It was raining miserably when I hopped on the #351 bus in downtown Vancouver, bound for the great South. An hour later, however, when it dropped me off in the pleasant little town of White Rock, the sky above was blue and pure. I peeled off my fleece, got the camera out of my backpack and headed down the hill to the waterfront.

I was immediately struck by the similarity with West Seattle’s shoreline. Same location south of the city center, close enough to be easily accessible but far enough to have that remote small town feel. Same waterfront lined up with restaurants and coffee shops. Same heteroclite residential architecture ranging from modest beach bungalows to hacienda looking mansions. And same joie de vivre in the air. Even though I was still within the Greater Vancouver boundaries, the mood here was a vacation one.

And it suddenly dawned on me: “Ici, c’est autre chose que loin, c’est ailleurs.” (Jean Giono)

I started by following the crowd down the town pier and turned around to glance back at the peculiar rock (nowadays painted white) that gave its name to the place. I had timed my visit perfectly and the tide was indeed so low that one could actually walk out all the way to the end of the jetty on the dark muddy sand below.

A few brightly colored starfish were clinging to the piles and I decided to go walk down the beach to the north, away from people and towards larger rocks and tidal pools.

A good mile and an hour later, my shoes wet and my memory card getting full, I left the beach and followed train tracks back to civilization. It was time for coffee, or maybe an ice cream.

But then my eyes caught the sign. There are words the human brain will identify systematically even among a hundred others. This one said “tartiflette”. I quickly scanned the menu up and down. Fondue, escargots, tripes, boudin noir, moules marinières. I was home. Eva’s salad would have to wait.

I walked into the almost empty restaurant called le Vol au Vent, realizing that it was only mid-afternoon. “Bonjour”, greeted me the hostess. I chose a table outside in the sun, ordered a beer and my tartiflette and sat back, very content, watching people go by.

And there, I had my revenge on last week’s bouillabaisse. The food was excellent and the chef’s attention to details and presentation a pleasure in itself. Pondering the strange fact that my last tartiflette went back 2 or 3 years to a fall evening in Chamonix, after a full day of paragliding, I wiped my plate clean and gave in to a pear pie served with chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream and homemade whipped cream.

The hostess came by once in a while, chatting in French about their evening menu, the city, the May antique cars rally and the puzzling fact that on this occasion, women lose the attention of men to the cars, and she concluded: “C’est une belle petite ville. Il faudra revenir nous voir. Et il y a beaucoup de jolies célibataires!” Wink, wink. I guess it’s that obvious…

Around 5:00 pm, the sun was still high and comforting. A coffee was smoking in my cup and I sipped on it slowly as I watched a thunderhead build up over the Orcas Island in the San Juan archipelago, far to the south.

And Morrisey’s words came to my mind:

“This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down…”