Reading: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

In the midst of: Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

Not yet given up on: John Milton, Paradise Lost;

On deck: Don Quijote

Moving: gardening

House:

Garden:

10 May 2002: UBC and Stanley Park

We set out from the hotel in the morning with five of RDC's coworkers. One of these I had met last fall when he came to Denver on his way to a client school; another was tall; another was short; another was Australian; another was a Texan Geek, and as such, quite a kettle of fish.

I glanced at a painting in the lobby as we assembled, a painting that had no business being a triptych except that it's popular to slice a single subject in thrain, and noticed that the pond reflected two figures although only one was visible on the bank. That figure glanced at the other reflection, and I realized, "Oh, it's Actëon." The Texan geek thought this extremely funny. He didn't know the story but was amused that RDC's wife had so immediately showed herself to be a fitting companion for him. In all the times the others had stayed at this Sheraton (RDC arrived to a small bottle of wine acknowledging his tenth stay), no one had seen any more than an impressionistic riparian scene, if indeed anyone had seen more than pretty brushstrokes. Whatever; I serve to amuse.

We piled seven into the minivan, with me in front becaues of some obscure custom of the others' whereby the tallest or broadest person (I was neither) sits elsewhere than in the most generous seat if a female associated with a senior male shows up. Or if it's someone else's first visit to the city.

Vancouver is remarkable. I was assured that the weather--clear blue sky, warmish sun, few clouds--was unusual for as changeable a spring climate as this. Later RDC and I would pass near the garden district, but as fas as I'm concerned, the whole place is a garden. Sitting on my porch columns this past February in shirtsleeves on a 60-degree day, EJB with his face in the sun asked me exactly why I wanted to move back. "I miss everything that wet makes happen," I told him. Then I excepted mosquitoes. I would need to see Vancouver in the rain, and in the winter when it's dark at 3:30 or earlier, but I loved everything that wet makes happen here. Effortless lawns. Tall trees with moss. Moss. Ferns. Gardens. And Vancouver allegedly has no mosquitoes.

Now, I always thought UConn's an attractive campus. Pastoral, at least, especially my eastern section with the broad expanse of East Beach, my dear Holcomb Hall, and Horsebarn Hill overlooking the Fenton River valley. Ah-ha-ha-ha. The University of British Columbia has ocean--or Bay and Strait--on two sides. It has bald eagles. It has experimental rhododendra with flowers in every color. It lacks the stately brick of my own Wilbur Cross building and Wood Hall (named for a person and not a material, and I think the History department is in the nasty old Chem building now anyway) and also the modernist nightmare of JHA and HRM* by Mirror Lake, and there's no reason to build "Mirror" Lake when you've got ocean at your doorstep.

* My working at Scheduling, where we referred to every class building on campus in as abbreviated a form as possible, did nothing to break me of my TLA habit.

However (she consoles herself), I saw only sciences and technical and vocational subjects emblazoned on buildings. Bring on the history!
After I toured RDC's offices and got a campus map, they turned me loose. I scampered happily toward the Museum of Anthropology, pausing to admire the variety of rhododendra and stopping at a vista over the water to the north.

[Rant deleted.] I am harshing on Denver more than usual right now because on Thursday I attended a Big Top meeting, which this year will happen in Denver. Denver's a better city than Indianapolis (the only other Big Top I have attended), but San Francisco it ain't. Also, I am particularly embarrassed given the nature of our work that our activities guide describes Denver as a sports capitol, sic. And mentions Coors' Field, when in fact the beer family do not own it but just gave enough money for it to be named for them. Sports "capitol." Because public funds built an extravagance for the zillionaire football team does not make that building a capitol--hm, except I suppose a lot of political decisions are made there, just not on the up-and-up.

Where was I. The Museum of Anthropology, which wouldn't open until 11. I scampered in search of water. Most of the cliff was chainlink-fenced off, and no visible paths marked where intruders didn't care about erosion and tender plants. I found a couple of birdwatchers who indicated a path thataway. Aha, I should have turned left behind the museum instead of right. "It's a pretty steep path, though," one said dubiously, underestimating my determindedness or overestimating my ankle-length skirt (which was linen but flax-colored not lavender, Melissa). I found the path, with steps hacked into the slope and braced somewhat with railroad ties that in no way would fit Usan strictures but that fit this setting perfectly.

I've been a girl all my life, and I used to play outside on long summer evenings in my nightgown. Also, I wore a fragile-fabricked, ankle-length, full-skirted dress to San Francisco (it being a City visit, I dressed) in 1998 and I climbed down a cliffier cliff than this, with no staircase, just west of the Golden Gate bridge, because that was the fastest way to the Ocian [sic]. This stretch was nothing. Sandals off, skirt tucked up, and I bounded down, not feeling my knee at all. I stopped bounding when I saw that the ties were buttressed by vertical twists of pipe and had visions of falling and implanting a second femur. That old woman in my head has sure got loud these past few years.

Again similarly to San Francisco, this was a clothing-optional beach, though I doubt that's even an issue until midsummer. Unlike SF, it wasn't a nice sandy beach with hot sun and inviting surf. Plus I'd already done the Pacific a couple of times and the Strait of San Juan. Old hat, don't you know. Unlike in SF, I didn't brave the potential sharks--or here, orcas--and go in. Unlike in SF, I wasn't tempted in the very slightest. I barely could stand the Strait of San Juan in mid August long enough to dunk myself completely; early May that much farther north (though farther inland) didn't threaten my pride. Old woman indeed.

I found Haitch a rock and turned some cartwheels and clambered over a jumble of stones and in between these things, I tried to wade but didn't make it past my ankles. I didn't expect it to be swimmable; I'd brought my bathing suit for the hotel pool, not Vancouver Bay. Still, it's best to be sure.

Eventually, I climbed back up, and I am ashamed to say I put both feet on some steps. In my defense, some of the steps had two-foot risers or four-foot treads. But it was fun, because it wasn't very long. The Grouse Grind did not figure in my plans.

I strolled through the Nitobe Memorial Garden and overhead an opportunity to continue karmically to pay back my Captain Kangaroo stranger-benefactor-photographer. I found the First Nations longhouse, which was not a reconstruction but quite contemporary. Then it was almost eleven.

The Museum of Anthropology has a glass-walled gallery tall enough to accommodate 50' poles; between the poles through the glass, you see Vancouver Bay. It's amazing. I saw bentwood boxes and masks. My favorite piece was a contemporary (well, 1980), huge, yellow pine carving depicting the Raven finding the first men. After the flood waters receded, the Raven spotted a bit of white on the beach. Coming closer, he saw that it was a clamshell with little critters in it, and he encouraged the timid things to emerge.

A flood myth is almost universal, my ninth grade English teacher asserted, and that's mostly been true in my experience. What amuses me is how she implied that the universality proved that a flood really did happen--of course, the Judeo-Christian version.

I was glad of plaques announcing that the Museum displayed this or that relic with the permission and even approbation of the pertinent tribe. Still, one whole corner of the museum is display cases of pieces not yet labeled or put into a regular display, rows and rows of tall cases filled with masks and robes and boxes and hammered copper. I didn't have as much time as I wanted--you never do--but I do believe one reason I backed out of that area was the weight of the Dust on my solar plexus.

There were other exhibits of Asian ceramics (which I skipped) and of Islamic calligraphy (which I could have memorized). Reading The Code Book, I learned that frequency analysis as a tool of code-breaking was first possible after Muslim scholars tried to analyze Mohammed's revelations by every possible means. No one before had realized that some letters occur more often than others. I don't know how much ETAOINUSism [I guessed at the letters from O onward] this exhibit would have mentioned (in its Arabic equivalent), but ritual handwriting is a topic I can sink my teeth into.

My favorite poles had long-beaked ravens or orcas or bears on them. And I really liked how only those who are allowed to know the stories could either fully understand them or tell their stories. It reminded me of how Frank in Angela's Ashes didn't want anyone else to tell the Cuchulaìn stories but his father, and no one to hear them but him, because they were his.

Then it was time to meet RDC, whose day ended at noon. We explored Queen Elizabeth park and had lunch--mushrooms for me, prawns for him--in Seasons in the Park, and I wonder if Vancouver doesn't actually have all four seasons to name its parky restaurant after.

From Le Soleil, we walked two or three blocks to the water. They call their esplanade Seaside, which to me means the home for mentally disabled adults in Waterford. I like "esplanade." I don't know if the esplanade stretches around the whole island, but the bit we walked was ver' nice, meandering around marinas several kilometers to Stanley Park. This park occupies the entire northwestern corner of the peninsula (preseved from development by being reserved, but never used, for military exercises). It has a rainforest, beaches, fantastic gardens, and views of snowcapped mountains. My brain hurt.

We stopped to drink a liter of water each on a huge driftwood log, toes in the sand and eyes on the mountains across the bay. Magnificent. The industrial port just across the river didn't even ruin the view. Mar, maybe; ruin, no. There was a disturbing amount of seaglass, little of it done yet. There was little other trash, though, and seaglass used to be a find like a good shell. I think mass-produced bottles must be of a different grade of glass than previously, though, because all the seaglass I've found in the past several years has worn differently than pieces I have from childhood.

We sat sunning and staring until the tide turned, only about 20 minutes really but long enough to see that the bit of flotsam we'd first glanced and hoped was a seal had turned and was now floating east on a flowing tide. Well, RDC sat. I sat and strolled and looked for shells (too cold, and I shouldn't've taken any anyway) and waded (again).

We met a dog named Bella and as I stooped to pet her remarked that she must have been named that because she was so very pretty. Her owner laughed at my perception, but really she was a very pretty dog, all red and long-haired and vaguely dachshund-shaped but bigger and better proportioned. Bella was half chihuahua, which startled me. But she was still pretty. The other day I met a dog in my neighborhood, a corgi named Opie, and I asked, "Because he has red fur?" and his owner was amazed at my accurate guess. "The Andy Griffith Show" was her favorite show ever. It wasn't that clever a guess: how many other characters named Opie are there to namesake your dog for?

RDC and I joined the throngs heading for Robson Street and dined at Joe Fioré's. We shared a dozen Imperial Bay oysters, which were the best I've had since France, which are still the best ever not just because they were my first ever and with Nisou but because they were good. (RDC agrees that it's not just sentiment.) It makes sense, of course, that oysters from different areas would taste different, but still it amuses to see a selection of oysters with descriptions like "cucumber finish" and "robust and smoky" as if they were wines. Not, happily, that I have ever seen a wine described with a cucumber finish. Hey, it was May! Maybe the oyster season is longer in colder seas? Maybe the oyster season, like everything else's, has been artificially lengthened? The first I knew about not eating oysters in months with an R in them was in a Dr. Dolittle book. Jip finds a sick dog and discovers it has been eating rats, and he reprimands him for eating a rat in a month without an R in it, R for rat. When later--maybe in Jacob Have I Loved--I learned that oysters are a winter harvest, I remembered that Dr. Dolittle-ism.

Then I had skatefish and RDC sablefish, neither of which we had heard of. Skatefish is a ray-type critter--my revenge, I said to RDC--and I figured the wing of one would be dense and chewy, like a calimari steak. Nonesuch. It was tender and rich (and I preferred the oysters). Also the hotel concierge bought us an appetizer, a salmon mousse. I declined both to make any "Meaning of Life" jokes and more than a taste of the stuff, which had the texture of cat food.