PETTY THEFT

He stole it literally from under me. Or behind me, I suppose. My backpack. Broad daylight, public café.

I was lucky. For some reason, I’d pretty much emptied everything onto the table before he got it. My glasses and case, my laptop and cord, my phone and cord,…even a notebook with all sorts of notes about my writing projects. Unusual for me to unpack so much. He got away with the backpack itself—an oft-complimented Keith Haring blue and white Herschel—a couple of vegan magazines and some research notes that I have on my laptop as well. Lots of napkins, pens, pencils, a pencil sharpener,…contents he’ll dump in an alley.

Hey, maybe I’ll convert a carnivore. Maybe I’ll create a writer. (Many of my ideas have first been scrawled on napkins.) Or maybe I’ve just reinforced and emboldened a thief’s habits.

Sounds like a fish story, but it’s true. Right out from under him! I swear!

It shows how intense I get when I’m in a writing session, a surprise to even myself. Writing in a café, I look up regularly as patrons come and go. This morning was no exception. I don’t know for certain who stole it, but I think I do. Guy with a crutch. We made eye contact. He wandered behind me as I sat at the end of the café. I don’t think he bought anything. He asked to use the restroom. That’s presumably where he stuffed my empty backpack into his own. Nice! I saw him leave. I could still see him a half block away when I realized by pack was gone.

Maybe I could have chased him down, but what would have been the point? I’d accuse, he’d deny. The evidence was out of view. I couldn’t exactly grab his backpack, unzip it and yank out my own. What if I were wrong? There’d be witnesses, watching me try to take away a backpack from a guy with a crutch.

It’ll go for five or ten bucks on the street. I paid fifty. I can look at it as an excuse to go backpack shopping. A new style! (I’m currently reverting back to a perfectly good Herschel that’s accumulated a few stains along the bottom.) I’ll probably search obsessively and buy a brand new backpack, the same version I had before. I like what I like.

As with anyone, I feel violated. Someone pegged me as a target. He got into my space. He grabbed what was rightfully mine.

It could have been worse. It could have been worse. It could have been worse.

My laptop is my most prized possession, filled with writing. My phone is loaded with photos, contacts and notes. You’re supposed to backup these things, but I’m techno-clueless.

It happened on Hastings Street. It’s that street, a section of it a hub to the most destitute people in Canada. There’s some sort of support services building right across the street. I write in the same café five days a week. I watch the people crowd the building, waiting for it to open at 7:30 each morning. There’s always an urgency of activity over there…the start of “the wrong side of the tracks”. I’m not usually judgy; just openly curious. Today, feeling violated, I’m not my best.

The easy thought is, He needed it more. And maybe something like this was overdue. I’m stingy when someone presenting as homeless asks for change. I overthink things, desperate to find a better solution than people scraping together a handful of quarters. I moved to this area fully aware of the surrounding poverty, along with the prevalence of mental health issues, addiction problems and everything that goes with that. As my head continues to spin uselessly, failing to brainstorm something to create deeper change, the backpack represents an involuntary donation. Maybe the incident will prod me to get more involved and to become more active in my quest to be enlightened.

Three years here. My first theft. Remarkably, my bike remains in my parking stall and my car has yet to be broken into. I’ve experienced worse living in other parts of Vancouver. The backpack, for me, is mere crumbs.

I still feel violated.

It’s easy to overreact. I’ve had sweeping thoughts today. Don’t let people use the restroom if they’re not buying anything. Stop giving them water, free coffee and day-old pastries. But then logic takes over. I’ve seen many down-and-out folks come into the café. I’ve never been stolen from and I’ve never heard another customer yelling, “Stop! Thief!”

Shit happens. I’m physically fine. I still have all my writing…my passion, my hard work. He just has a backpack.

THE TIME FOR SECOND THOUGHTS

Okay. I see it. My current internet search windows scream, “Mistake!” And the message is ripe. With my move only two and a half weeks away, second thoughts are natural.

I’m writing at my regular table at my third favorite café in my ferry-dependent community. Yes, I’ll admit to liking and frequenting six or seven cafés here. They do cafés well. Shopping, restaurants, the arts? Not so much. Anyway, here I am writing and sipping a nonfat latté from an oversized mug when I see the woman at the table beside me tip her newspaper upward just enough for me to see the nameplate: The New York Times. Well, that gets me excited. A New York Times available here? Is it today’s? A Sunday New York Times?! It takes great restraint not to snatch it out of her hand. And despite a stir of excitement I’m too shy to ask where she got it. Instead I stop writing and conduct an urgent Google Search: “new york times sunshine coast”.

Nothing.

Maybe it’s just as well. It would be heartbreaking to discover after almost ten years that I could have been more informed and culturally connected just by stopping by the local gas station on Sunday mornings. The woman probably came over on the ferry this morning. A Vancouver purchase to pass the time while unwatched tots yell and play tag on the boat ride over.

My search does lead to an article I click on. It’s a 2008 travel piece about the Sunshine Coast in The New York Times. “Basking in the Sunshine Coast”. And the place sounds lovely. A great place for a weekend of kayaking and hiking.

On the 40-minute ferry ride from Horseshoe Bay in West Vancouver, the geographic and mental shift happens quickly, taking passengers from an urban, glass-walled landscape to one dominated by snowcapped mountains and wide-ranging swaths of green.

Yes, I recall my vacation getaways before I actually moved here. It always felt like I was being transported to another world. Peace, serenity and all that. Notably, the writer states that she only encountered one person on a three-hour hike, an experience I find each time I venture into nature here. When I go, it always feels like it’s mine and mine alone. And therein lies the reminder. At some point, “alone” trumped “serenity”.

The other internet article that is currently open on my screen is glaringly different in tone and subject matter. It’s a CBC report about a Vancouver incident last night. “Double stabbing leaves two dead”. Okay, big city. Crime happens. But this particular happening occurred a block and a half from the building where I’m moving. And even though it’s a quickly released story, there is no chance that a reporter could ever get a quote from a neighbor saying something like, “I’m shocked. You always hear about this sort of thing happening. You just never think of it happening here. It’s just not that kind of place.”

Truth is, it is that kind of place—rundown hotels converted to housing for the most destitute people in Canada; rampant drug use; under-treated persons struggling with mental illness; assorted crimes associated with addiction and the basest efforts to survive.

Home?

Two articles. The differences between where I’m leaving and where I’m going couldn’t be starker. One portrays my current surroundings at its best, a vacation paradise. The other depicts my pending environment at its worst, a chronic urban blight. If ever I were to have second thoughts, these articles would be the impetus.

But, really, I’m aware of the extremes. I may very well once again retreat to the Sunshine Coast on weekends when I need to decompress on the ferry and wander alone along rocky shores and on canopied forest treks. My new home is true urban grit, trendy restaurants and shops coexisting with inebriated entrepreneurs hawking stolen goods on the sidewalks out front. I am stubbornly naïve in thinking I can gain a better understanding of the problems, maybe even make a difference. I am also wary, knowing that my desire to be sympathetic and supportive won’t matter if someone wants my wallet or seeks to find spare change in my parked car.

Life will be different. That is certain.

For now, I’ll savor my latté and the local color as a dozen chatty seniors pull tables together, the men with lumberjack beards and rubber-banded greying ponytails, the women still wearing socks and crocs. Time stands still here. Unfortunately, I cannot.

 

 

MOVIN' ON UP

I’m feeling like George and Weezie.

Bought a condo in Vancouver. My days as Rural Gay are numbered. I move April 1^st, no foolin’.

Looking out the condo. So long, ocean & mountain views.
 

There are a couple of things about the Vancouver real estate market that you may not know. First, everything is ridiculously expensive. Second, listings sell seemingly instantaneously. Both factors came into play regarding my new home.

Last week, I contacted a family friend who is a Vancouver realtor and gave her a list of a dozen condominiums I wanted to see. After selling my house, the plan was to rent an apartment in Vancouver. See if this was really the place for me. I’d fled the city before; best not to get tied down. But I wanted to do my due diligence. Get a peek at the condo market, affirm my decision to rent.

On Sunday, I took the ferry over to view seven places. (The others had already sold.) I had one clear favorite, one possibility and five nos. “I’m not ready,” I told my agent. “And I know the one I like will get offers tonight. It’s just too soon.”

While on the ferry home, my agent called. I was right. Two definite offers coming in, with a third as a possibility. Was I interested?

Of course not. Too soon, remember? I hadn’t even worked out the financials. No pre-approval on a mortgage. This condo was less than one-third the size of my house AND it cost more. With competing offers, I’d have to put in an offer above the asking price. As a Vancouverite, I’d played that game before. It’s not fun. Pass.

And yet I found myself fiddling with a mortgage calculator, all too accessible on my handy iPhone. Things looked feasible. I called my agent back. “Let’s do it.”

The next hour was a frenzy. I ran from the ferry terminal to my house and then zipped to work to print, sign and scan the offer. And then I waited. I hope I get it. I hope I don’t.

Sure enough, at 10:30 p.m., the buyer accepted my offer.

Yippee!

Yikes!

I didn’t sleep that night. My god, what have I done? I’ve spent more time contemplating a sweater purchase. Seriously!

I’ll be living two blocks from the poorest area in Canada. For many reasons, that’s where I think I want to be. I’m not a NIMBY guy. I don’t want problems out of sight. I want to see them, understand them and be part of a solution. I spent nine days last spring in a hospital alongside people from this area. I feel a calling. I need to be there.

Or do I?

How will I live in such a small space? Do I really want to live according to a series of bylaws by a potentially overzealous group of condo owners? Didn’t I swear I’d never live in a box again?

At work, the doubt rose as people asked me about the condo. What kind of floors does it have? I don’t know. Does it have window coverings? I don’t remember. Do you like the bathroom? Beats me.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

But now I’ve had a chance to go back and get my bearings. A block from Starbucks and movie theaters. I think I knew that. A park across the street. Yes, I saw it—just didn’t realize it was so close. The reality of 570 square feet is setting in. I’ll get to keep my bed and a nightstand. Everything else is too bulky. That lovely designer chair I bought last fall? Nice knowing ya. Naturally, it will be tougher parting with beloved sweaters, but some will have to go. I must have enough room for my twenty-six pairs of Converse. As for my treasured vinyl record collection from the ‘70s (that I haven’t played since the ‘80s), well, I’ve got ten weeks to figure that out.

I am reminded of the reasons I chose to go rural in the first place. So much space. But space also came to mean distance.

Soon, I’ll be immersed in density and 24/7 people watching. This evening, while waiting to walk—WALK!—to a restaurant for dinner, I was warmly greeted by a local seated on a bench outside the Starbucks: “Hey! Don’t fuck around with me.” Okay, so not all people like to be watched. Duly noted.

A change is gonna come. I’ll take the city and all its grit. For now, it’s feeling like the right decision.