Sleepless in Seattle Coriolistic Anachronisms - A Vancouver Blog

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Mar 28
   Vintage! This is a random post. The year was 2009...

Vancouver is bordered to the north by the water of Burrard Inlet, a narrow chasm of ocean leading to the Indian Arm fjord and separating the city from nearby North  Vancouver and its stunning mountains.

The entrance to this inlet is called the First Narrows and indeed, narrow it is. Spanned by the Lions Gate Bridge, a suspended link between the two shores, the aquatic gap is a perfect demonstration of the dynamics of fluids and Bernouilli’s principle. The tidal height in the Vancouver area can reach a few meters and all that water has to squeeze twice daily through the Narrows, which is does by increasing its speed.

While the northern part of the fjord is over 200 meters deep, the waters of Burrard Inlet don’t go beyond a depth of 60 meters and at the First Narrows, a mere 15 meters allows access to Canada’s largest port nested inside the inlet.

The  jurisdiction of Port Metro Vancouver’s - a newly formed entity regrouping many older maritime authorities - spans 600 km of shoreline, from the US border to north of the city. But Burrard Inlet remains one of the main activity centers and container ships and bulk carriers are moving in and out all the time, surrounded by the ballet of small recreational crafts and buzzed by the movements of seaplanes and helicopters.

If you have Microsoft Silverlight already or are willing to install it, here’s a link to the very interesting Port Metro Vancouver web site and its interactive real-time ship ID map, a live display of every ship’s location and data over-imposed on a satellite view of the Greater Vancouver. Check out the completely immersive full screen mode!

The southern side of the First Narrows is an outcropping of volcanic origin that resisted water erosion and formed a peninsula. It is covered by a douglas fir and cedar tree forest with an interesting - if ironic  modern history.

Back in the days of colonization, it was decided to set the peninsula aside as a strategic damper zone against an American invasion and hence, the entire area was left undeveloped. Later, the newly created city acquired the forest and Stanley Park was born. The trees are mostly second generation  but quite impressive and a maze of trails slaloms under the thick temperate rain-forest canopy.

But Stanley Park, despite the beauty of the forest, is probably most famous for its promenade, the Seawall. Part of a 30 km uninterrupted, seaside walking and biking trail, Stanley Park’s section is 10 km long and circles the park from Coal Harbour to English Bay Beach. It has the most magnificent combination of city and nature views I have ever seen, even though I must admit that last month’s trail run on the flanks of Table Mountain over Cape Town was quite impressive too.

A run on the Seawall is a surprising flirt with two unlikely  antagonists, urbania and mother nature. Your attention is drawn by a kind of anarchy, from glass covered high-rises and fancy yachts to the purest ocean views, from the bizarre sight of bright yellow sulfur mounds and Post Super Panamax gantry cranes to the softness  of snow-capped mountains, from the silent majestic flight of a bold eagle to the roaring assault of a seaplane’s turboprop engine, from waves of salt water to waves of city sounds, from the smell of many flowers to that of the cold Pacific Ocean, from the delicate arrangements of balanced stones to the chaos of an urban skyline.

And yet there is a sense of unity in the air, a binding of all those elements into one solid and beautifully integrated place, something extra that makes Stanley Park so unique. I can’t really say what, I could never  put my finger on it. But it’s unmistakable. If the universe is energy, and energy is vibration, then I would say that Stanley Park’s vibration level most closely matches our own.

Go there. Try it. You’ll know. It’s pretty hard to take a walk on the Seawall and not come back at peace and rested. That’s why I run there. I think that’s why so many others do, too.

The following are mere snapshots taken on an actual last week run. Spring is late this year and this all looks more like winter.

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2009-03-28 11:17 • Posted in Photoblogs: & Vancouver:

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  • 1 - Anonymous says:

    « Nature is the only bridge we have between our foolish mankind and the heavens we all dream about.
    Thank you for showering us with its beauty. »

  • 2 - Marie says:

    « You make me miss Vancouver. I feel homesick for it...

    I’ve never seen the water so high over the seawall.

    Stanley Park is quite extraordinary. »

  • 3 - Vince says:

    « I’m showering, I’m showering, but where’s the soap? »

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We now go back to current chronological entries:
Mar 15

An interrupted white line rushes by me with a boring, hypnotic but fascinating rhythm. The trance is shallow, though, and easily broken by a change in speed or a nervous tick in the driver’s wrist which instantly bring me back to reality. Seven people is too many for a single bloody car, even a Honda van. I feel like a sardine in a can and can’t escape the dullness of our destination, a trade show in Seattle. We have agreed to declare at the border that we’re attending a simple reception in order to avoid paying the stupid annoyance tax. NAFTA my ass.

Upon getting there, we run a few errands - and yellow lights, pay visits - and parking, setup for the show and check into our respective hotel nests. Nearby Pike Place Market isn’t too busy but fish throwing never stops, to the great delight of passers by. Our show starts late in the afternoon and we smile and bow for over two hours, exchanging business cards and forced compliments, promoting the baker who puts bread on our respective tables, looking for extra butter, to ease things in. A crowd roams by, like seaweed carried by a strong tide, wandering about and  wondering why they bothered. Oh yes, it was for the food. Which smells rather good to the right, but is left out of bounds for the hunters, who will get their treat later on at the Edgewater. For now, let the preys feast and let us pray they will fall. In our nets.

Then comes the call. It’s my fault because it’s my initiative. But caring knows no schedule. There’s no reason, that’s the reason. Time and distance are grinding away at the substance of life. The lights go down. The show is over, inside and out. I follow the herd to the cocktail, hunters only. There’s pizza and burgers and salad and beer and wine and beer and wine. And wine. Whining too, but in the best of spirits. The hunters can let go and arm the rifles, and shoot at empty space, and tell hunting stories. Booze flows, pizza keeps reappearing. Tongues get agile, mouths are big enough to accept feet, but nobody any longer cares. Cheeks are now bright and eyes shiny. Then those turn red, and slightly blurry.

I’ve paid my dues, time to escape. To retreat to the darkness and let it match my mood. They drive back, shame, they shouldn’t. I’ll walk. I need the  fresh air and the neon lights and the sea breeze and the time alone with my thoughts. Camera across a shoulder, I follow the waterfront, taking the night in, eyes wide open but half turned to the east where sleep must have taken over and brought rest, if nothing else.

Neons, headlights, stoplights, my head is light, too. It must be the wine, or the whining. Gossip turned sour. It always happens at that time of the party. I take deep breaths to cleanse my mind. It starts to rain. I won’t be able to sleep, might as well have a coffee, after all this is Seattle. The warm cup in my hand feels like a lifeline, a compass and a map. It steers me towards the Vintage Park Hotel and away from the night. The streets are empty. I must have stayed out longer than I thought. Will it matter in the morning?

There’s another appointment, a last call of duty, to be fulfilled. We are to pay our sister tower a visit. The Space Needle is a big sister, humbling, impressive, like a splinter in our minds. So near and yet so far. No matter how far one has walked, there always seems to remain more distance ahead than lays behind. It must be one of those optical illusions.

Later, we hit the road again, after a ritual stop at Trader Joe’s to gather groceries and food for the soul. In my near future, across a few hundred kilometers, a border line and some traffic, towering over my day, is Voice Over IP, the skypescraper. It’s not that great, but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing, and it usually helps lachrymal glands, too.

Bad, moody pictures, hand-held, cheap lens, low light, high ISO, too much grain, it can’t always be HDR.

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2008-03-15 11:10 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs:

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  • 1 - Marie says:

    « Somehow I thought a Walker Percy quote would be a good thing to add here, but I can’t find one that fits.

    Food for the soul? A baguette, a cheese, red wine, and Thou.

    Instead I shall dine tonight as Lucullus did: with myself.

    Your grainy, moody, non-HDR pictures are very good. I also like the self portait in front of the yellow stripes. »

  • 2 - Sigrid says:

    « I like the self portrait too »

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