Letters from Afar

Chapter 7

A little more than a month later a reply did come from South Vietnam, ensconced within a small envelope having several stamps spread around the address. I examined the stamps and postmarks for a few minutes to savour the moment, and pondered those scenes depicting a war-torn country still locked in an incomprehensible civil war. I almost didn't want to tear open and destroy the envelope, but I did.

Inside was a short one-page letter on green newsprint paper written entirely in French. Receiving a letter in French was not a complete surprise because in my letter I had mentioned I was originally from Montreal and did know a little French. Lien Huong apologized for not writing in English because she knew very little. She was a student and had been studying French for a number of years. I learned that Vietnam had been a colony of France and the third most commonly spoken language in Vietnam was French. Chinese was second. She enclosed a black and white postcard of a building that was known as the Cao Dai Pagoda. It was definitely Asian pagoda-like architecture but in some strange way the pagoda reminded me of the Notre Dame church facing Place d'Armes square in downtown Montreal.

I was disappointed that Lien Huong didn't enclose a picture of herself but I hadn't sent her a photograph of me. With the help of an English-French dictionary I wrote again but in French. I told Lien Huong about Thanksgiving Day in Canada and about my plans for the approaching long weekend. Immediately afterward, I mailed my letter with the hope that another reply would soon come. 

After spending an evening digging through books at the library I discovered that either little had been written about Vietnam or little was available in the library other than left-wing anti-war protest literature. I managed to discover, however, that Cao Dai was a religion. Tay Ninh was the birthplace of the Cao Dai religion and much to my surprise, the religion was established in only 1926 by Le Van Trung. The photograph of the religion's founder portrayed a man who looked more like an elderly grandfather. This revelation thoroughly distorted my assumptions about far eastern religions being thousands of years old and steeped in generations of Asian traditions. This far eastern religion could at best only be measured in decades. Older followers and adherents could probably even personally remember their religion's founder, founding and raison d'etre.

The following evening I scribbled down some sketches for a new piano work. Although a step in a new direction, I was dissatisfied with the harmonic structure because the written music was not producing the sounds I wanted to hear. In frustration I took a few pages of the sketches with me and travelled downtown to one of the major department stores that sold pianos. While I really wanted to purchase a piano I just could not afford one now. Nonetheless, I sat down at a piano and began fiddling with my music. Wishing to avoid attracting attention right away, I moved from one piano to another to appear as if I was making comparisons. 

About half an hour later a salesman finally came over and started asking questions about my interest in music. After mentioning a few musical works to the gentlemen I quickly realized that he knew almost nothing about music dated before the 1960’s. He did not even know how to play the piano. His job I suppose was to sell pianos and not play them. I had probably overstayed my welcome there but the half-hour did allow me to hear enough of the sketches to know that revisions would have to be made. The time spent also acutely reminded me that if I was going to compose and work on music, then I was going to have to buy a piano.

Early Saturday afternoon and sixty-five minutes late, CP Rail's eastbound Canadian squealed to a stop in front of the train station at Field, British Columbia. I descended to the platform and set my pack down. For a few minutes I stood beside the steaming stainless steel streamliner that had effortlessly carried me these five hundred miles to this tiny settlement that had no reason for existence other than being a CP Rail division point, even the Trans-Canada Highway by-passed Field on the opposite side of the Kicking Horse River. The remaining sixteen miles to Lake Louise I would traverse under my own power. For many years the dream of hiking up the Big Hill and over the Great Divide of the Canadian Rockies had been one of my childhood ambitions since I first learned in school about the history of the CPR and Van Horne's building of the railway across Canada. Finally I was here to do that trek. 

Looking eastward, Kicking Horse Canyon was covered by dark grey clouds that were threatening to release a deluge of water into the canyon. I pulled a pipe out of my pack, stuffed the tobacco tighter than usual into the bowl then set it alight. Satisfied the pipe was burning well, I lifted my pack, heaved it on to my back, slipped my arms through the straps, fiddled a bit to adjust the balance of my load and headed forward in a cloud of smoke to tackle the Big Hill. Not to be outdone, the train's diesels throbbed to life and began spewing up clouds of black smoke as the Canadian pulled out of Field, also to tackle the Big Hill. CP Rail's train would make the climb in about an hour. I was hoping to do it in a day.

Leaving the railway and Field, I crossed over the river to the Trans-Canada Highway and headed eastward into the canyon. I could not have been plodding on for more than thirty or forty minutes before encountering another traveller. As I neared, he climbed the embankment from the ditch and called out, "How long since your last ride?"

"I'm not looking for any rides." I replied.

"Where did you come from?" he asked me, somewhat curious about my reply. I figured he was probably about the same age as I was although he was rather dishevelled and looked very weary. His pack was on the shoulder of the highway and he was limply holding a guitar case in his left hand.

"Over there." I answered and pointed in the direction of Field.

"I’ve been here three days and no one stops. Nights are awful cold. Should go home but goin' on to Seattle." He mumbled.

"Where are you from?" I asked inquisitively.

"Georgia. You know that place? Bad place here. No rides and too cold." he mumbled somewhat incoherently.

"What are you doing up here?" I queried further.

"Don't really know. Just travellin' but can't get outta here." he replied in frustration.

After a few more moments of conversation I surmised that he was cold, hungry, disoriented and discouraged about not being able to hitch a ride. Much of his conversation was incoherent but I was able to glean enough information to learn that he had spent three nights in the Kicking Horse Canyon sleeping under the highway bridges. He refused my offer of food. I suggested that if he was cold and desperate for shelter, then he should think about going over to the train station in town. He was surprised to learn there was a town and train station so near. I wished him well and then continued onward.

Two hours later, and now truly in the middle of nowhere, I was alone and isolated from everyone except for the people in the cars and trucks that raced by. Here I was in this craggy corner of British Columbia that I had often dreamed about one day visiting. This day had arrived but I had not expected a cool, damp, overcast October weekend because I had always visualized a warm, sunny, late August summer day. My temporary resting place was beneath the Trans-Canada Highway on the concrete bridge support footing, a sheltered front row seat facing the famed Canadian Pacific route through Kicking Horse Pass. 

The highway overpass was a perfect location to break my trek, rest and celebrate Thanksgiving Weekend with the special meal I had brought along just for this occasion. My meal consisted of English muffins, cheese slices and a tiny bottle of red wine. To provide some atmosphere of elegance, other than the scenery, I brought along a few paper cups I had picked up from train's water cooler. At least a paper cup was a step above having to drink out of the bottle. I would have preferred a hot turkey dinner with my family in Montreal, which I was certain they would be having this weekend. 

After opening the bottle of wine and filling a paper cup, I stretched out and raised my arm then exclaimed aloud, "Here's to you Canada!" and then as an afterthought added aloud, “Here's to you CPR!” 

I had officially toasted Canada, my favourite railway and the fulfillment my dream of walking through Kicking Horse Canyon and up the famous Big Hill. Pensively I devoured my humble Thanksgiving dinner amidst the stark stony silence of three towering giants, Mount Field, Mount Stephen and Cathedral Mountain, truly grateful to God for this unique Canadian experience. I was also thankful for my new friend in South Vietnam. Through dinner I had remained hopeful that a train would pass but the only entertainment was the overhead thumps and roars of cars and trucks banging over the bridge expansion joints. After my meal I packed up what was left over, climbed back up the embankment to the highway and resumed my foot-journey.

The steepest stretch Canadian Pacific Railway’s original Kicking Horse Pass alignment had been abandoned after the Spiral Tunnels were completed in 1911. Decades later the Trans-Canada Highway was constructed over most of the abandoned rail route. I was amazed to think that trains could have climbed the original route’s four and a half percent grade up to the Great Divide. Just walking with a light load in my backpack was strenuous enough. Eventually I passed a piece of the original route that had been preserved beside the highway, an aged stone bridge over one of the tumbling torrents near the source of the Kicking Horse River. 

Standing at the edge of the Trans-Canada Highway and looking at the remains of the first man-made route through these mountains, I silently wondered about the thousands of anonymous and forgotten labourers who struggled valiantly and toiled triumphantly to carve out this route for Van Horne some ninety years earlier. I wished that I could go back in time and watch the work in progress, but I would not have had the luxury of CP Rail's Canadian and the Trans-Canada Highway to allow me so easy an access.

The sky remained dark grey, overcast and periodically spit down large drops of very cold water to remind me that I was an uninvited intruder and at nature's mercy and whim. In a matter of minutes I could very easily be drenched in a flood of ice water from the hostile clouds above. Rushing to get ready and catch the train last evening, I had neglected to pack any rainwear. Whether optimist or fool, I had been expecting clear weather. Those cold wet minuscule missiles were a constant "I told you so." 

At what age does the desire for self-preservation begin to outweigh the desire for excitement and adventure? I do not know but I had not yet reached that point in life. With train travel and hiking I could still be reckless and carefree. Anyway, I had ample opportunity to contemplate the consequences of recklessness while I persisted in my trudge up that hill. My immediate concern was to reach Lake Louise before dark and hopefully dry. The train station would provide me with shelter even if I did not arrive early enough to connect with the westbound Canadian.

I had almost arrived at Wapta Lake when a car stopped. The driver asked me if I wanted a ride as far as Calgary. I have no idea what compelled the driver to stop because I had not made any attempt at hitchhiking. Of course my instinctive first response was to say no, but I accepted his offer for a ride only as far as Lake Louise. An easy minute later we skirted around the northern side of Wapta Lake. The Van Horne Route curved away from the Trans-Canada Highway and around the lake along the opposite shore. Wapta Lake was more like a large pond than a lake, although a very deep one. The lake's surface was grey and choppy instead of the tranquil mirror-smooth turquoise shade that I remembered seeing on a previous journey. As the car topped the Big Hill and passed by the large sign welcoming us into Alberta, the sky finally made good on its threat and released a heavy deluge of rain.

By the time we arrived at Lake Louise, the rain had stopped. Grateful for a dry arrival, I thanked the motorist for his kindness, said good-bye and then headed toward the train station. CP Rail's Lake Louise station is a beautiful large building constructed entirely from logs. Inside was a massive red brick fireplace. The hearth’s perimeter was made with a discarded track rail that had been bent into a semi-circle. Benches faced the fire place and I chose the spot nearest the hearth. The hearth was spotless and had probably not seen a fire in many years. I imagined scenes of long ago when cold and weary travellers in the dead of winter huddled around the fireplace for warmth while waiting for trains delayed by snow and avalanches. The station had seen busier times in an earlier era but today the building was only a silent empty shell. I was the lone would-be passenger with the entire building to myself. The Canadian was not due for at least an hour and that was assuming the train would arrive on time. While waiting, I wrote to Lien Huong and told her about my journey on the train and my trek up the Big Hill. I also shared with her the two lessons I had learned from my foolhardiness; prepare for all types of weather and start a hike at the top of a hill rather than at the bottom.

Another envelope arrived a few weeks later. This letter was longer than the first and was written in English, a very fractured English. I realized that Lien Huong’s knowledge of my language was limited and she appeared to have laboured just to write the two short pages. Some sentences were challenging because I had difficulty interpreting and understanding their meaning, but I certainly was not going to complain or make any comments in my reply. I was gratefully pleased that someone was taking the time to write to me, even if she was half a world away. Friends that I had left behind in eastern Canada had forgotten how to write.

We exchanged several letters during the next few weeks but after reading the latest letter I was surprised when she asked me,

"Why you write Lien Huong? My name not Lien Huong. Lien my friend. My name is Vinh thi Phi Bang. You write to me please. Lien have too many friends to write to. She gave your letter to me to write to friend in Canada. Please don’t be angry for that change."

Phi Bang apologized because she must have thought I would not have written if I had known that someone else rather than Lien Huong was writing the letters. Phi Bang went on to explain that Lien Huong had received many letters from all over the world and was not able to reply to all of them. Lien Huong had chosen to pass some of the letters on to her friends and Phi Bang had been given my second letter. Phi Bang had continued replying to my letters. No, I was not angry about the change because I was grateful that someone was writing to me. Phi Bang’s explanation answered one aspect that I had been curious about; the handwriting in all the letters had differed from the first. Now I understood why.

I replied and told Phi Bang that it did not matter to me if I was writing to her and not to Lien Huong. I promised Phi Bang that I would continue to write to her if she would continue to write to me. After completing my letter, I darted up the hill to the box to mail the letter and then headed over to Kitsilano Beach for a leisurely stroll along the waterfront. 

After returning from my visit to the beach I sat down at the desk and re-read Phi Bang's letter. Placing her letter aside, I picked up the new CP Rail timetable that had taken effect with the change to Standard Time at the end of October. Reading a new timetable was often akin to reading the obituary page in a newspaper and wondering, "Who died?" 

In this case, which passenger train service had passed away into history and was absent from the new schedule?

Phi Bang's following letter contained a pleasant surprise, a photograph of her. In the photo, Phi Bang was standing beneath tall trees that resembled pine trees. The background behind her was still water like a pond or lake. She told me that the photo had been taken when she had visited Dalat. Phi Bang mentioned that Dalat was very beautiful and her favourite place. The scene portrayed a peaceful tranquil park and did not in any way betray the reality of a war ravaged country. Phi Bang also told me she was seventeen years old. As far as I was concerned, the photo pictured a very pretty young woman rather than a teenager. I placed Phi Bang's photo on my desk, standing the photo up against the backs of the music books. I wondered, “Why on earth would a pretty young lady on the far side of the world be interested in writing to me?” 

The following Tuesday was one of those rare November evenings in Vancouver that I had learned to be grateful for, wet but not raining. Time to do the laundry. More than the usual accumulation of clothing was in need of washing and the bulky load had reached the limit of what I could comfortably carry. The steep uphill walk along Arbutus Street from First to Fourth Avenue was a chore in itself while carrying an awkward load. Arbutus Street was deserted and I deliberately walked slower than normal, pausing occasionally to glance at the sky. Stars were not visible but I was certain the clouds were clearing out.

I was not paying all that much attention to the sidewalk but something had caught my attention, a dollar bill. I stopped and picked it up. The banknote was almost new and had been perfectly double-folded into fourths. The person who lost the money had very carefully folded it in this manner. Perhaps my find was a child's allowance that had inadvertently been dropped. I would preferred to have been able to return my find to the rightful owner, but doing so was impossible. While continuing up the hill I thought about the dollar. It certainly would not buy me very much so I decided to save it, determined to make that particular dollar the symbolic first dollar in my savings for travel to a far distant place some day. Perhaps the resources would eventually be necessary.

Later, as I was opening the door to my three-room closet, the telephone started ringing. 

"Oh no." I groaned aloud.

Throwing the laundry bags on to the couch I grabbed the telephone receiver before the caller gave up, and I half shouted, "Yes?"

"Is that any way to answer the phone?" Martha admonished.

"Martha! I'm sorry.” 

"Did I get you at the wrong time?" 

"No. I just got back from the Laundromat, and of course the phone started ringing as soon as I put the key in the lock." I said.

"You sound as if you're expecting another caller." she commented.

"No. I was expecting you to be another one of the those contest callers.” I stated.

“Did you win anything?” Martha asked, sounding very curious.

“About two weeks ago someone called me and told me that if I could correctly answer a skill testing question I would win six weeks of free dance lessons at some dance studio.” I revealed.

“Really? Did you win?” she asked

“I answered the question wrong and yet I won.” I admitted.

“Great! When do you start?” Martha asked sounding rather excited.

“I refused the prize." I said.

That was dumb."

"Why?"

"You should have taken it!" Martha commented in a tone that betrayed a trace of disdain for my decision.

"Actually, I did accept it after some badgering from the caller and they mailed me a certificate." I said. 

"So what happened?" Martha asked, now sounding very curious.

I went there out of curiosity, but after taking one look I handed the envelope to the receptionist and ran out." I confessed.

"I can't believe you did that!" she exclaimed.


"That was really not for me." I emphasized. 

How are you ever going to meet anyone, especially that special person you keep telling me you hope to find?" she asked.

"There’re other ways than at a dance studio. Six weeks free and then what? They’d have pestered me to no end just to sign me up for six months of expensive dance lessons.” I answered.

“It might have been fun.” she interjected.

“Yeah! Sure! About as much fun as an encyclopedia salesman pushing you to buy the whole set after you have taken Volume One for free. I don't need that kind of nonsense." I pointed out.

“You should have given dancing a try.” She insisted.

"Martha, I don't know how to dance. I don’t even like it." I protested. 

"Anyway, I called you to find out what you've been up to. We haven't seen you or heard from you for a while." Martha stated.

"I visited Field and Lake Louise at Thanksgiving." I mentioned.

"Where’s Field?" she asked.

"In the middle of nowhere." I replied informatively.

"Oh? Sounds exciting...I just wanted to know that everything’s okay with you.” she explained.

"It is, but I've been busy." I assured her.

"Doing what? Did you find a girlfriend?" Martha probed in staccato succession.

"No. I began working on a new composition. Something different from what I’ve done before but I need a piano to develop it further." I revealed hesitantly.

"You can go to my Mom's place anytime to do that." Martha reminded.

"Yeah, I know, but I also know your mom doesn't always want to hear me plinking way at the keyboard every time I visit." 

"Have you had any hot dates since the last time we talked?" Martha threw at me.

"What?... No!” I replied, obviously sounding flustered.

“Too bad, but I keep hoping for you.” She remarked.

“Martha, there’re times when you can ask the most unexpected questions when they’re least expected." I commented in exasperation.

"Well that's why they're unexpected." she quipped without missing a beat.

"I’ve also been doing some research at the library." I added hoping to redirect the conversation.

"Have you tried asking someone out?" she questioned, ignoring my comment about the library.

"Martha, have you ever found yourself searching for something but not knowing what it is you’re searching for, yet knowing if you ever found it, you’d know right away that it’s precisely what you’ve been searching for?" I asked in a somewhat hypothetical manner and not really expecting her to give me an answer.

"What are you talking about now?” Martha wondered. 

“That special person I've been looking for.” I commented.

"Did you finally meet someone?" Martha probed, now sounding very interested.

"No. I've just been having those strange dreams again... about meeting a Chinese girl." I revealed.

“Is that why you've been at the library?” she asked.

"No. I've been trying to find out more about South Vietnam." I stated flatly.

"Vietnam? All you have to do is read the newspapers or turn on the TV if you want to know about Vietnam." she stated informatively.

"No, I don't mean the war. I want to know more about the people and their country. There’s surprisingly little information available in the library and yet the country has dominated the news headlines for so many years." I mentioned.

"Does this have anything to do with your music?" Martha inquired.

"It sort of does now that you mention it." I answered while thinking about my new composition in progress and glancing at the photograph of Phi Bang on the desk.

"I'm going to Mom's on Saturday afternoon. Why don't you plan to go too and we can talk more there. I'll even stay quiet long enough to listen to your new music. I promise!" she offered.

"Yeah...alright...I could use some critical input." I responded thoughtfully.

"Did you forget already?"

"What?"

"I don't know anything about music." Martha responded facetiously.

"I could use some critical input from a music critic that doesn't know anything about music." I commented light-heartedly.

"With a compliment like that coming from you, maybe I should become a professional music critic. What do the real one's know anyway? I'll see you Saturday." Martha countered.

"You might have something there. Anyway, thanks for calling and I’ll see you Saturday." I said, and then hung up the phone.

Again, I stared at the photograph of Phi Bang then said aloud, "Maybe on Saturday I'll tell Martha about you. Why am I talking to you? You can't even hear me. What am I doing?"

I picked Phi Bang's photo up off the desk, looked at her closely for a moment, and then returned the photo to the envelope with her letter and then challenged myself again, " What am I doing?"

One early December evening I had just finished trudging home in the darkness and rain after another frustrating day at work. My umbrella had been placed into dutiful active service but a slight breeze had been blowing against the direction I had to travel. The result left me soaked from my waist down. Only silence and darkness greeted me upon arrival at my living quarters, dreary and depressing to say the least. Removing the photo once more from the envelope, I again stood Phi Bang's photo against the backs of the books on my desk. Arriving home to a silent photo was better than arriving home to nothing at all. Before changing into dry clothes I first filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil to make coffee.

Upstairs in the foyer another letter from Phi Bang was waiting for me. At that moment her letter truly felt like a badly needed moment of sunshine in a discouraging day that had rained continuously from the dark of morning through to the dark of night. Inside the envelope was a lengthy letter. Hidden among the pages was another photo and a strange looking leaf, which Phi Bang explained, was a Salon leaf. The leaf had been changed by first placing it in mud for several weeks. Later, the mud had been washed off and with it the decayed parts of the leaf were washed away, leaving behind only the stem and the network of veins. 

This second image of Phi Bang was a black and white school photo. She detailed in her letter that she was wearing white in the photo because her mother had died. I wondered if her mother had been a war casualty, but in reading on I learned that her mother had died from stomach cancer. I also learned that Phi Bang came from a large family and was the second eldest of ten children. She had two sisters and seven brothers, but sadly her youngest brother had died at birth.

Phi Bang also revealed to me that she desired to continue her studies but expressed a concern that she was uncertain if she would be able to. She did not state any reasons why. She also talked about improving her English language skills but I already knew from her letters that she wrote in English with difficulty. In turn I acknowledged that I could not speak even so much as a single word in Vietnamese. In fact, I had never heard spoken Vietnamese.

The following evening after work, I stopped in at one of my favourite bookstores to see if I could find an easy-to-understand English grammar book that I could send to Phi Bang. After browsing around for an hour or so, I chose two books. One dealt with English grammar and the other only with vocabulary. Christmas was only four weeks away and I was hoping that Phi Bang would receive the books before Christmas.
 

The Oddblock Station Agent

Last Weekend of Summer

Chapter 6

On a sunny September Sunday afternoon when I should've been outside enjoying the fair weather, I was indoors sitting on the couch and skimming classified advertisements in newspapers, because I was hoping to find a reasonably priced, good condition used piano for sale. By chance, an unusual advertisement snagged my attention, which read, "Men and women around the world seeking pen pals, friendship and romance through correspondence. For details send $20.00 in US funds to Mercury..." 

The address was in West Germany. 

"Is this for real?" I wondered.

An interesting name though, wasn't Mercury the mythological Roman messenger? 

Try as I might to ignore the peculiar ad, it had captured my imagination nonetheless, and for some inexplicable reason, the ad seemed to be offering a possible alternate route out from the solitude and silence I disliked, but was living nonetheless. 

Was I so desperate that I'd finally sunk to this low level?

Was I going to be stupid enough remit $20.00 to a post office box address in Europe? And if so, for what?

Or could letter writing to others elsewhere who were interested in correspondence with others elsewhere, provide me with a means more to my liking, and a style I might be more at ease with? 

Fresh in my mind also was a newspaper article I'd read several weeks ago, a heart-touching story concerning Quaglio the barber, and one of the few people in Vancouver whom I'd met. Several times I had visited his small shop located on West Cordova Street across from CP Rail's venerable railway station, and where I'd been going to get my hair cut. Anyway, Quaglio's story had appeared in the Vancouver newspapers, and a remarkable story about how he'd met his wife in South America through letter correspondence. After exchanging many letters he travelled to South America to meet her, they married there, and now he was fighting with the Canadian Government to obtain a permit to allow his wife permanent residency in Canada.

"Could I do the same and find someone special that way?"

"Or am I out of touch with reality?"

Both sides of my internal debate were inconclusive, so for review later, I cut out the ad and set it aside on the already cluttered bed, my usual filing place. No further thought was given to finding a piano, and having finished with the newspapers, I placed them aside. Most of my afternoon had been frittered away, so I wanted to get out and spend time at Kitsilano Beach before the entire afternoon was gone.

The Kitsilano waterfront had become my favourite retreat at any time, and while visiting the park didn't solve my problems, walking and pondering helped in taking some edge off life's issues, and frame them in better perspectives. Upon reaching the highest bluff along the point, I stopped to gaze across English Bay, because the calm water was bright blue instead of those more gloomy hues of greys and dull greens I saw more often. I stayed a while and watched as those mountains across the bay made slow but constant changes in appearance as the sun moved and late afternoon shadows on the slopes shifted. 

Although a fair distance away, I noticed smoke rising from one of the nearer treed slopes. Soon an aircraft appeared, and circled about over there before releasing a load of what appeared to be water. The aircraft made several subsequent passes, and released more water until the smoke began to dissipate. While listening to the radio later that night, a news item reported a small forest fire had been extinguished earlier in the day on the slopes above North Vancouver, thus what I'd witnessed was the airborne part of the fight against those flames. 

Out in English Bay, numerous ocean freighters were anchored, all waiting to be berthed for the loading or unloading of cargo. Some days the bay looked like a parking lot for ships. Once on a while I'd wonder what countries they came from, or which ports they'd visit next, but I could never envision myself working and living on one of those ships for months at a time. Isolation can take on many forms, and I didn't need that one.

Minutes later I noticed a slow moving, small white boat resembling a lifeboat approaching. Crew members from one of the freighters no doubt, and heading shoreward for a visit in Vancouver. When the small vessel was near and passed by on its way into the False Creek channel, I counted a dozen or more seated men, and all wearing the same bright blue uniforms. Not to be outdone by the motor's constant noisy drone, occasional indistinguishable shouts came from the men. After passing beneath Burrard Bridge, the small boat disappeared from view, and thus the parting scene became another of my afternoon at the seashore memories.

Later on I noticed water had begun surrounding those rocks below the bluff, meaning the tide was sneaking in. What first snagged my attention however, were several bobbing pieces of broken tree branches that had been driven ashore by waves, and now bouncing against the rocks. Seeing those jogged my memory of something I'd either heard or read once before.

 

Centuries earlier off the northwestern island coast of Scotland, my ancestors were said to have been shipwrecked, but were saved from drowning by clinging to pieces of drifting wood they used to get ashore. Perhaps an innate inherited trait of Hebridean ancestry attracted me to the edge of this sea delineating the western edge of Canada's most mountainous province. I liked walking along the beach and shoreline at any hour, in all seasons, and any type of weather. 

"The windier, the better; the stormier, all the more alluring." I thought for a second, but then I realized such an uninviting scenario would never be the setting in which to meet that one and only special person I kept hoping to find.

As I spent my evening hours in the park, stealing inconspicuous glances at hand-holding couples strolling along the walkway, or spying on an arms-around-each-other pair seated on a nearby bench, made me envious, and conscious of being alone. My thoughts shifted back to that newspaper ad I'd clipped for later. 

 

Placing advertisements in newspapers to initiate contacts with other people was a practice almost unheard of here in Canada, but one not completely unfamiliar to me. I'd first encountered these types of ads in German newspapers that were suggested supplementary reading when I was learning German. At the time I thought the ads bizarre, so I dismissed them as perhaps a cultural difference unique to Germans. But the more I thought about the means now, the less ridiculous the idea seemed.

The horizon sky made its spectacular eye-soothing transitions from pale yellow, to fiery orange, to burning red, to dark purple, and finally to black. This was Labour Day weekend and the first weekend of September. I'd always regarded the first weekend of September as the last weekend of summer, because without fail school resumed afterward, but this year would be the first when I wouldn't have classes to return to. 

 

To me, the weather always seemed to change after this particular weekend, because on following autumn weekends, my parents would haul us all to Grandpa's farm to help him with the harvest, Mom to help Grandma with the canning, and the rest of us to assist in storing up enough firewood to last through the winter. Heating an aging stone-foundation farmhouse with a wood-burning stove consumes a barn full of wood in a short time, but this year I'd be absent from those in-person experiences.

 

September had always been my favourite month, yet feeling nostalgic for my far away Septembers past, in silence I greeted, "Aye, this is September and here's to it!"

A while later I vacated the unoccupied bench I'd claimed earlier in the evening, and ambled back to the small basement apartment I still couldn't bring myself to call home. Perhaps too few months had passed, and maybe I'd feel differently later.

Again I pondered possibilities pen pal letter writing might provide, and by the time I was standing outside the doorway of my humble three-room closet of a dwelling, I'd made up my mind to risk the twenty dollars. During Tuesday’s lunch hour I'd pay the post office a visit and purchase the money order.

 

 

Two days later, and beyond...

Tuesday evening I placed my letter and money order into the already addressed envelope and sealed it. 

To pre-empt further second-guess dithering, and maybe end up changing my mind, right away I went out and made the short walk from West 1st Avenue and Arbutus to the mailbox on the corner at Yew. At the letterbox I paused for one last moment to question again what I was doing, but then thrust the envelope in to end any further indecision. The proverbial first die had been cast.

In less than two weeks, an anonymous looking envelope post-marked from West Germany arrived in the mail. Inside was a magazine-like booklet comprising of pages and pages of photographs of women and men, young and old, from many countries around the world. Beneath each photo was the person's name and address together with a list of code numbers that served as a concise biography and short-form listing of the person's interests. A defining glossary of all the code numbers appeared on the booklet's inside front cover, whereas the inside back cover was information about submitting a listing, therefore every person who was pictured and listed in the booklet had paid for their entry. 

Mercury's magazine wasn't what I'd imagined, but then I hadn't really known what to expect. 

I was dumbfounded, because about seventy-five percent of the listings were young, attractive looking young ladies of every nationality from every country imaginable, and all were seeking correspondence with other people. 

Why mostly young ladies?

Have I stumbled through the entranceway of a very different world previously unknown to me? 

Are there really so many others out there around the world who might've been feeling as lonely as I was? 

Or are they only curious?

I had no way of knowing, but I'm certain that if told, every story would have been different.

From the hundreds of possible candidates to select from, I thought making a choice would be easy, but it wasn't. Picking people out of what was nothing more than a catalogue seemed so cold and impersonal, yet strangely enough, no hurt feelings would ensue on their part, but on the other hand, a missed opportunity might be my lot in life from making a wrong choice. After hours of looking and pondering, I narrowed down my selection to three, and from there I chose to write to a young lady in South Vietnam. Tran thi Lien Huong was 18 years of age, a student, and lived in a city or town called Tay Ninh. I had no idea where Tay Ninh was other than somewhere in South Vietnam. 

To this day I don't know why I chose someone in South Vietnam... maybe for no other reason than a new flare-up in the ongoing conflict there had been once more grabbing the news headlines here... or perhaps the Spirit of God had nudged my heart.

Nonetheless having made my final decision, I knew there was no guarantee I'd ever receive a reply from Miss Tran. Although this was only a catalogue of photographs, I still felt a twinge of guilt upon eliminating the other two possible future friends, and having done so, I'd never know if my choice had been right or wrong. 

Making up my mind about whom to select was confusing enough, but sitting down and writing was far more difficult. I wrote my name, address and date in the top left corner area of the page liked I'd learned in school years earlier, but after writing, Dear Miss Tran, I was stuck. I spent a long time looking at that almost blank page. 

 

Setting pen to paper to compose a letter to a complete stranger in another country, a person who may or may not know much English was different, and certainly not the same as writing home. After several subsequent starts and revisions, I'd written a complete paragraph.

"What else do I write about?" I wondered.

 

"Do I write about where I work?"

"Should I tell her about my family... and maybe why I'm living in Vancouver?"

 

"Does she know anything about Canada?

"Would she be interested in why I chose to write to her?"

 

"Will she even be interested in anything I might write?"

 

I had no clue, and Mercury's booklet offered no advice whatsoever. The only light bulb moment of illumination I did experience that evening, is that I'd fretted over the very same issues I would've sweated over had Mom set me up for another blind date, like she'd done once before about two years ago. Not a bad experience at all, but nothing came of it.

 

Although after midnight, I was still stuck at the end of that single paragraph I'd written. Out of frustration I tore the sheet from the pad, crumpled it tightly into a ball and threw it into the waste paper basket. That projectile followed a dozen or more previous attempts at writing a letter. Giving up, I placed Mercury's booklet and my writing pad aside.

 

"Tomorrow." I rationalized while turning in for the night, "I've got tomorrow night to try again "

After leaving work the following evening, I stopped-off at a bookstore and purchased a world atlas, because last evening's experience had laid bare how little I knew about the world, and my unfamiliarity with geographic locations. The Atlas's one-page map of Indochina was tiny, but Tay Ninh was significant enough to be shown. From the map's scaling, Tay Ninh was about fifty miles northwest of Saigon, and near the border with Cambodia. I'd also been motivated to look-up the countries and cities where some of the other people in Mercury's catalogue dwelled. If nothing else, at least I'd obtained an overdue geography lesson. 

 

Upon arriving home, I was determined to sit down, write a complete letter, and have it ready to mail the next morning. Within minutes of starting, I found myself stuck, and again staring at an almost blank sheet of paper. Taking a quick walk over to Kitsilano Park and back, broke the writer's block.

 

While spilling out one's thoughts onto paper didn't seem much easier than in-person dialogue, the written medium did allow me the advantage of editing prior to words being sent. True, any words I placed on paper would reveal a certain amount about who I am and what I think, but those same words on paper also permitted me a certain degree of safety behind a wall of anonymity. By safety I mean I wouldn't be seen, nor heard, nor judged on the spot by facial responses, as well as by words spoken or left unsaid. Body language was a foreign language, because I didn't understand it, and rejection an unwanted yet familiar companion I'd learned to dislike.

 

After several hours of stops and starts, I'd penned a full two-page letter to Miss Tran. I was pleased with my small accomplishment, and rather than wait until morning, I went out and mailed the letter right away.

 

The second proverbial die had been cast, and all that remained now was to wait and hope a reply would arrive.

The Oddblock Station Agent

A Season of Heartache and Hope

Chapter 5

One particular late May weekend turned unusually hot for Vancouver, and hiding from the heat inside my tiny basement apartment felt confining in spite of being cool and comfortable. Yearning for something other than spending a few hours under the sun in the Kitsilano Beach area, I chose instead to visit Stanley Park. 

More than half a year had passed since Vancouver became my adopted home city, but all I'd seen of the famous famous park was what I'd viewed once from inside a car on the popular but traffic-clogged road skirting the the park's shoreline perimeter. During the tour, I'd spotted several places where trails led into that preserved acreage of coastal forest, and that had been enough to hook my curiosity. Besides, ages had passed since I last hiked through any treed area, something I did almost daily back east but gave little thought to then, so I'd been longing to do so again.

Mature western red cedar trees dwarf any tree that grows in eastern Canada, and the cedars in the protected areas of Stanley Park were exceptionally tall. Nature's silent stately sentinels stand defiant against that encroaching concrete and steel jungle named Vancouver. I stood at the base of a cluster of those defiant cedars, and gazed upward. The towering conifers made me feel very small and insignificant compared to their stature. 

After heading off-trail to explore, I discovered a tiny secluded clearing in the dense forest undergrowth that muffled most sounds of civilization. Sunlight was fully blocked by the dense high-up overhead canopy, and because of it, the forest floor cool, dim and damp. Feeling unsettled about life rather than at ease being here, I rested upon a large jagged chunk of granite, first to savour a few moments of escape from the city, and then to pray.

Accompanying me here in my billfold resting snug in my pocket was that credit-card sized 1974 calendar card Mom had given me the day I boarded the train for Vancouver. On the flip-side of that card was a Bible verse telling me, "Fear not, for I am with you, be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with the right hand of my righteousness."

I was alone, and felt fish-out-of-water alone here on this opposite side of the country, so I needed God's assurance I hadn't been forgotten. Unexpected, the granite's black and white speckles soon caught my attention, awakening memories of a two-day hike Ted and I made in the summer of 72, starting from Scotstown, across and through the forested granite peaks of Megantic Mountain, ending in Milan via Val Racine. My heart yearned for all the familiar and everything loved in that easternmost region of the Eastern Townships in Quebec. I was homesick and alone.

Following my meditation upon the rock, I continued exploring the meandering footpaths, and soon arrived at famed Stanley Park Beaver Lake which was nothing more than a small shallow-looking pond. The water was motionless, and its surface yielded a perfect reflection of cloudless bright blue sky contrasted by the dark greens and browns of the towering conifers. Several photographers with sophisticated looking cameras were busy lining them up to snag that perfect shot. Had not so many people been present, the Lilliput-like lake truly would've been a scene of tranquility. 

I began my return to Kitsilano by looping around the land-locked water only to encounter numerous strolling couples, thus prompting me again wish one day that special someone would step into my life, and be someone who'd want to accompany me on romantic slow ambles in places like this.

Stanley Park's Second Beach area resembled a packed parking lot, but one for people, however few persons were venturing into the water. Perhaps the Pacific waters were still frigid this late in spring, or this early in summer, depending upon how native Vancouverites perceived a hot sunny, late-May afternoon.

As I continued along trails that seemed to head in the right direction, I kept hoping today might be the day I'd meet that special someone... if only. Crowded areas made me uncomfortable so I avoided them, therefore a serendipitous encounter was highly unlikely. If anyone was the least likely to experience that magical meeting with a complete stranger, then I was that person. My strongest trait was reticence, and timidity a close second, which often meant if conversation ensued, then awkwardness appeared too, like that unwanted third wheel.

My return trek was via familiar Burrard Street Bridge. Upon reaching the center span at the apex, I paused and looked out at English Bay, knocked the dottles out of my pipe and watched the stuff blow away. I reloaded the little hand-stove, and in spite of the bothersome breezes encouraging me to quit smoking, I managed to get a good fire going after a few wasted matches. At that moment I recalled the remark Curtis had made quite a few weeks ago, and then mused, "Maybe I have walked over this bridge once too often." 

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow, and perhaps also a chance to meet that once-in-a-lifetime one special person I was longing for and hoping to find.

But how? How was I going to find her? 

And who? Who was she? 

And When? When would I meet her? 

And where? Where didn't matter, because meeting her anywhere was fine with me. 

And why? I already knew the answer to why. At least I thought I did. Because...

And what? What seemed irrelevant, because her appearance is what I was hoping for. 

So here they were, the famous five W's."

But why doesn't How start with a W?"

"How do I to find her?" full circle returning to wondering how I'd ever find her, and whether or not such a wonderful magical moment could ever occur my life.

Good old How seemed to be the roadblock holding up everything, maybe because I was clueless about how love relationships germinate.

English is a quirky language. In my case perhaps there should have been a sixth W. Possibly for whoa what's the rush, or woe for not enough whoa, or whatever. Regardless, tomorrow was back to work, but at least being busy for a few hours would take my mind off the subject.

Working life reality...

The Claims Department at CP Express & Transport is where I landed when I hired on at Canadian Pacific, but prior to my first day, I'll admit that I'd never even heard of a Claims Department. Regardless, my ambition always had been to work on CP Rail's trains, but opportunities to hire on with CP Rail didn't exist, because Canada's two primary railways were shedding jobs by the hundreds if not thousands. Nonetheless after arriving in Vancouver and job hunting, I visited CP Rail's employment office two or three times a week, hoping to show-up there at the right moment if perchance a vacancy in the Transportation Department opened up. 

My plan sort-of half worked, because CP's employment officers remembered my frequents visits, and thus notified me right away about the first opening that became available. This was okay, because at least my foot would be in the proverbial door of the corporation I'd always wanted to join. Too, my reasoning was that if I worked hard, stayed quiet and followed directions without question, then maybe, just maybe, an opportunity might come along to allow me to move into one of the transportation departments. 

The office where I worked wasn't even in sight of CP Rail trains or CP Transport trucks, but all that aside, I felt a certain pride to see that familiar CP Transport multi-mark logo outside the door upon arriving for work in the mornings, and knowing that I was now a tiny part of that organization. 

Mail Clerk. That was my job title, and one of my work responsibilities was to open, sort, and distribute or file all the papers after the mail bag came in. Hard work and dedication was expected as well as was implicitly demanded. History too reveals that N. R. Crump started his career as an engine wiper in a prairie-town roundhouse, and he worked his way upward through the ranks to eventually become the President and Chief Executive Officer of Canadian Pacific. At least I was inside the door, and handling mail was much cleaner than removing soot, grime and coal ashes. My ambitions though weren't as lofty as dream-smoke up a steam engine stack, because I'd have been content only to have had the privilege of earning my living by learning to pilot five thousand tons of freight on trains rolling over the railway's steel highways. 

Anyway, I was astonished by how much intra-company mail could come in from all over western Canada that dealt only with loss and damage freight claims against the company. Days came when the stuffed mailbag was too heavy to lift. Those days were usually Mondays. I soon learned that the Claims Department was staffed by people who were extremely knowledgeable about the business of freight transportation in Canada, especially about what could and did go wrong when freight moved. Some of my colleagues were unforgettable eccentric characters who'd racked-up more than a quarter-century of service with the company. 

Tom was the senior claims adjuster as well as the department's second in command, and the person whom the employment office had sent me to report to. After exchanging greetings, he first asked me if knew what floor of the building I was on at present. Strange question I thought, but I said yes. He then asked if I knew the differences between up and down versus right and left. Feeling confused I answered yes. He then asked if I knew what waybill stretcher is. Of course I had no idea, so I answered no. 

"Good!" he laughed, and then said, "You're hired... so come in tomorrow if you still want the job."

Strangest and shortest job interview ever, but I was happy hearing Canadian Pacific say "Come on in!" and feeling almost like a game show contestant hearing that, "Come on Down!"

Bright and early the following morning I reported for duty, was handed over to the supervision of the Interline Clerk, a very dapper looking younger man, for instruction, who showed me around the offices while introducing me to immediate coworkers and several key people in other departments I'd be having contact with. In time I learned that much of my work would focus around a trio of claims adjusters whom Tom in a dry way referred to as the three wise men.

Curtis was one of the claims adjusters, and as long as the subject wasn't work, he was always willing to talk about anything, everything and anyone. In some way he resembled the famous hypnotist Reveen, but with horn-rimmed glass added. Nonetheless, Curtis was a wealth of information about people working for the company, something I'd discover later during an evening spent together at the Jack of Spades. 

Harvey was easily the eldest claims adjuster, and he was the most absent-minded person I'd ever met. Always misplacing his pens, he seemed to spend half of the day shifting piles of files from one corner of his desk to the other to find his missing pens, and muttering about gremlins stealing them. Oddly enough, Harvey could recite from memory, word for word, pages of rules and items from the freight tariffs, and if he couldn't remember the wording, he knew exactly where to locate the particular rule or item in the binders that looked like an encyclopedia set.

Travis was the junior claims adjuster. Daily he was always at least five minutes late for work, looked like he just got out of bed, and seemed to spend most of the morning doing little except trying to stay awake. Occasions came when Travis actually would be asleep at his desk, and someone in the office would ring the telephone on his desk just to wake him up. In spite of this, Travis seemed to get more work done than the other two claims adjusters.

In quick order I learned where all the different documents belonged and who got what, but I began to wonder why some of them were even necessary if no one ever bothered to look at most of them. I kept my mouth shut though, because if I was ever going to impress Management with hard work, dedication and knowledge, then I'd have to do it exceptionally well without making waves, recalling my first week at the office.

In my first week on the job, and much to my surprise, several office colleagues were pipe smokers, thus right away feeling at ease, I joined in when the others lit up their pipes during coffee break. Although the Claims Department wasn't unionized, much of CP Transport was, thus the morning and afternoon break times began and ended right on time... almost like a train schedule was being religiously adhered to.

"What the hell's that awful stink!? erupted from the large corner office seconds after I'd joined the smoke-gang.

Mr. Douglas, the Claims Director, as well as also our group's Big Boss, came storming out of his prestigious hideaway, and was end-of-civilization cussing aloud about an offending aroma. 

One brave cowardly soul pointed in my direction, thus Mr. Douglas stomped over to my desk, and demanded, "How long've you been puffing away on that stinking steam engine of yours?"

Unsure about how to respond or what might follow, I gave a very meek, "A couple of years, I guess."

"Smells like it too." he grumped before asking, "What kind of used rope are you cremating in it?"

Now hoping to impress him, as well as everyone else gaping at me like I was the enterainment, by imitating a sophisticated tobacco connoisseur, I detailed, "A British mixture... primarily with Latakia tobacco."

"Really?" and seeming to be curious, he inquired, "Any good?" 

"I think so." answering with timid conviction.

Mr, Douglas crossed his arms, looked downward, and gave me a studious once-over prior to pitching, "I'll tell you what. 

"What?" right away grabbing his bait, including line and sinker.

The next time I hafta pay Winnipeg a visit, I'll bring you back a box of prairie shag." 

"What's that?" 

"You’ve never heard of prairie shag?" questioning in a way that implied everyone else in the office knew what prairie shag is.

"No."

"Is that right?"

"I've never heard of it." deciding honesty the best policy.

"Has a unique flavour... and kinda like that leather scrap you're cremating.” 

“Thank you.” but wondering if he'd even remember to bring me some.

“Do you know that prairie shag is made from buffalo chips?” perhaps testing whether or not I knew what he was talking about.

"What are they?" 

He looked at me, then looked at Curtis, and directed, "You enlighten him." 

Mr. Douglas walked back into his office chuckling.

Now doubling over with laughter, Curtis informed, "Buffalo chips come from the tail end of a buffalo." 

"Is that the A end or B end?" Harvey piped-up, and for a moment ignoring his searching for pens.

"Mr. Douglas didn't say a boxcar of prairie shag. He said a box." Travis corrected right away. 

"Not very generous, but for the record, buffalo chips come from the B end."

"There's no B end on a Buffalo." Travis bantered.

"There isn't?" Harvey sounding astounded, like he was hearing this tidbit of a revelation for the first time in his life.

“No.” 

“Then what end does BS come from?" 

"Never mind!" I interrupted, "I've got the picture."

Although feeling somewhat insulted, I felt more like a total moron who'd been played for a fool and put in his place.

"Don't mind Mr. Douglas. He quit smoking about nine months ago." Curtis smoothed-over, "If he's yelling and cursing, then everything’s alright... but if he quietly calls you into his office, then it’s time to worry."

"Thanks, but what about this?" holding up my offending pipe.

"Go ahead." he encouraged, " And don't worry about it because half the big-wigs upstairs smoke pipes, and believe me, some of their tobacco stinks even worse than yours." 

"Get back to work!" Mr. Douglas hollered from inside his office, meaning coffee-break was past being over.

During my fourth month on the job, I witnessed the first of several abrupt changes that came down without warning. Harvey would depart at the end of February, having accepted an early retirement offer, although I'm certain he was well beyond the official out to pasture age. No one seemed to know whether or not he remembered to take his pens with him, or if he ever found them. 

Tom was transferred back to Winnipeg to run the Terminal office there, and he couldn't have been happier. A few years earlier he'd been uprooted from Winnipeg, and he never shied away from making it known he hated Vancouver. He was back in Winnipeg the following week.

About a month later, following a loud heated argument with Mr. Douglas, Curtis walked out, went over to the Jack of Spades, and never returned. All of us had known there was an underlying friction between Curtis and Mr. Douglas, but those few who may have been familiar with the details, kept them to themselves. 

On Friday afternoon that same week, several positions in the Claim Department were abolished, railway parlance meaning eliminated. A Canada-wide re-organization diverted much of the Vancouver claims workload to a place called Etobicoke outside of Toronto. Nonetheless I was spared from unemployment, because none of my coworkers whose positions were eliminated wanted to step downward into the lowly position of mail clerk. I was grateful for their lack of humility, but I learned fast too that in business, corporate changes can be ruthless, and jobs with a paycheck are overshadowed by a constant uncertainty.

While some work had disappeared with the restructuring, the fewer of us felt like survivors left with more to do. One positive aspect derived from the upheaval was the effect the changes had on Mr. Douglas. The corporation's changes seem to change his attitude toward those of us who worked for him. He seemed to value our contributions to getting the job done, and he began to tell us as much.

Now added to my desire of wanting to find that one special person was an ever-lurking nagging in the back of my mind of possible, sudden unemployment. As a consequence of the uncertainty, I walked home from work more often to save a few more quarters, as well as to ponder and think through my present situation, but for the most part, to avoid arriving at the silence of my three-room closet any sooner than necessary. 

Many days upon arriving at and stepping inside my abode, I would silently ask, "God, will a day ever come when I arrive here and find her here instead of this silent emptiness?"  

Silence was the answer, and besides, I didn't know who.

Life goes on...

A letter from home arrived, and in my case, home meant Montreal's West Island. My brother Ted was planning to visit Vancouver. Ted was going to drive a car as far as Winnipeg but his departure date was uncertain because departure was dependent upon when the car would be ready. After delivering the car, Ted's plan was to hitch-hike from Winnipeg. The route he would take was unknown; therefore his expected arrival was equally unpredictable.

The news in Mom’s letter was probably the first good news I had received since I had moved to Vancouver. I was excited and looking forward to having someone come and visit. To be ready for Ted's unpredictable arrival, the bed was cleaned off and the huge collection of unread newspapers was thrown away. The myriad of clippings and piles of other papers that had accumulated were quickly filed in random order into a large box and I promised myself to sort it all out later.

Several days later Mom telephoned to inform me that she had heard from Ted when he had reached Calgary. I was surprised to learn he was already on the way. Ted had changed his plan and decided to go north to Edmonton. From that bit of information I was wondering if he was intent upon looking up Susan, an old flame of his. Even after the passing of several years I suspected that Ted had not let go and forgotten about her. Sometimes I thought Ted's tenacity for holding on to a lost cause and refusing to let go was as unwavering as mine. 

Distance between the West and eastern Canada allowed me to yield and release my hold on events from my past, but if not, then I truly wanted to believe I had let go. My situation now was that I did not know how to go on and take that next step. That was not true. I did know but was afraid, afraid of reaching out and more afraid of experiencing the pain of rejection. To me, Ted had always seemed tougher and more resilient, but was he? For the first time I wondered if he really was as fragile as I was.

Ted finally arrived in Vancouver a week after he left Calgary. He had visited Edmonton but did not reveal much about his stopover there, other than to confirm he did visit Susan. Ted did engage us in a few hard to believe tales about encountering man-eating bears and climbing a few mountains between Jasper and Vancouver. Knowing Ted's manner for slightly exaggerating facts, I figured this time a considerable bit more of the usual fiction was mixed in. 

One memorable warm summer Saturday evening I joined a group at a popular restaurant in Gastown. With its partly re-cobbled streets, quasi-quaint exotic shops, and unusual eateries with fancier names than their fare, Gastown was that area of refurbished older buildings in what was probably the oldest part of downtown Vancouver. Martha had spontaneously organized this outing, inviting any friend and acquaintance she could think of at the moment, and then scrambled to make the arrangements. Martha was often arranging last-minute group outings to unusual locations and establishments. Often asked to tag along, I was grateful to be included. I also wondered if she was deliberately trying to introduce me to some of her friends. 

Martha was several months younger than I was. Our mothers are sisters and that is probably where our similarities ended. Martha was as bold and outgoing as I was shy and reserved but she was someone I could talk to and she was usually willing to listen.

The restaurant's atmosphere was that of one huge party. The floor of the eatery was littered with peanut shells. Like a game, people were randomly tossing around peanut shells and an occasional peanut too. Shortly after arriving I was introduced to Laura, a friend Martha had known from school. Laura was attractive and almost as tall as I was; she turned men's heads when she walked by. She was also confident, lively, outgoing, gregarious and able to have a good time in a carefree manner. She possessed every positive trait that I lacked and wished I had except that I did not want to turn men's heads when I walked by. By chance, by luck, or by Martha, Laura and I ended up seated beside each other. We spent time talking to each other and we seemed to hit it off right. Once in a while she would pause, give a vigorous throw over her shoulder to release a generous handful of peanut shells and oblivious to whomever was seated behind us.

After dinner, the other members in our party vacated the table in pairs for the dance floor. Laura and I remained behind and continued talking to each other. I thought about asking her to dance but I did not know how to dance. Anyway I was too shy to ask and take the risk of making a fool of myself by trying to dance.

Laura did not wait very long before asking me to dance with her. Somewhat taken aback, I replied, "I really don't know how to dance but I'm willing to try if you’re willing to risk bruised toes."

Laura looked at me for a moment as if she was trying to decide whether or not I was sincere or if I was only trying to politely dismiss her overture. Then with a laugh she said, "Alright! But wait. I'll let you know when the best time to learn comes along."

Now it was my turn to wonder if she was sincere or only kindly putting me off but Laura kept her word and asked me to dance with her when the disc jockey finally selected music with a slow tempo minus the severe thumping beat of disco music. For a moment I ignored my inhibitions and held her close to me. Holding someone close to me was a wonderful feeling but as soon as I was conscious of what I was doing I accidentally stepped on her foot, stopped dancing and drew back feeling very embarrassed.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, and continued,” You’re supposed to keep time with the music.”

"Well... ah... the truth is... um... I never learned how to dance." I sputtered, trying to regain my composure. 

Keeping time with the music wasn't my problem. Holding someone was unfamiliar, and feeling her against me had distracted me. 

"I'm really not very good at this." I added to my feeble attempt at an answer and felt my face turning redder.

"Let's go back and sit down. You can buy me a drink, and then we can talk and throw a few more peanut shells." Laura offered tactfully, rescuing me from myself.

"Thanks, but I think you've been doing most of the shelling that’s been going on." I commented as we returned to our table.

"Are all you French guys in Quebec as shy and nervous as you are?" Laura asked.

"What?" surprised by her question.

"Martha told me that you’re her cousin from Montreal and you recently moved to Vancouver.” 

“Yeah. That’s me” 

“We've been talking for a while and I can't detect any trace of a French accent." she said and sounding puzzled. 

"Really?" I responded, wondering what was next. 

"I must admit you speak very good English for a Frenchie." Laura stated.

"Merci." and I burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

"What's so funny?" Laura asked in a tone that indicated that she had not deliberately intended to be funny.

"Yes, I'm from Montreal but I'm not any more French than you are." I answered.

"You're not?" she questioned in astonishment.

"No." and strongly emphasizied the no.

"Oh!" she paused, "I'm sorry."

"No need to be."

"But I thought everyone in Quebec is French."

"I'm not surprised though. That's the impression some of those idiots in Quebec City would like people outside La Belle Province to believe" I answered.

“So you’re really not French?” Laura commented in a questioning manner, and almost sounding disappointed.

About fifteen percent of the population there is non-French and I’m from that fifteen percent. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not French." I stated.

"I'm not disappointed. It's just that I've never met a French-Canadian before." Laura mentioned

"I guess you'll have to wait a little bit longer." I pointed out.

"You must think I’m asking you some stupid questions." Laura deferred.

"No they're not stupid but they're certainly different from the one's I've been asked so far. Anyway, no one has ever complimented me about my spoken English before and I have to thank you for that.” I replied.

“I feel so stupid.” She remarked sheepishly.

“Don’t. You should’ve heard all the giggles when Martha and the others heard my renditions of names like Nanaimo and Esquimalt.” I admitted.

“Nana-imo and Es-key-mo, I suppose?” Laura asked in a tone that indicated she had heard these renditions before.

“I guess I’ve gone on a bit too long." I concluded.

"Why did you come to Vancouver?" she questioned.

"There’ve been times I’ve wondered myself, but things are changing in Quebec and people like me will never fit in or belong there." I replied.

"But weren't you born there?" Laura probed.

"Yes, and that's the tragedy." I sighed.

"Why would you say tragedy?" she probed further.

"I never learned any more French than was necessary to get out of high school with a diploma.” I admitted.

“Too bad. You should’ve studied here. You don’t even have to take French.” Laura explained, and then asked again, “So why did you come to Vancouver?”

“I was certain Vancouver was the promised-land...that far end of the rainbow." I replied. 

"You don't think so now?" She asked, probably noticing that I was sounding less than certain. 

"When I left home I was convinced. But today I don't even know why I’m here." I admitted. 

"Most of us don't know why we're here." Laura interjected, for an instant sounding very philosophical. 

"I don't mean in that sense, but that doesn't mean I don't like Vancouver because I do." I added. 

"Well you're here now aren't you?" Laura commented, reminding me of the obvious. 

"I don't really want to live in Quebec, but sometimes I do and want to go back there, but I won't. Not after that incident in October 1970.” I tried to explain.

“What incident?” Laura interjected. The expression on her face told me that she did not know what I was talking about.

“The separatists. The kidnappings…when Trudeau called in the army.” I elaborated succinctly.

“Oh that. I never understood what that fuss was all about.”  She said dismissively.

“I don’t know if anyone really knows the truth behind those events.” I commented.

“Does it matter?” 

“No. Not really.” I answered.

“Then leave it alone because people here in the West don’t want to hear about Quebec. We’re fed up with hearing about Quebec. We’re fed up with French being rammed down our throats. What does Quebec want anyway?” Laura commented, revealing the typical anti-Quebec hostility that I often encountered in Vancouver when people discovered I was from Quebec.

"I don’t know. Everything just suddenly changed. Believe me, if the changes there continue, I’ll just have been the first of many to leave. Does any of this make sense?" I ended, aware that I had been rambling on about Quebec, a Quebec that most western Canadians did not understand and did not want to hear about.

"It sort of does if you mean that you want to live in both places but don't want to." she summarized.

"No, that's not what I mean but I suppose that’s what I said. I can't even explain my feelings about Quebec to myself when I think about it so how can I explain to anyone else?" I said.

"It's okay. I wasn't really looking for anything deep and profound." Laura assured me and then asked, "Did you leave anyone behind?"

"My family still lives there. I came alone." I replied.

"I mean, did you leave your girlfriend there?" she asked.

"No. No girlfriend. No special person in my life was left behind." I answered.

"Oh, I'm sorry." she said softly.

"Don't be. Having no one special made leaving easier." I stated.

We talked long into the evening and ignored most of the antics that were going on around us. Laura was not shy or bashful about asking questions and she asked me quite a few questions that I would not have dared to ask her. Inwardly I was glad she had a long list of questions. During the course of the evening though, I learned that Laura had finished high school and was working through the summer at her first full time job, a clerical position with a mining company. At the present time she was undecided about whether or not to continue with her studies. She mentioned she thought about studying to become a nurse but was not certain enough now to go ahead and do it. Since she started work and had experienced life in the business world, she was thinking instead about business studies. No doubt in my mind, she would do well in whatever direction she would eventually choose. While she did not say so exactly I figured she revealed enough clues to indicate to me that she was not involved in a relationship with anyone special.

As with all things though, the evening had to come to an end and Laura told me she had to go. I would certainly have offered to take her home if I owned a car, but I did not. I did not even know how to drive. Laura had her own car anyway. For a moment I thought about asking her to give me a ride home so we could talk a little bit longer but Ted was with me and I had also promised Martha that I would go home with her so she would not have to travel alone. I asked Laura if I could see her again and she agreed to meet with me tomorrow afternoon. I could have asked Ted to take Martha home but Laura was gone by the time that idea had occurred to me.

We did meet the next day. Laura had a friend from out of town visiting with her so I asked Ted to join us. The four of us met at Queen Elizabeth Park, a beautiful location for strolling that should have been conducive for inspiring witty and intelligent conversation. While we spent the afternoon together looking at the various flower gardens and talking, I sensed that some of the magic of last night had been lost and I did not know how to go about finding it again. Laura also seemed distant, as if her thoughts and attention were elsewhere. She was not asking me a lot of questions as she did last night. She was not asking me any questions. I was trying to encourage conversation by asking her questions but the art of small talk was not my strong suit. I was desperately grasping. I think she could sense my awkwardness and fumbling for things to say. By the end of late afternoon we went our separate ways but not before I promised her that I would telephone her later in the week. Laura was noncommittal in her response to me.

The following evening when I arrived home after work I found the previous day’s dishes still piled high in the sink waiting for some attention. I had assumed Ted would do them if he was not doing anything but he had been asleep. He had been asleep all day and my opening the door had awakened him. A few times Ted had mentioned he was going to find a job so he could stay in Vancouver but so far I did not think he was really interested in finding work. He had not even tried. Anyway, I was attempting to find a larger place for the two of us to live but nothing even remotely affordable was available. I was annoyed about the whole situation. Ted must have realized as much and was quick to distract me from the situation at hand.

"Have you heard from Laura?" Ted asked sleepily.

"No. Did she call here?" I asked, probably sounding desperate.

"No, the phone didn't ring all day." Ted informed me.

"How would you know? You were asleep all day." I argued.

"I would have heard it ring." Ted insisted.

"Never mind. She won't call. She doesn't have the number." I answered, realizing that Laura did not have my telephone number nor had I even thought to give it to her.

"Do you have her number?" Ted asked.

"Yeah. I do. Yesterday I promised to call her later in the week. Should I wait for later in the week? I answered, probably sounding uncertain.

“Isn’t that what you said you’d do?" Ted replied in his often rhetorical manner.

“How late is later in the week?” I wondered aloud.

“Call now. It’s already later in the week.” Ted responded, reminding me of the obvious.

“What should I do now?" I asked, but not really expecting an answer. I was facing an unfamiliar situation and had no idea about how to proceed. Ted probably had no idea either but I wanted a second opinion anyway.

"I dunno." Ted replied first, and then suggested, "Why don't you send her flowers?"

"Flowers?" I questioned. That answer had not been expected.

"That's what that guy Doug did for Martha." Ted pointed out.

Ted and I had been present when the box was delivered to Martha. I vividly remembered her reaction when she opened the box and found it filled with roses. She had been so very surprised and yet at the same time she seemed to be ecstatic.

After thinking about Ted’s suggestion I then asked, "Do you think roses are the right type of flower to send?"

"I dunno. Never thought about it before." Ted replied while he fiddled with the cigarette he was rolling.

"Neither have I, but maybe I should.” I commented somewhat absentmindedly while trying to imagine how Laura might react if I sent her roses.

"Why do you want to send her flowers?" Ted questioned.

"You just suggested it!" I exclaimed.

"That doesn't mean you should." Ted answered.

"I really don't know. I just want to thank her for being there when I needed someone at that particular moment." I said.

"She may not see things the same way." Ted commented. 

"Well she gave me a reason to believe that all was not completely hopeless." I replied pensively and, after pausing, continued, "Perhaps I will find the right person. I can’t say that I have but I can’t say that I haven’t.”

"I don't think so." Ted stated.

"What makes you say that?" I challenged and silently worried that he just may have been right.

"I dunno, but I can tell you I just don't think so, especially after yesterday afternoon's walk in that park." Ted said in his manner that indicated that he was certain about what he was telling me. He then added, "That doesn't mean you shouldn't waste the bucks on the flowers. Do it and you'll know for sure."

I thought about Ted's suggestion and his comments. Some of them made sense to me. If nothing else, I rationalized, doing something would certainly let me know where I stood in Laura's world, if anywhere.

The following morning Ted left on a camping trip to Garibaldi and I was stuck in the office. I had difficulty keeping my mind on work. Distracted, I thought more about Laura, about the past weekend, and wrestled with Ted's suggestion. By noon I decided what I was going to do. The boss's office was vacant after he left for lunch, so I sneaked in unobserved, closed the door and called the first florist I found listed in the telephone book. The last thing I wanted was for my colleagues at work to overhear what I was doing. The price quoted for delivering a dozen roses was far higher than my expectations had been but then what did I know about prices for flowers from a florist? Regardless of the price I went ahead with the plan. 

That evening I was expecting the telephone to ring and to hear a happy voice on the other end of the line. As always, the telephone was deadly silent. Not even a wrong number called as I waited through the entire evening. "Maybe the roses didn't get delivered." I dejectedly hoped.

The following morning I checked with the florist about the delivery. Yes. The roses had been delivered yesterday in the afternoon just as I had requested. I was somewhat surprised because I had been desperately hoping that perhaps the florist had overlooked a delivery.

Again during the following evening the telephone remained silent. "Ring!" I half demanded and half pleaded out loud. Silence. I wanted to pick the telephone up and call but was afraid to.

I had taken this long to realize that Laura still did not know my telephone number. Then again, she could have easily obtained my telephone number from Martha. No longer could I wait and suffer through more of this self-inflicted torture of wondering and waiting. I had to find out. Nervously I picked up the receiver and dialed the number Laura had given to me. The telephone at the other end seemed to ring quite a few times. The time may have been later than I realized.

“Hi Laura.” I greeted, hoping to sound happy and confident.

“I’m not Laura.” a man’s voice on the other end of the line. 

"Can I speak to Laura?"

“Wait a minute.”

I waited nervously while she came to the phone. Inwardly I was trembling timidly. My hands and forehead were wet with perspiration from anxiety.

"Hi Laura!" I greeted again, again trying to sound positive and confident.

A pause ensued and then she said, "I'm sorry but I’m not ready for this. 

Feeling more deflated than dead balloon, I uttered a feeble, "Oh." 

"Please don’t call me again."

Stunned and unable to respond, another uncomfortable long silence ensued, and before I collected my thoughts, she hung. She'd offered no excuses, no explanation and not a word about the flowers. Nothing. I wasn't been ready for this either. 

As I replaced the receiver, I wondered whether or not I'd really spoken with the same the same Laura I'd met with only last weekend. 

"Did I dial the right number?" almost hoping I had dialled a wrong number.

I hadn't though, and while this never anticipated experience was like a disheartening slap in the face, it was a life-lesson I'd lived through before. Nonetheless I felt like a failure condemned to that terrible fate of never finding the right person. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to escape and retreat to bandage my wounded pride. 

The Kitsilano waterfront area looked deserted as I waited for the traffic signal to change. No one else would venture out here in the dark in the late hours ahead of midnight, but if so, it did not matter anyway. I was grateful that Ted had gone camping for a few days and wasn't around to witness what had occurred. Alone-ness was becoming my horrible and seemingly inseparable shadow.

"What went wrong?" I silently asked myself, and then followed with, "Did I miss something out somewhere?" 

A few minutes later and standing at the shore while listening to the little lapping waves incessantly rising and falling against the rocks, I faced the edge of what appeared to be a huge black void better known as the Pacific Ocean. At night the ocean did not look very different from the sky except for the absence of stars. Inside of me were silent anger and a rage of helplessness. My thoughts and feelings were confused turmoil; desperately wanting some way to change my nature but not having any idea how to change it and yet at the same time not knowing if I really did want to change my nature. In frustration I picked up a stone and hurled it out as far as I could and listened to it splash into the water. Then I picked up another stone and did the same, and then another and another and continued until losing count of the number of stones that had been relocated. My anger subsided but the despair did not.

Choosing what appeared to be the most hospitable, I slumped down on top of one of the large rocks and listened to the ocean for a while. That may have been quite a while. Eventually I asked aloud, "God, are the most desperate and pleading prayers from the desperately lonely heart of a desperately miserable young man at a desperately difficult time those that you truly want to hear?"

I heard no answer, but no one else was around to hear as I continued talking. 

Having finished saying what I felt had to be said I remained perched upon the rock and continued listening to the sounds of the ocean. The water was ceaseless motion and, after a time, became somewhat soothing. I pulled my pipe and pouch out of a pocket and began the habitual ritual that always started with knocking the dottles and cinders from the previous burning out of the bowl. Satisfied the pipe was cleared out, I commenced stuffing the bowl with tobacco. Packed tightly enough to burn well but not too tightly to make drawing on it a chore. With the little stove well stoked I set it afire and soon had clouds of smoke heading skyward as well as every other direction the breezes would carry it.

As I remained there staring out across the water, I recalled a television documentary I had watched several years earlier about the space program. One scholarly professor interviewed said nothing about space but gave an outline of what he called "50-40-10". His idea was that fifty percent of energies and resources should be directed into simply defining what the goals are or should be. Having defined an objective, the next forty percent of energies and resources should be spent deciding upon how to reach that defined objective. Afterward, the final ten percent of energies and resources should be utilized implementing the how to achieve the what. To me the theory was common sense that could apply to almost any human endeavour and that was probably the reason I recalled his talk. Perhaps half of my problem was that I had not yet clarified in my own thoughts what any of my goals or objectives were or should have been.

During that post-midnight meditation I asked myself a lot of searching questions about why I was miserable. This embarrassing latest fiasco was not the reason but was enough of a jolt to be the catalyst that drove me to search deeper for answers. Slowly I realized that I really did not want to change my nature. That would have meant changing who I was, and while I may not have liked the manner in which my nature had conditioned me to respond, I detested any thought about trying to be someone I was not. 

Consumed by a desperate obsession of searching for the right person to share my life with, I never gave any consideration to who that person may eventually be or possibly should be. Rejections and disappointments had become so much of an obstacle that I lost sight of the possibility that I might actually find her. And, if I was fortunate enough to meet her, then what? 

I never thought to consider beyond, and what may follow and unfold afterward. 

What did I truly want? 

I finally knew! 

I wanted someone to share my life with, but not with any insincere, halfhearted measures. I wanted a complete and genuine commitment like a carefully calculated high stakes risking of everything for winning an even greater reward. My commitment to love would have to be all or nothing at all, and she would have to want and demand the same from me. 

But who is she? 

Where is she? 

So far, I was nowhere at all with nothing at all.

I'd spent well over an hour in silent contemplation and earnest prayer, but the rock I was seated upon had become too uncomfortable to endure any more time on it as if I was attempting to hatch it. A sore butt was signal enough to head back. 

After getting to my feet, I picked up one final stone and hurled it out over the water. Instead of the expected splash, I heard an unexpected clunk, because the stone bounced off a floating log I hadn't noticed in the darkness. As large as the ocean was, I'd managed to miss it. Defiantly, I faced the ocean, raised my right arm with a clenched fist and then looked skyward. 

With a momentary new found determination and a defiant refusal to give up, I vowed out loud, "Okay God. Even if I have to cross the Pacific Ocean to find her, I’ll do it!"

Several days later...

When I met up with Martha at her Mom's home last weekend, Martha invited me to drop in for a visit and have dinner. She'd left home a few weeks earlier and moved into an apartment almost next door to the Vancouver Aquatic Center where she worked. 

As I saw it, Martha's situation wasn't all that much different from mine, but she didn't view her situation that way. Martha did not have anyone special in her life but she did not seem all that concerned about it either. She did not have to be. She was attractive and someone was always asking her to go out on a date.

Poking her head out around the kitchen doorway, she inquired, "How was work today?"

"Work’s fine. It's outside work that's not so great." I complained.

"In what way?" 

"I don’t think I’ll ever meet the right person." getting to the point rather sullenly.

"What's the rush? There’s plenty of time." she assured me as she checked the pot on the stove.

"That's easy for you to say. You’re not in a rush.” I remarked.

“So now you’re in a rush to meet someone?” answering with a question.

“No…not rush. Maybe impatient is a better word.” 

“Then what’s the rush?” 

“I seem to have such a difficult time understanding what people are saying when they’re not saying anything even though they’re trying to say something." I remarked while I paced around at the doorway.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Martha asked.

“Nothing really.” 

"That was a good example." 

"Touche."

“Dinner will be ready in a few more minutes. Would you like a beer? I’ve got some of those imported German beers you like." She offered. 

"Great!" pausing to grab a beer from the refrigerator before continuing, "Why can't people say what they mean?”

“Or mean what they say?” Martha interjected.

“Exactly! But I suppose I'm one of the worst offenders now that I mention it.” I continued.

"Opener’s in the drawer beside the sink.” She said while pointing.

“Thanks.” 

“For someone who doesn't say very much you certainly had a lot of nothing to say.” She commented.

“Really?” I asked in a tone of mock-seriousness.

“Just get to the point." Martha remarked.

Out of frustration, I spouted, "Our society has declined to the point where we now live in an age where it’s necessary for people to wonder why yes might mean no... except when no should be yes…but maybe isn't yes because no might not mean yes if it means no…but could also mean yes if it isn't certain the actual no was a yes that should’ve meant maybe in first place." 

Dumbfounded, Martha gaped at me for a second or two and erupted into laughter.

"Am I Right?" hoping for a little empathy rather than laughter.

"I can't believe I heard all that."

"Don't ask me to repeat it." although I hadn't intend to sound so ridiculous. 

"I won't."

I took a swig of beer and inquired, "Have you received any more roses from Doug?" 

"I’m not seeing him anymore." and pointing at the bottle, offered, "Would you like a glass for that?"

"No?" surprised by the update, "but then I haven't been over to visit your Mom for the last few weeks so I haven't heard the latest news items. No glass, I'll drink it out of the bottle."

"Mom doesn't know anything about Doug. I only dated him a few times so I never mentioned him." Martha admitted.

“Is there supposed to be a meaning behind giving someone roses?" I questioned.

Martha laughed in disbelief first and then asked, "Are you serious?"

"I'm not sure what the real meaning is but I could make an educated guess.” I commented plainly.

"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed. "They’re a symbol of love. Roses say: I love you.”

"I can believe it.” I muttered. 

Martha's revelation surprised me and also made me aware of the wrong message I had very loudly and clearly, albeit unintentionally, conveyed to Laura.

Martha gave me a puzzled look for a moment and then asked, "Are you the one?"

"The one what?" wondering if I'd been found out.

"The one who sent Laura roses.” 

“Who said anything about Laura?” playing dumb.

“Who brought up the subject of roses?” Martha countered.

“What of it?” 

“Diana told me that some guy..."

"Who's Diana?"

"Laura's older sister... and she told me some guy Laura met a few nights ago sent her a dozen roses."

"News sure travels fast"

"And two and two's not hard to figure out."

"Yeah... tell me about it."

"So?"

"So I'm the idiot..." now wishing I could hide.

"Why would you send her roses?" her voice sounding incredulous.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." I replied.

“Really?” 

"Well she made quite an impression on me at that party and..." but deciding mid-thought to be frank, "I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“You don't have to convince me."

"Of which part?"

"Both," Martha teased, and then enlightened, "Laura’s a person who loves to have a good time but with her it’s never anything more than a good time.” 

“Well she fooled me” I commented.

“You're not the first to have been smitten." Martha revealed, and then hooked, "Did I ever tell you about the guy she met in Europe last summer?" 

"No" 

"They must've made quite an impression on each other. After she came back they wrote letters to each other for nearly six months." Martha revealed. 

"I've heard of people doing that but I've also wondered if stuff like that's even real." I commented.

"You mean romance by mail?" Martha questioned, maybe to confirm that we were talking about the same subject.

"Yeah, but what happened after six months?" 

"That guy immigrated to Canada! He came here to Vancouver hoping to marry Laura. I don't know what happened but she turned him down." Martha stated.

"Wow! I had no idea." Was all I could muster and very surprised by this revelation.

"So she got to you too, eh?" Martha commiserated.

"Nah. Not that much." I answered, realizing that she never gave me the chance.

"You need to do more dating." Martha advised me.

"It's not my style." I retorted dismissively.

"You'll never meet anyone if you don't." she cautioned.

"You're probably right, but I always feel as if I am on display or under examination. Here! Try me! No obligation! If you’re not completely satisfied, then just return... I hate it!" I declared emphatically.

"Nonsense! You haven't done it enough to know." Martha countered.

"Enough? I've had more than enough." I guffawed.

"When was the last time you went on a date?" she asked.

"Last week... if that walk in the park counts" I answered.

"No! Before that." she said.

"Last summer." I admitted.

"When was the last time you had a steady girl friend?" she probed further.

I didn't answer.

"Well?" she persisted.

"About four years ago." I conceded.

"Four years?"

"Did you have to make it sound like forever and a day?"

"You definitely need to do more dating.” 

"I don't want any more frivolous nights out on the town. I want something else."

"Like what?"

"I want something deeper and long lasting. I want someone I could give my life for, to live for and die for." I stated.

"You can't run before you walk." Martha quipped.

"I don't want to walk. I don't even want to run. I just want to fly!" and spread my arms out like wings to emphasize my point.

"And you'll probably crash land." 

"I think I just did." and feeling deflated after hearing that, I dropped my arms.

"Think about it." Martha urged, her concern obvious "Really you should for your own good." 

"I will." I promised, knowing I'd consider her advice and probably ignore it anyway.

Laura was a lesson never forgotten. Yes, the wrong message was clearly conveyed but how could Laura have known? A few times I thought about calling her to try and explain my intentions but then thought otherwise. What was done was not going to be undone by a lot of difficult to express words and there was no point trying to explain my actions. Anyway, Laura's message had been clear to me, she wasn't interested. For a while I wondered if a slower more cautious approach would have made any difference in the outcome. Is the anguish of longing and doing nothing worse than the despair of reaching out and being rebuffed and rejected? No, because the anguish is the same. But who cares? I should have sent the roses anonymously to Karen McLennan.

Ted finally returned from his camping trip and announced that he had enough of Vancouver and British Columbia. Ted had made up his mind to return home to Montreal. For a while he had talked about finding a job and staying in Vancouver. I liked the idea but soon realized that for Ted staying was nothing more than an idea. He had been enjoying a long vacation and was never really interested in finding employment and living in Vancouver. While Ted was definitely not the easiest person to share living quarters with I was very disappointed he was leaving.

When the announcement for boarding came, passengers started filing through the gate and down the stairway to the waiting train. Ted and I exchanged our good-byes and then he too disappeared down the stairway. I hung around to witness the departure of "The Canadian" as it began another 3-day eastbound journey to Montreal. I envied Ted because he was taking the train trip across Canada that I wished I could take. Ted was going home to Quebec and I was going back to work tomorrow morning. The stainless steel streamliner quickly vanished and I walked home via the Burrard Bridge. I finally realized that Quebec was not the wrong end of the rainbow but the far end of the rainbow. My real home felt so very far away.

Slouching down in the chair in front of the desk I stared at the backs of the music books. I picked up the CP Rail timetable parked beside the pipe tin. Looking at the time table and checking my watch, I noted that Ted would be east of Mission City if the train was keeping to the schedule. Tossing it back beside the tin, I didn't feel like looking at the timetable either. Listening to a recording of Beethoven's third Rasumovsky string quartet, the mournful, almost painful strains of the second movement accurately reflected my feelings while I stared up at the ceiling. For a few weeks Ted's presence had stifled the silence, but now, as before, the silence was again stifling. I wished that Ted had stayed longer but he was gone and I was alone again. My interrupted unimportant routines would return to normal, the usual normal drudgery. The return to silence was depressing. Sleep would be a welcome relief when it came to end the day. 

The days afterward...

I've always dismissed dreams as nothing more than meaningless mind-fluff never intended to make sense, and that's only when I've been able to remember them. After all, dreams almost always evaporate from conscious thought and memory within seconds upon awakening, and maybe for good reason. Nonetheless one specific haunting dream I remembered, because it was so very different from anything I could recall having ever dreamed about before. Those vision fragments were so vivid, colourful, and life-like real too, that I was unable to expel those startling mind-scenes from my thoughts. 

During the night I had dreamed I was married. That in itself wasn't unusual or bizarre, however the young woman in my dream whom I'd married was Chinese. And I saw her face in detail! 

She possessed an attractive curvaceous Asian-shaped face, a mesmerizing pair of dark brown Asian eyes gazing back into mine, and long Chinese black hair. No doubt was in my mind, because she was definitely Chinese, and very beautiful. While looking at me, in a soft voice she said, "I love you."

Startled, I awoke and sat up, yet wished I hadn't. That dream was strange and confusing yet at the same time was encouraging. Awake or in a dream, no woman had ever told me that she loved me, and in that fog of being half-awake, I wished I'd learned her name.

Never before in my entire life had I ever considered the possibility that the person of my heart's desires might be someone of another race and nationality.

The following morning I contemplated the possibility of what I'd envisioned during the night, and I prayed to God about it. 

Did those times of prayer alter my perspectives?

I didn't know, but I sought to keep an open mind. Nonetheless feeling conflicted, I played-down the probability of a hypothetical interracial relationship in my future as not likely ever to happen. 

After all, if I felt incapable of understanding members of the opposite sex in my own world, then how could I possibly fare any better with a member of the opposite sex in another world? 

If I was a failure when it came to meeting and trying to establish a meaningful relationship with a woman from my own race, how could there be any possibility of meeting a woman from another race?

Crossing those formidable barriers was just too far-fetched a notion to ever occur in my life, but the few unforgettable detailed scenes from that haunting dream had seemed too real. 

"Who are you? Where are you?" my unsettled heart persisted in nagging.

Several more days had passed, but I was unable to dismiss and let go of those persisting imaginary mind scenes of what the future could possibly bring.

Seated at my makeshift desk, I stared at the unopened Bible before asking, “God, is any of this stuff that's been going on in my head really possible?”

I didn't know anyone Chinese. I didn't even know anything about Chinese people other than from buying takeout at the small Chinese restaurant on the nearby corner of Yew and Cornwall, and those people barely spoke English. To settle the matter and hoping to find peace, I decided to visit Chinatown. If nothing else, I felt certain a visit to Chinatown would allow me a much closer look at Chinese people. I didn't want to admit I was about to go on a fool's errand, but I was very slim-chance hoping I might encounter the beautiful woman I'd dreamed about. 

 

As I waited at the bus stop, unwanted memories of that useless English literature class I'd been sitting through last year popped to mind. Those boring books that had me sifting for those supposed gems of meaningless symbolism hidden within the penned lines of several famous authors whose published works detailed the failed lives of their fictional protagonists. I hated reading that depressing stuff, because to arrive at the same answers, all I had to do was look in a mirror first thing in the morning and acknowledge the reflection.

In my term paper final, I'd argued that one book in particular should have been titled, 'The Lonely Heart is a Desperate Hunter' because only a lonely heart can sink low enough to become a desperate hunter. I failed the course.

My first Chinatown stop was at a small shop in an ancient, rundown-looking building that sold Chinese foodstuffs. I had no idea what the name of the store was because the sign above the door was in Chinese. Upon stepping inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell. So foreign yet new to me, but I couldn't say pleasant. Most of the fresh produce consisted of fruits and vegetables I'd never seen before in my life, let alone buy them If I'd seen them in a Safeway. Aside from the canned goods, and almost all with Chinese labels, little else in the shop was even vaguely familiar. The bespectacled elderly grey-haired gentleman behind the counter at the doorway was talking in Chinese to two patrons like they were old friends. They probably were. 

I felt so very visible and out of place in here, something that I'd never experienced as a unilingual Anglo in French-only small-town rural Quebec... if I kept my mouth closed. In here I didn't have to say a word to stand out, and after two or three more uncomfortable minutes of looking around, I left the store without buying anything. 

Undeterred, I decided to visit another store, one I was sure would feel less intimidating, a book store.

"This is better." I thought as I stepped through the doorway, but better only lasted until I discovered that ninety-nine percent of all the printed materials in here were in Chinese. 

I never considered the most obvious and logical... that a book store in Chinatown would only have books in Chinese. Nonetheless, I browsed around, pausing here and there to pick out a book with an attractive colourful cover, and examine it while trying not to look out of place. Who on earth was I fooling? 

Minutes later an elderly lady wearing what looked like dark blue pyjamas appeared, and asked if she could help me find something. Aware I was definitely in the wrong place, and feeling very awkward, I admitted, "I can't read Chinese."

Without a word, she gave me one of those understanding smiles that could only say, "I know."

"Do you have any music books?" I ventured.

She gestured with a hand and said, "This way."

I followed her as she led the way to the back of the shop and through a doorway into the other half of the store I hadn't noticed.

Much to my astonishment, a row of music books were neatly covers-out displayed like magazines, but all the titles were Chinese.

She lifted a magazine-sized publication off the shelf, perhaps having noticed I'd glanced at it first, pointed at each large red Chinese character on the cover, and translated, "White Haired Girl."

I nodded because I didn't know what else to say or do, so she proffered me the item to examine.

The pages were few, but the music notation inside was the same as western music. The only exception were the lyrics which were Chinese, but this was no big deal.

Pointing at the cover, I asked, "Is this music from a ballet or opera?"

The kind and helpful shop assistant smiled and nodded affirmative, but I had no idea whether or not she understood my question.

I handed the "White Haired Girl" back to her and selected an additional pair of music scores for piano, so I could give each one a cursory once-over. Aside from the artistic front covers, the layout inside looked much the same as a Schirmer or Peters publication, thus in print form, music was music.

Although I had no idea what the other two Chinese titles were, I handed my selections to her and confirmed, "I'll take all three." 

I paid for my items and exited the store, and while making the short two block-walk from near the corner of West Pender and Columbia, to the Woodward's flagship store at Abbott and West Hastings, I'd returned to the famiar Caucasian world I knew. After zipping into Woodward's to pick-up a few groceries, I grabbed a bus and headed back to Kitsilano.

Without even leaving Vancouver let alone Canada, I'd just experienced my first taste of west-meets-east culture shock. That little ditty I'd sometimes heard but never gave any thought to, jumped to mind, "East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet." 

Did someone tell this to Christopher Columbus when he put forward the theory that the earth was round? 

Perhaps the day he set sail? 

Might this expression have been translated from Chinese? 

Or might some clueless idiot arrive at this conclusion after visiting a downtown Chinatown not so far away? 

The ditty's origin didn't matter, because there was absolutely no possible way that I would ever have a Chinese wife. Dreams are definitely the stuff nonsense is made from.

The Oddblock Station Agent