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