At times, I do believe I live in the most perfect corner of the universe. Saturday was one such day. Despite dire weather reports threatening snow, hail, locusts and the like, it was a beautiful but brisk afternoon. The sun was shining. The regular yard sale on the north corner of Jervis and Davie was in full swing, and the light was glinting off the 25-cent glassware that was on display on the dilapidated card tables next to the dog-eared Danielle Steel novels.
I was walking home from an appointment downtown and a blissful hour spent at Finch's coffee house savouring The Pillowbook of Cordelia Kenn and a double long Americano. As I headed west down the hill towards English Bay, I heard my first sign that spring was here, from the Green House at the corner of Bute and Davie.
The Green House is an old clapboard house that was long ago divided into apartments, and has not reaped any of the benefits from the rejuvenation and gentrification that is running rampant in the West End. It is badly in need of paint; the yard, with its foot-high grass, is always littered with old bikes, lost shoes, and whatever else migrates from the alleyways and dumpsters. Its sagging porch is always obscured by recycling boxes and garbage bags. But the house looks loved and lived in, a concept fast disappearing as glass tower after glass tower is stacked up here in downtown Vancouver. On the top floor, in the attic apartment, lives an artist. I know he's an artist as I've seen him opening the window and gingerly placing canvases on the eaves outside his front window on sunny days, to dry. I see him sometimes, late at night, standing in front of his easel in a red dressing gown.
The sign that spring has arrived is when this artist throws open all his windows and doors, and plays records so loudly that they drown out the noise of cars, the chirping of the crosswalk at Bute and Davie, the sounds of the dog park a block away, and the general downtown din. It's never obnoxious music; he favours classical and standards. And I have no doubt that he is playing the music for us, for those of us passing by on the streets. It's too loud and the speakers too strategically placed in the windows, for it to be the case of an inconsiderate neighbour that just blasts his music too loud. I like to think that he's sending us some kind of message and always pay great attention to the songs, as if they might provide some great insight into this man's life at that particular moment in time. Last year he played alot of Judy Garland, and the "My Fair Lady" soundtrack made a number of appearances. On Saturday, as I approached, I heard it: Rodgers and Hammerstein. The overture to "The Sound of Music." People were walking by and craning their necks as they attempted to discover where the noise was coming from.
As I walked, I sang along to "My Favorite Things," and laughed aloud, a huge grin on my face. A cute guy walking in front of me turned around when I laughed, and smiled at me-he shared my joy in the music, but in a more introverted way (no public warbling about whiskers on kittens for him). I stood across the street from the Green House in the sunshine, and closed my eyes, taking in the sound, and the warmth of the afternoon. Happy the music was back, happy the sun was back, happy to be on that corner on this particular day. I knew at that moment that I was taking a snapshot. I will take this memory with me wherever I go. It will be one of my favorite things which, on a colorless grey day, some day in the future which is sure to arrive, I will simply remember, and then I won't feel so bad.
I was walking home from an appointment downtown and a blissful hour spent at Finch's coffee house savouring The Pillowbook of Cordelia Kenn and a double long Americano. As I headed west down the hill towards English Bay, I heard my first sign that spring was here, from the Green House at the corner of Bute and Davie.
The Green House is an old clapboard house that was long ago divided into apartments, and has not reaped any of the benefits from the rejuvenation and gentrification that is running rampant in the West End. It is badly in need of paint; the yard, with its foot-high grass, is always littered with old bikes, lost shoes, and whatever else migrates from the alleyways and dumpsters. Its sagging porch is always obscured by recycling boxes and garbage bags. But the house looks loved and lived in, a concept fast disappearing as glass tower after glass tower is stacked up here in downtown Vancouver. On the top floor, in the attic apartment, lives an artist. I know he's an artist as I've seen him opening the window and gingerly placing canvases on the eaves outside his front window on sunny days, to dry. I see him sometimes, late at night, standing in front of his easel in a red dressing gown.
The sign that spring has arrived is when this artist throws open all his windows and doors, and plays records so loudly that they drown out the noise of cars, the chirping of the crosswalk at Bute and Davie, the sounds of the dog park a block away, and the general downtown din. It's never obnoxious music; he favours classical and standards. And I have no doubt that he is playing the music for us, for those of us passing by on the streets. It's too loud and the speakers too strategically placed in the windows, for it to be the case of an inconsiderate neighbour that just blasts his music too loud. I like to think that he's sending us some kind of message and always pay great attention to the songs, as if they might provide some great insight into this man's life at that particular moment in time. Last year he played alot of Judy Garland, and the "My Fair Lady" soundtrack made a number of appearances. On Saturday, as I approached, I heard it: Rodgers and Hammerstein. The overture to "The Sound of Music." People were walking by and craning their necks as they attempted to discover where the noise was coming from.
As I walked, I sang along to "My Favorite Things," and laughed aloud, a huge grin on my face. A cute guy walking in front of me turned around when I laughed, and smiled at me-he shared my joy in the music, but in a more introverted way (no public warbling about whiskers on kittens for him). I stood across the street from the Green House in the sunshine, and closed my eyes, taking in the sound, and the warmth of the afternoon. Happy the music was back, happy the sun was back, happy to be on that corner on this particular day. I knew at that moment that I was taking a snapshot. I will take this memory with me wherever I go. It will be one of my favorite things which, on a colorless grey day, some day in the future which is sure to arrive, I will simply remember, and then I won't feel so bad.