Kingsway

I drove to Granville Island first today -- peninsular in truth -- an oddity, at once for tourists and Vancouverites, where toy stores flank the artists' spare boudoirs. I saw a fleet of private yachts for sale, so many that the bay they rode were parched. I dined there at an overpriced cafe (organic free-range eco-chicken breast -- they'd call it vegetarian if they could) and walked the rather overcrowded ways. I almost bought a plush toy fennec fox, but didn't like the roughness of its locks.

I forged ahead to see the space museum, a disappointing place that seemed as though it came from when Atari was high-tech and people were impressed by flashing lights. They spent their budget, every silver cent, on simulated-motion rides to Mars and one enormous planetarium; the rest was photos you've already seen. The writing and the acting both were canned, but I'll admit their starry sky was grand.

Vancouver's half Chinese, and I've been told their dim sum is the continent's most lush. It falls to someone else, alas, to praise such fare firsthand, for I could not discern the way to lay one's hand upon those buns: I tried three places, failed to eat three times. My Western expectations led me wrong; I wasn't seated, told to seat myself, or shown a counter whence to order food, but entered indistinguishable space. I couldn't tell the patrons from the hosts, and no one stood to say hello to me. As I don't know a word of Mandarin, I ended up with more pan-Asian fare, a chicken moo shu at a nearby place where printed menus put the English first. Authentic it was not, but to be fair, it tasted more substantial than thin air.

The day's redemption came at Shakespeare's hands: I'd made a reservation for a show at 8 PM beneath a circus tent, a yearly celebration of the Bard. I came at six to snag a better seat (the waiting's part of this tradition's lore). I passed the time conversing with a guy from forty minutes north, a frequent guest who told me all the things I should have done instead of the museum and the park. Some I will do tomorrow, some I can't; we live and learn and hope to rule ourselves. At eight the kings and earls began their rounds -- corruption, wisdom, treachery, and woe, all written to become a grand cliche. Richard II is an awesome play.

But I'm exhausted, sore, and still without a clear plan for the morrow's parting joys. As Calvin said, it's hard work having fun, and right now what I need's a bath and sleep. For them, then, I will quit my pen and ink. Blank verse is somewhat harder than you think.