North, way north, of British Columbia’s hot spots of Vancouver and Victoria and Whistler and so on, is a hole. A depression. Within that depression is a town. That town is called Prince George.
The last days of September huddle for warmth between autumn and winter here. Two years plus one week since I arrived in Prince George I am downtown early on a Saturday morning. The sun rises orange and bright over the Cariboo Mountains, saturating the vibrant yellow and red leaves with light—contrasting painfully with a downtown core built in the seventies, awash with de-saturated, utilitarian colours.
I’m sure shades like apricot and golden-harvest seemed like a good idea at the time. But for millions of Germans, so did eugenics.
A curtain of steam rises from the still-warm Nechako River into the freezing air, hiding the cutbanks from view. A handful of Indians pour into the streets from a nearby shelter. One of them says to me as I pass, “Hey man, wanna buy some hard?”
I thank him and shake my head no, pulling the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck.
As I move down George Street between the courthouse and the city building I listen to the echo of my footfalls on the empty street. I stop a moment to peek into the window of a used book store. There is blood on the concrete here—I try not to think about how it got there.
I move on, quicker now, down Seventh, toward Victoria and the promise of hot coffee.
Every now and then I pass a modern building, something totally out of step with the rest of this town. All glass and steel, these structures serve little purpose but to remind people like me that we are 778 kilometers away from the clean, angular lines and the bright blues and greens of Vancouver. 486 miles from the bright lights and busy nights of Vancouver. An eternity removed from five dollar mochas, edible Chinese food, more book stores than you can shake a stick at.
In a completely different world.
Left on Victoria and into Tim Horton’s. A medium double-double. A quick, liquid dream about those five dollar mochas and then back out into the street.
The temperature before I left the house was four degrees below zero. The forecast promised it would get worse before it got better.
Without thinking I move through the parking lot toward the library. I climb the concrete stairs and go inside, letting the warm air and the smell of old books relax me. On the second floor I sequester myself away from prying eyes at the table furthest from the front desk. There I sip my coffee and stare out the window at Connaught Hill.
A raven, enormous and proud, alights on the balcony railing outside. I remember, briefly, how Raven turned himself into a pine needle so he could steal the moon. My mind wanders, I think about words to feed into the library catalogue computer: corvidae, Poe, Haida, myth…
I have learned recently, and perhaps too late to do me any good here, that the most important thing about being in a place is being there. In twenty minutes or so the Farmer’s Market will open near the courthouse and I will go buy organic grapes. But for now I sit by the window, watching Raven sharpen his beak on the steel railing, wondering what he’ll steal next.
The last days of September huddle for warmth between autumn and winter here. Two years plus one week since I arrived in Prince George I am downtown early on a Saturday morning. The sun rises orange and bright over the Cariboo Mountains, saturating the vibrant yellow and red leaves with light—contrasting painfully with a downtown core built in the seventies, awash with de-saturated, utilitarian colours.
I’m sure shades like apricot and golden-harvest seemed like a good idea at the time. But for millions of Germans, so did eugenics.
A curtain of steam rises from the still-warm Nechako River into the freezing air, hiding the cutbanks from view. A handful of Indians pour into the streets from a nearby shelter. One of them says to me as I pass, “Hey man, wanna buy some hard?”
I thank him and shake my head no, pulling the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck.
As I move down George Street between the courthouse and the city building I listen to the echo of my footfalls on the empty street. I stop a moment to peek into the window of a used book store. There is blood on the concrete here—I try not to think about how it got there.
I move on, quicker now, down Seventh, toward Victoria and the promise of hot coffee.
Every now and then I pass a modern building, something totally out of step with the rest of this town. All glass and steel, these structures serve little purpose but to remind people like me that we are 778 kilometers away from the clean, angular lines and the bright blues and greens of Vancouver. 486 miles from the bright lights and busy nights of Vancouver. An eternity removed from five dollar mochas, edible Chinese food, more book stores than you can shake a stick at.
In a completely different world.
Left on Victoria and into Tim Horton’s. A medium double-double. A quick, liquid dream about those five dollar mochas and then back out into the street.
The temperature before I left the house was four degrees below zero. The forecast promised it would get worse before it got better.
Without thinking I move through the parking lot toward the library. I climb the concrete stairs and go inside, letting the warm air and the smell of old books relax me. On the second floor I sequester myself away from prying eyes at the table furthest from the front desk. There I sip my coffee and stare out the window at Connaught Hill.
A raven, enormous and proud, alights on the balcony railing outside. I remember, briefly, how Raven turned himself into a pine needle so he could steal the moon. My mind wanders, I think about words to feed into the library catalogue computer: corvidae, Poe, Haida, myth…
I have learned recently, and perhaps too late to do me any good here, that the most important thing about being in a place is being there. In twenty minutes or so the Farmer’s Market will open near the courthouse and I will go buy organic grapes. But for now I sit by the window, watching Raven sharpen his beak on the steel railing, wondering what he’ll steal next.
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