there were none of those. The stairs were wet. You look for a dry patch and sit down. For the next few minutes, time stood still. Behind you, there was a statue of a man who defied stillness — Terry Fox.

You go back in time, you were alone again. You had walked down four blocks, mostly downslope and had reached what seemed like the seawall. Ahead of you was waters, mostly grey, not too distinguishable from the color of the sky. There was somewhat of a mist in the sky. You walk past the totem poles, and sit down on one of the wooden benches. There was a crowd, this was of course, at the edge of a well touristed landmark of the city. At some point, or perhaps even know there were people who came in here for the produce, mostly fresh, some novel as well. Mix of flowers, fruits and meat. There was a street artist playing local tunes which you didn’t discern. But, you sat there listening to the pipes. The totem pole and the music standing as the only reminder that it was their land. You continued to stare at the water, looking past the ships and into the vast openness.

Port authority bus terminal, Yaletown and the gateway to the Emerald, you were in my mind today.