In 2016, as part of my artistic practice, I tried to document my attempts at talking to strangers and finding community in Vancouver. This is the fourth in a series of five writings. (Names have been changed to protect people’s privacy.) The beginning of the series is here.
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Tuesday, June 28, 2016
He worked for Search & Rescue in the East Coast, so he knows Halifax, Truro, Cape Breton and all those places around there. I went to school at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design in the early nineties. That was the beginning of my connection to the east coast. It started 26 years ago.
He’s been through three hurricanes—two in the East Coast and one in the Bahamas. I’ve been in one. Halifax, 2006. One of my favourite authors, Rebecca Solnit, was there too in 2006. What are the odds?1
He travelled around Latin America. I did too. Mexico, Belize, Guatemala…. We both remarked on how different each place felt. When he was a young father, he bought a truck for $50 in Vancouver and drove down to Mexico and beyond with his 14-month old son and wife. Never had a problem with the truck. Once, a drunk guy hopped in the open trunk. He told him to get off, that it was dangerous, but the guy wouldn’t budge. Sure enough, el boracho topples over and hits his head. He is badly hurt. Villagers line up to look but won’t help. He says, why won’t you help him, he’s going to die. He’s not from our tribe. This was Guatemala. So he leaves the guy on the side of the road, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the law.
His Spanish is pretty good, he says. Mas o menos. Mine is so so, I say. I don’t practice it.
He lived in Iran for seven years. I lived in Malta for seven years. Both our families moved around a bit. How did he end up in Iran?
His father was an engineer and worked in the oil industry. My father was a civil engineer and worked on large projects: an airport in Malta, a dam in Pakistan…. I wish I knew more but he’s never really shared much.
These days you’re not supposed to smoke at café tables outside, but he is smoking. My hair, in its frizzy, curly glory, is absorbing the smoke—just the way it absorbs moisture. I can smell it emanating from either side of my ears. But I can’t leave yet. There are too many parallels to our story.
He was born in Ottawa. I was born in Toronto.
I’m getting hungry.
My nose picks up the stench of booze.
His father took to drinking but then became a gentleman. How does that happen? Why a gentleman? I must ask him next time.
His son is 27 years old. Is he still with his wife? I have a feeling he is not. I must find out next time.
Sometimes he walks with a walker. When he doesn’t, he limps. He is very embarrassed about it. I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be embarrassed about something like that. It happened when he was 21 working for Search & Rescue. He rescued someone’s life and in the process broke 21 bones. Things were never right after that.
But seriously, what are the odds of all these similarities between two strangers sitting outside at Starbucks on 2nd Avenue and Commercial Drive, on a bright, sunny day in Vancouver?
I discovered that detail while reading her book A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster, 2010