City Stories

[Anita Blake]

I've always been kind of fascinated when books i read describe the city they take place in, in detail. It kind of romanticizes the city for me, and i get to thinking that certain places are really neat. Though, it occurs to me, that all places are really neat and special in their own way, if only someone had the courage to see it that way.

So, with that in mind, i'd like to write a little about my city, and encourage others to write about their cities, or rural areas, or any place at all that they feel is worthy of note, mention, and feeling. You can make it simple or not, romantic or not, idealized, or not, but just be sure that you feel the place you are writing about, and that you want others also to know what it is like to walk in those places.

anita "feeling enchanted" blake

[Anita Blake]

In the summer, it's not that much warmer than in the winter, but there is less rain, and more sun, and the city kind of... comes to life. It's subtle the way it happens, between April and June, but the stores begin to have open doorways, and the cruise ships start coming into the harbour.

You barely notice summer creeping up, becasue the whole winter is like an extended autumn in the city: there is no snow, and the trees mostly keep thier leaves. Flowers bloom year-round in the concrete flower-boxes, and if it rains all the time, well, at least the pansies are there. Always, there are people, walking, riding their bikes, skateboarding, such a motley collection in such a small space, people in suits, people in jeans, people in jogging pants, people in multiple layers of clothes gathered from who knows what obscure places. Always the shopping cart people, pushing their carts dangerously into traffic if you're not watching, drunk, screaming, shouting, sometimes, but there are fewer of them the fartehr west you go from Hastings and Main.

Hastings St. Now, there's a story all of it's own. East, towards Burnaby, it's a fairly standard highway. Once you get close to the downtown core, though, Hastings is the place you want to avoid. East Hastings is a words uttered quietly and with fear and contempt. The crossroads of Hastings and Main... a place where boys fear to tread, and girls, and pretty much anyone with any good sense. By the young and brash, it's referred to as Crack Corner, and though the pavement is certainly poorly maintained there, that's not the reason. All the junkies live there, if you can call it living. Squatting in the old Woodward's building, shooting up on the street, the police presence merely to maintain order and prevent any serious violence. When you have the misfortune to need to drive through there, it's almost as if the sky closes up and darkens over it. There are shops there, but they are boarded up and many of the buildings are condemned, and if they're not, they should be. Travel a little further west, and the depressing air lifts slightly, but go even one block north or south, and the oppressive air lifts ever so slightly. The bums are there, but so are some more respectable people. But stay your course on Hastings, go west, and after a few blocks, the buildings are newer, less of them are boarded up and dark. The cross-over point is at Cambie Street. It's almost as if a line has been drawn : drunks, whores and junkies stay east, respectable folk don't fear the west. Victory Square is where the change really happens, right at Cambie St. It's a square park with a large WW2 memorial stature. It's a favorite park of junkies. Don't ask why. Just walk west. Gradually, you'll see the business district emerging, and if you go even further west, past Burrard St, you'll see a whole slew of new condomiums and high-rise apartments being built, lovely, yes, but bland and impersonal nontheless. Expensive also. Some of the condos advertise in bright colours for 2 million dollars. Of course, this is Coal Harbour now, it's still Hastings St, but everything has changed. The whole spectrum of humanity can be found on these fewer than thirty blocks. It's amazing to behold and think about, if one is so inclined.

Go north. about five or six blocks, and you'll hit Robson Street. This is where the people are. The people who shop at Guess and Armani Exchange, Bootlegger, and other big-name brand-label shops. Virgin Records. A sushi restaurant on every block. And a starbucks on every corner. The Ultimate Consumer's dream come true. All the shopping you can handle, on one easy, bright, comfortable street. In the winter, there are always people on Robson, in the summer, the people are a throng. Living, breathing, talking, laughing, one big happy organism. There's an Art Gallery, the busses run every few minutes, street vendors on every block hawking their necklaces and rings, veggie dogs and chestnuts, such a curious blend of wares to be found. There's always noise. It should be annoying, but somehow, it's not. The tourists should be revolting, but somehow, despite the overabunance of them, it's sweet. The air is vibrant and alive, and even though it's the den of inequity (what with all the big stores and crass consumerism) there are dozens upon dozens of trees lining the street, flower boxes everwhere to be found, and very little litter. It's clean, it's beautiful. Even at night, the street is alive, even though there are few bars on the street. It's a curious entity of it's own, is Robson Street.

Downtown, it should be harsh and ugly and brutal, and yet, there is a kind of light that shines within. After a while, you get to know the beggars on the street. The lady withthe red hair who asks for a quarter if you have one to spare, but who orders salads in restaurants. The man with the harmonica who always dances and waves a jaunty peace sign ourside the old Bank of Montreal on Granville street at the busses hiss by on their electric wires. The man who sits in the middle of the sidewalk outside the Skytrain station at the Bay on Granville. And the sunshine always manages to filter it's way through the dense jungle of high rises and tree-tops. Flowers shine pink and yellow and blue, winking at you, telling you it's alright to look up, it's alright to walk fast, it's alright to walk slow, it's alright to be here, because here is a beautiful place to be.

[sir archely]

I like this idea so....i'll try to write a bit about Madison, Wisconsin, my current place of residence. :)

Most often what you hear about madison is that it's 50 square miles surrounded by reality. And hey, i have no idea on the actual area, but as sayings go, it's probably pretty accurate. Of course, as reality goes, i'm pretty sure that's a good thing. :) About 215 thousand people make Madison their home. Not a big city, but a good sized town i think. Because of it's status as outside of reality, things understandably get a little surreal here sometimes.

Madison is the capital of Wisconsin, and as such, politics are a big thing around here. Except, it seems like politicians take themselves a little less seriously around here than they do in other places. It's a very liberal town, which is what got it the title of dreamworld in the first place. The city council routinely likes to take votes and make resolutions on things that have nothing to do with the actual city.

The real life of the city is State St. A no-traffic street, only allowing traffic by buses or bikes, State St. spans from the capitol building at one end to UW-Madison's campus at the other. This is the place to go if you're in Madison. If you don't, you haven't seen Madison. There are stores up and down State st., and local coffee shops abound if you want to just sit and read a book, play a game of chess with a friend, or have a nice discourse. One of the best parts about living in a liberal town is that it's okay to walk around barefoot. Many of the stores along state st. don't care about that pesky no-shirt no-shoes no-service rule that most places elsewhere have. It's perfectly normal to walk around the place with no shoes on if you feel like it. On state st there is almost always some sort of music being played, people who just get out the guitar, find a bench, and sing their hearts out for anyone who passes by. The majority of them couldn't care less if you put a dollar in their case, they are just there because they wanted to sing and play a tune. The real panhandlers can get a tad annoying at times, but actually, compared to some places, they are quite nice.

If State st is the life of the city, then Library Mall is the heart. Library mall is a small park area at the campus end of state st. Any given day in spring or summer, people are playing frisbee in the grassy areas, or just relaxing on a bench reading a book. Near here is where all the little food stands set up shop during the days, and the combination smells from jamaican, thai, chinese, southern and more cooking drift around the area. There is more than one tall concrete stand for people to address crowds, and as often as not someone is out exercising their right to free speech. Invariably when this happens, there's a group of people right there, having a discussion with the person. Library Mall is your best bet for being part of a march or rally. This is where people gather to march to the capitol.

Madison is diverse...for a town in Wisconsin. That isn't really saying much. It does have quite a LGBT scene. 10% dances are held at the memorial union near library mall at least every month, if not twice a month. Many shops along state st. have signs saying "we support our LGBT community" in the window. Most people around here could care less if you're gay or not, and it's nothing out of the ordinary to see a couple of guys or a couple of girls kissing or holding hands on state st.

If you come to Madison, be sure to bring your appetite, and your ears. Two of the things that Madison has in truckloads are good restaurants and live music, most often they go together. I'm sure if you looked around, you'd have your choice of live music any day of the week, on weekends the list of options you have just gets obscene. I have no idea how many different restaurants are in the area, but i'm sure you could eat at a different one every meal for quite a few weeks at the least. Your options are endless. Just on my walk down state st to class every day i pass restaurants with east african, mediterranean, mexican, italian, thai, chinese, and indian cuisine, and that's just what i can remember on a single portion of state st. It's hard not to find something that's interesting.

In general Madison is a clean town, and if there's a bad neighborhood, which i'm sure there is, i haven't found it. My guess is that even the "bad" neighborhood is pretty tame by big town standards. It can be quite rough to get around town, one way streets downtown make it difficult if you don't know your way around, and parking is an absolute nightmare. If you see a parking garage, and you're within a few blocks of your destination, park there, you're not going to get any closer. (To give some idea of just how bad it is, there are parking spots behind my apartment that go for something on the order of $120 a month, and that's pretty normal for where i live.) I'd recommend trying out the city bus system. It's more than adequate, and extensive, not epensive. ;) Also, rent in Madison anywhere near campus or the capitol is outrageous. For a not so big city, the apartment rents can rival some of the big cities. However, once you get out of the campus/capitol area, it tones down a bit.

Spring and summer are the times to be in madison, usually it's around mid 70s most of the time then. Winter is...well, winter in wisconsin. Snow, ice, windy and cold. Of course, it's great if you like winter. Some of us do. ;) Fall is nice too, Halloween is the Mardi Gras of Madtown. Well, not quite, but it's when 60 thousand people dress up like idiots and roam state st. Be warned though, this past halloween around 2 am (bar time, heh) people started getting a little rowdy, and police came in with the riot gear and starting tossing tear gas around. Although, it was the first time since the 70s they actually broke the stuff out. Madison is a college town, in wisconsin to boot, and the drinking scene is heavy. Bars everywhere, and house parties every thursday-sunday if you like that sort of thing.

In my opinion, Madison is a fun place to be. As an isthmus, there is water everywhere, and you can go down to the Terrace (either one) and just sit by the lake for a drink and a talk or a game if you'd like. It's the type of town where a guy who was in college in the 70s and bombed the physics building (the building still has scars if you know where the bomb went off) can own a sandwich shop on state st. today. (it's the Radical Rye if you'd like a taste ;) ) It's a great place for a relaxed talk outside about ethics, or metaphysics, or the virtues of frisbee golf. People are friendly, and if the person going in to a building in front of you doesn't hold the door for you, then they're not a local. I wouldn't mind living here permanently. Sitting on the terrace in late summer, cool breezes coming off the lake, with a nice cold glass of lemonade and a good book, that's an experience i can't get enough of.

[sir archely]

wow, a lot came out there. heh. ~shrug~

[Anita Blake]

I spent my childhood summers in southern Saskatchewan, the very depths of the prairies, the place that the rest of the country mocks quietly. Those who mock these fine prairies, the folk who live there, have either never been there, or lack the ability to notice beauty.

The land is long, with softly, oh so softky rolling hills. They don't rise very high, and at the top of a hill you might not even know you're there, but the land is not flat as some would like to claim. Not far from flat, but not flat. One of the jokes about saskatchewan is that you can watch your dog run away for 2 days. My grandparents dog had better sense than to leave the safety and shelter (and food) of the house, so i'm not sure about the truth to that, but i do know that the sky opens up above your head and nothing stops it. Nothing obstructs the perfect, clear sky, and it is usually clear, in the summer. It burns a bright, deep blue, and it will be cloudless and bright almost up until the minute that a thunderstorm claps above your head.

Thunderstorms in southern Saskatchewan, now that's a phenomenon. YOu see the clouds forming, miles away, great, black clouds that pile up and up and up. The wind picks up and you go into the house, unless there's some important work that you need to do. In the house, you unplug all the major appliances, since there is a very real danger that your house and television antenna will be hit by lightening, being the tallest point on the land for miles. And in the quiet of the house, you watch the storm come closer and closer, and maybe it won't come to you at all, but when it does, it's like nothing i've ever seen anywhere else. The thunder so loud it shakes the house, the lightening frighteningly close. And the ritual, of course, of counting how many seconds between lightening and thunderclap, to determine how far away it is. 3 seconds is 1 kilometre, or maybe mile? When the thunder roards over head at the same instant the lightning fills the sky, that is a moment of pure adrenaline. I used to run and hide under the blankets, secretly loving every minute of the storms power.

Oh the storm has it's power, but it doesn't last long. Half an hour maybe, an hour later, and that huge open sky is blue again, the clouds having either moved along or spent themselves. The gravel roads are dry within an hour of the storm leaving, and the only sign left is the water in the rain guage, and how fresh the previously parched grass looks.

You're free once again to go drive to town, drive in your farmer truck, or maybe a station wagon. There's not much use for fancy cars in southern Saskatchewan. For one thing, the roads are mostly gravel, where the gravel hasn't been tossed away by the trucks that have passed before you. The roads then are lined with tire tracks, and you'd be wise to keep your tires in those tracks. The roads are straight, almost universally, and there is an intersection almost every mile. There's nothing to really distinguish each intersection from the other, but after a while driving on these roads, you begin to know them. And the intersections on the country roads have curious corners, deeply graded, almost to 45 degrees. As a child, i never understood, until my grandfather explained that the corners are curved like that so you don't have to slow down as much to go around the corner. or don't have to turn your wheel so much. A kind of lesson in elementary physics. And at the bottom of those shallow-ditched roads is field upon field of wheat. There are a few with cattle in this hard land, but the land is ruled by wheat. Different varieties, but all wheat. One field growing, and the next lies fallow, absorbing the nutrients left by last years crops roots and stems.

When you get to town (Bengough, population 600, a sign as outdated as it is optimistic) there's not many places to go. Main street, you can top at the drop in centre and play some rummy (and eat some excellent cookies that they set out), or perhaps go to the grocery store. There's a pharmacy, but nowadays about half of mainstreet is closed up shops. Even in it's hay day, this was not a big, booming town. It is what it always has been, a community of farmers, a community built for farmers. The one thing ther is though, is an outdoor pool. It's not as small as you might expect, and there's a wading pool and a hot tub, though why you'd want to go in a hottub outdoors in saskatchewan in the summer is beyond me.

There's a restaurant on the other side of town (5 or 6 blocks), it seems to change hands frequently, but that doesn't change it's popularity. When there's 2 restaurants in town, both are destined to attract some business.

The over all impression of the town is one of age, dust, and sweat. Those who live there have invested their lives in the soil they own. They will not leave that soil unless there is someone trustworthy to farm it. Even then, there is no quitting. There is no giving up. This is a land of strength, where men are men, and women rule the household with an iron fist.

Outsiders may mock, may laugh at the flatness, but they will ever know the true beauty of this land that lies not in hills and lush vegetation, but in strength, devotion, and the sweet prairie hushing of the wind.

[Anita Blake]

Now, at the end of September, it is well and truly autumn. The days are still sunny and warm, but the path of the sun is shorter and shorter with each passing day, setting farther and farther south, each day coming short of the previous day's zenith.

The trees start to turn a warm autumn orange, those who haven't already decided to disrobe for the coming winter. Even here, in the heart of the city, if you sit still, and listen carefully, you can hear the falling of the leaves, the quiet "shush" that signals to the most primal part of your city-dwelling brain that summer is indeed over, no matter what the temperature.

Autumn means a death of many things. Trees die, flowers die, it seems that the whole earth dies, as Demeter mourns the passage of Persephone into Hades for a few more months. The God dies, the Goddes become Crone, and everything starts to wait, wait for spring once again. In the city, it is jsut as true as in places more attuned to the movement of the earth.

It's a time for reflection, to pause and consume the nutrients the bountiful summer has given you, prepare for the coming of the cold, harsh winter months. Squirrels run busily, but then, don't they always?

It's so strange, that even here, even in the midst of traffic honking, and garbage trucks bangings, and jackhammers drilling busily, even in all this chaos, the earth makes itself known, the seasons prove their ultimate domination over earth. And some of us don't notice it, but then again, some of us do. We notice, we sit adoringly in the last vestiges of the autumn sun, longing once again for the heat of the summer, wondering where the summer went, wondering what changes spring will bring.

[Anita Blake]

I remember a time when i despised autumn. Because i loved the summer so much, with it's lushness, and heat, autumn always came much too soon, the joyous shrieks of children running thorugh sprinklers fading like some long lost echo far too quickly. The cold would set in almost immediately in Calgary, and by halloween, the only costumes that decent parents would let their children wear were the ones that would fit over a warm snow-suit.

By mid-September, the trees would be bare, having turned a sickly yellow colour the week previous, and abandoned ship at the first sign of cool wind. The grass would have been brown since nearly july, for it never really rains much in the prairies in the summer, even in the best of years. It was hard to find a pile of leaves to jump in, no matter how often i saw such piles on the TV shows i would watch. There simply weren't many trees, and the wind would scour away the dead leaves before they hit the ground.

In my childhood, in Calgary, autumn was a season that lasted about 2 weeks in the beginning of summer. By the time I was adjusted to being back in school, winter would have already sunk it's fangs into us. The first snows often fell in September, usually not deep, but cold and biting nontheless. When we were lucky, autumn lasted until october, sometimes until mid-october even. If it hadn't snowed yet my mid-october, it was an Indian Summer. Winter began in the beginning of october, unofficially, whatever the calendar said.

These days, I am beginning to realize how well and truly out of the Prairies I am. Vancouver. The word even sounds like a city by the sea, surrounded by mountains.

Autumn here makes me enjoy it, despite the loss of my precious summer heat. The trees take months to turn, even now, in November, the trees cling to their leaves, having turned from green to yellow to orange to bright, deep red. The streets are brown with fallen leaves, some days the leaves are soft and thick on the ground, others they are like a wet orange blanket that no shoe can penetrate.

the air is cool and crisp, even still, and the winter rains have not yet settled in to stay. The wind can caress my neck once again, run it's fingers through my hair, give me a cool autumn strength. The grass remains green, as it will all year round, and the flowers that bloom are less colourful, but hardier, smaller, but precious for the fact that they bloom at all in this godforsaken month.

This shall be the year that i learned to love autumn, for here, there is change, where before there was only death.

[Jennifer]

I have a love affair with the sea. From warm Florida baths to treacherous North Sea storms. From painted sunlit reefs to frigid monotone depths. From calm stretches of mirrored sky to furious rogue waves. Every time I find myself near it, my heart starts beating a little faster, a little harder. My lips part slightly, as if I can drink in the salty air. The wind and the waves seem to pick up the rhythm of my breathing. The tide whispers my name, calling me into its embrace. I want to reach out to it, let it reach out to me with its arms that can be both loving and cruel. Let it carry me away from everything I know. Listen to it and hear the heartbeat of the very Earth.

Despite this ocean affair, I feel another calling me. The American red desert. People think of deserts, and they think of words like death, arid, wasteland. I think of the desert, and I see rock formations created out of sandstone, layered by Monet’s paintbrush with beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow. I see plants and animals made strange and fascinating by the harsh desert life, looking as if they had been created by concept artist on LSD. I see canyons that seem carved into the earth by the sword of a god and mountains like the backbone of the monster the god has slain. Dust devils flitting across the ground like spirits, and skies that hold no clouds, for even the clouds seem to fear this place. I hear the tumbleweed rattling across the hardpan like a skeleton’s fingers. I hear the diamondback’s rattle, a sound that can freeze my blood even in the desert heat. At night, I hear the silence that is far from silent. The desert sings to those who care to listen. A land of extremes. The heat bakes into my very bones, forever marking me – this heat protects me, surrounds me. Glows from inside me. It prepares me for the desert winter, with cold that is just as searing as the heat. The wind that is not the warm lover’s hand caressing my face, but the cold slap that makes my skin tingle and sting, taking my breath away and bringing tears to my eyes.

Both bring death, but contain so much life. One drives life, providing what we could not live without. One drains life, drinking what it can with insatiable thirst. Two sides of the same coin…two sides of me.

[Mike]

I guess pics say a lot more then words. That's home in the link. I'm not done taking photos yet. There's a lot more to be told and I'm a long way from getting the job done. Plus I'm still learning, hehe.

Anyway, home...

http://www.enchantedquill.net/gallery/thumbnails.php?album=10

[Anita Blake]

wow, those are beautiful. :)

[Malcor Sylverwood]

Mike...you have more than some little amount of talent...every pic I've seen that you've taken has been great. Good stuff...can't wait to see more ;)

-Malcor "Only as good as your last pic" Sylverwood

[Mike]

Really :blush:

You should see the number of failed photos... ~reserves more space for the Recycle Bin~

[Malcor Sylverwood]

Well, you know what they say...to make an omelet...

ok, no, I don't know what they say.

Oh, wait, yes I do. To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.

-Malcor "Deja vu" Sylverwood

[Jennifer]

Hey, isn't this the forum where you share your writing? :p

But yes, the pictures are hugely awesome. :)

[Anita Blake]

your pics remind me of a conversation i had with a Danish student of mine a couple weeks ago, whereby he questioned me rather thoroughly on what made me say Vancouver was a beautiful city. remind me later to post something about that. ~is too tired right now~

[Mike]

your pics remind me of a conversation i had with a Danish student of mine a couple weeks ago, whereby he questioned me rather thoroughly on what made me say Vancouver was a beautiful city. remind me later to post something about that. ~is too tired right now~
~reminds Anita~

...

~waits forever...~

[wiggin]

Y'know, I should post about Chicago sometime. I love this place. Remind ME, too, neh? :)

Ender

[Anita Blake]

Calgary. Throughout my childhood life, the word resounded through my ears the way i imagine "Jesus" might to someone else. It was my home, the place i was ripped away from, the place I longed for, the only place i really knew.

As I grew older, I returned to Calgary to finish my youth, living just outside the city for all my teenage years. I thought I'd always want to be there, always want to live there, at the foot of the Rockies, with the majestic mountains to the west, and to the east, the flatland prairies and the wide, open sky. Though I have since renounced Calgary, moved further west, I still crave that sky.

You don't have to look up to see the sky in Calgary, because there aren't many hills, and the buildings all seem to have been built to blend with the landscape: wide, and low. Oh, there are skyscrapers, downtown, certainly, and trees even, though the winds that scour the plains rarely permit the trees to grow oppressively tall. Coming upon the city from the east, you see the downtown skyline, though impressive as it may be form another angle, from the east, it is paled naturally in comparison with the sheer bluffs and massive heights of the Rocky Mountains, still hours distant, that loom on the horizon. What we call the foothills are what other people might well call mountains in their own right, but after living in the shadow of the Rockies, Eastern "mountains" are more of a joke than anything.

Nearly a million people live in Calgary, which makes it a fairly large city by anyone's standard, but much larger populations are crammed into much, much smaller cities all around the globe. Calgary is just plain Big. The houses are big, the stores are big, the cars and SUVs are big, and the roads are Big. It's a city who's economy is fueled by fuel; oil and gas companies are a dominant force in the city.

Recently, since I've found greener pastures (literally, the pastures in Alberta are often drought-faded) the city has grown even larger. Low taxes and lots of jobs lure people to Calgary, once noted for being a "big city with a small-town feel". The small town heart is gone from Calgary, despite the abundance of farmers and ranchers who surround the city and add in a very real way to the culture of the city. It is not uncommon in an urban shopping centre to encounter people wearing cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and big, shiny belt buckles. For one week of the year, the entire city goes hog-wild and cowboy crazy. It's called the Calgary Stampede, otherwise known as "The Greatest Outdoor Show On Earth". People come from around the world to watch cowboys do their stuff. Calgary residents cover their ears for the profusion of country music being blared over every public stereo system in the city. It doesn't border on revolting, it is revolting.

All these cowboys do have their effect on the inner city workings, though. And the oil and gas industry. The prevalent attitude in Calgary is "if you can't do it yourself, then no one's going to do it for you, you lazy bastard." You could call it a strong work ethic. Or you could call it hard-nosed capitalistic greed. I guess it depends on where you were raised. Gays are wrong, people should be Christian, and drinking is the best way to pass the time no matter how far you have to drive home.

But for all that, for all the insufferable human foibles that scar the city so deeply i fear it may never rise itself out of it's own overweening pride, it is a wondrous place. Not the city iself, so much as where it sits, the beauty of the sky on a dark, cool night, when the moon is high, and all the stars are visible, with the sound of coyotes in the distance, and the breath of western wind blowing down from over the Rockies, and you just know why the people that settled here did, despite the hard work, despite the isolation and the bitterly cold winters. This land is beautiful. Hard, but beautiful and rewarding.

[Jennifer]

Although my mother’s village is considered a part of Nakhon Sawan, a bustling city in central Thailand, it seems to be on a wholly different world.

The streets aren’t really streets, but more like rutted pathways. Dogs lie in these roads and barely twitch an ear when a vehicle comes up and honks its horn at them. People travel through the village mostly either on foot, by bicycle, or by motorbike. One amusing vehicle was a motorbike with one rear wheel and two front wheels, with a platform on the front over those two front wheels, which is useful for carrying supplies or even people around.

The houses would be considered hovels here in America. Most of the windows don’t have glass. Air conditioning? Running water? What are these things? Many of the houses are on stilts because the river that runs through the village floods its banks every year. One large room on this upper floor makes up the main living area, where the children sleep, while the parents might or might not have a smaller room partitioned off. The “kitchen” is on the ground, with a doorway but no door, windows but, again, no glass. A small refrigerator might be found in some houses, but usually meat is bought fresh every day from the local market and immediately cooked and eaten. The refrigerator is a luxury that few afford. The most common beverages are rainwater and Thai beer, either Singha or Elephant Brand. Like I said before, there is no running water. You flush the commode by pouring a bucket of water down it. And you take a bath by pouring cold water over yourself with a bowl, soaping up, and then pouring more cold water over yourself to rinse. Although this is refreshing in the sweltering heat, it doesn’t leave one feeling particularly clean.

The local market consists of an open area with low platforms all over the place in semi-orderly rows. Men and women sit cross-legged on these tables, selling their vegetables that grow wild near their houses, chicken and pork that they caught and slaughtered themselves, cloth they weaved with their own hands, or whatever else it is they might make and sell to earn a living. And if one doesn’t feel like buying groceries and cooking, they can always walk to the nearest “restaurant,” which is to say a little stall, and buy a good meal for 20 baht, the American equivalent of which is roughly fifty cents.

As poor and rough as this way of life sounds to some people, to me it seems quite simple and contented. These people aren’t worried about politics or paying debts or the daily rat race of work. They’re always smiling and laughing and generous with whatever they have to give. Compared to their city cousins, they may seem coarse and crass, but manners and politeness are extremely important to them. Elders receive all due respect for making it to their advanced age. Children are treasured. Violence is almost unheard of, unlike in the city. All in all, not a bad way to live a life as far as I’m concerned.

[Anita Blake]

There are two vast oceans in this world, and they cradle the continent of North America, watery walls that once protected the land-mass from invaders. The Atlantic was the first to be conquered, and settlers found the land to be rich and good and cultivated it, sowing the seeds of civilization, and whereever they went, buildings sprouted like trees, paved roads like weeds, streetlights like blossoming flowers, until trees and weeds and blossoming flowers themselves had been eradicated like the useless bits of pageantry they were.

A new jungle took to the earth there, on the shores of the Atlantic, it's trees made of concrete and stone fifty stories and more high, where all flora and fauna was had to be coaxed to grow amidst the darkened window panes and highrises, unless they be vermin that could thrive under duress. Not even the clouds were respected by the sheer enormity of this New York City, bumped out of the way by the scrapers-of-the-sky.

Humans covered this urban jungle like insects, stacked on top of each other in neat and tidy little cells that they paid for dearly, each one contributing it's wealth to the betterment of the city, in this case meaning the addition of more concrete and glass. Buildings were coaxed ever-higher, high enough to blot out the sun, to pass right through the adventurous clouds that hung too low.

As the city grew in immensity, throughout the continent, other cities followed suit, always looking to that one shining beacon of human ingenuity and bravado for new things to imitate.

And so they moved west, and west and west, until they were stopped by the second wall of water, the Pacific Ocean, with it's warm winds and ancient forest groves. It took well over a hundred years for the wandering settlers of North America to conquer the West Coast, but conquer it they did, and they began to remake it in the image of beloved New York.

There were those amongst the settlers, however, who had never been to fabled New York City, who had conquered the West by living off the Land, who had no concept of Cities and people-as-insects, who grew to love the grass and the trees and the skies around them. They built their grand cities, the grandest of the North being Vancouver, cradled by islands and harbours that kept the unruly Pacific Ocean at bay.

Here too, were the skyscrapers, the concrete jungle of the East, mingled effortlessly with the natural elements - the flowers that bloomed year round from the warm Pacific influence, the trees in harmony with their glass-walled counterparts, the grasses that freshened the air.

The sun rises in the East, and this will always be true until the day it ceases to rise at all, and it always sets in the West. This is the way of the world, and perhaps it is why civilization similarily dawned in the East and has ended up in the West. Human things happen first in the East, it is the birthplace of our species, and they eventually happen in the West as well.

Hundreds of years later, New York's air is stale and harsh, it's people crowded between buildings that grew too close together, and the entire city is covered in the greyish pallor of old age. Rust and pollution are as a blanket to the city of New York, covering it, keeping it warm and comfortable. The rising sun can be seen only by few, and some people live and die without ever leaving the confines of the fine towering concrete structures. Few plants grow there, none at all that are not there by the design and will of the human overlords. The people themselves need diversion, entertainment, culture, human refinement. Only the wealthy can afford to live well, to occasionally leave the gilded prison, while the poor struggle to live there at all, feeling the keen desire to be there in the cradle of North American civilization without fully understanding why.

Thousands of miles to the West, to the North, Vancouver blossoms in the spring, fresh air invigorating the people who pay dearly to live in a place of peace and light, where the trees outnumber the highrise buildings, where water-fountains glisten in the morning sun and a building with no flower bed is barely a building at all, where many apartment window-boxes boast a profusion of green plants year-round. The mountains nestle the city, snow-capped and gentle, a haven for those who enjoy the outdoors and crave the metropolitan lifestyle. A paradise in constant danger of over-imitating it's Eastern Mother by circumstance.

The wide streets and walkways have ample space for the hundreds of thousands of people who wander and roam them, not crowded by millions seeking a purpose.

In the Old, we see the path of Freedom carved and plotted, designed and created, and in the New, we see it trodden daily, with gaily swinging arms and loose shoulders.

The people of the West don't want what the people of the East have, they want their paradise protected, not overpopulated. Regardless of what the people of the West want, it would behoove them to remember that while the sun rises in the East, it sets in the West.

[Anita Blake]

Whistler Village

I recently had the opportunity to go to Whistler Village, renouned ski-resort town and site of the 2010 olympics. My impressions of the "Village" canot be told without some of the actual trip itself.

It all started when James and Wendy came to visit me. I had a vehicle that i had borrowed from a friend, but it was manual transmission, and was trying my already limited abilities as a driver. But i wanted desaparately to show these south-pacific dwellers the beauty of this wondrous land known as canada's west coast. My good friend's bf, J. however, is a confident driver, and lived in whistler for 7 years, so they offered to drive us if we provided the vehicle. Deal!

Along the drive we came across Britannia Mines, an ancient mining site built into the side of a mountain, it's multitude of square windows coated in the grime of decades where they weren't broken. Being single-minded in our task, we didn't stay long at the mines, but visited the museum gift shop and looked at pretty rocks. ooooh. rocks.

Along the twisting mountain roads, J. told the car numerous (questionably) amusing anecdotes, often slowing down or stopping on the road to point out various points in history from his life.

After a lengthy drive, we opted to pass Whistler for the time being to travel to Nairn Falls, a small park with a small but impressive waterfall. We took the back way, littered with "DANGER! NO ENTRY! EXTREMELY DANGEROUS!!!" signs. ignoring the signs and ducking through the fence, we made our way to the top of the water fall, where J assured us that the signs weren't lying, and that a friend of his had died there, slipping from that spot right over there! He then proceeded to hang off the edge of the top of the cliff. :eek:

the falls were wondrously beautiful, and a profusion of interesting puddle-life existed along the rocks - giant tadpoles, some things that might have been salamanders, who knows what that creepy looking bug-thing is!

Then... on to Whistler Village. Years ago, J. told us, the village grew large enough to be called a "town", but the council decided that in order to keep their quaint, "rustic" image, the name would be legally changed to "Whistler Village", permanently making it seem a small, quaint place.

The Village is filled with small suburbs, each one a vast complex of chalet-style condominiums, pretty, shiny, and new, with peaked apexes and large windows. Each one looks about the same, as well. Throughout our visit, J. (who hadn't been to whistler in over a year) would exclaim that a specific suburb or group of expensive condos had been a patch of trees the year before. "None of that was here a year ago". Ah, progress.

We had to park the car at a parking lot before going into the village for what J. assured us was "the best hamburger ever" (it was pretty damn good), because the Village proper is a pedestrian village. You have to walk. No choice. Interesting concept.

What the "pedestrian village" does, in combination with all the stores, condos, and ski-lift buildings being built specifically to look very similar, all the same style, perfectly planned and placed, is create a sensation that one is not in a town but in an amusement park for adults who like extreme sports coupled with expensive wines. It felt like a place that closed for the night and becomes a hollow, empty shell, except that it doesn't. It's like a neverland of plastic people, where image is everything, where the money you have buys you friends for the day, where entertainment is paramount, where the rustic mountain setting is merely a backdrop for ultra-urban existance.

The kind of small mountain town where rednecks are run out, and rich people are welcomed with open arms, where rich-kid dope-smokers find a smoking hole every few paces in the bushes to try to pretend they're really in the wild. An abomination, surely. Frightful and false, it feels like a more-pleasant replica of a real place.

Once you leave Whistler the disturbing feeling of a place out of time leaves as you soak up the clean mountain air, enjoying the pines and flowers, enjoying all that life has to offer that is absent from the commercial claws of Whistler.

[Dregs]

I thought I'd take the time to tell you all about my current place of residence, Roxby Downs.

Demographics
RoxbyDowns is situated in the semi-aris areas of Central Australia. It's sole function is to house the miners and associated workers who dig up sand looking for copper, uranium, gold and silver. The population is around 4000, with a massive 33% being under the the age of 15. Roxby has bucked the national trend and actually has a positive birth rate. You see, our men folk dig in the dirt, and our women folk pop out babies. The population is also highly fluid, with 70% of the population moving on after 3 years.

The people are a strange mix. There's the people who are in charge, the engineers, accountants, lawyers etc, and then there are the people who actually do all the work. The miners, truck drivers and smelter workers. And all of them, the grunts and the bosses, are wealthy. Not fabulously, but well-to-do. Because the town os two and a half hours from the nearest real "city", salaries and wages are high to attract people to come and work here.

The money thrown about by the mine has had a strange effect on the other services in the town. Roxby Downs is big enough to have two cafes, yet neither one of them can make a decent espresso. There a four restaurants and a fish 'n' chip shop, and none can find or train quality staff. As all who've worked in hospitality can attest, the hours are bad, and the pay poor. Down the mine, the hours are hard (4 days on, 4 days off, 12 hours a day), but you can earn four times as much.

The other problem with all that money is what to do with it. There's not much to keep people occupied round here, and that is especially true for the young people who live in Roxby. A large proportion of the workforce don't have any family here, no real ties to the town as the live in "camp" where food and washing is provided. Money gets spent on beer and cars, which don't tend to mix. Teenagers break windows and spray paint their names on walls, and everybody throws their rubbish on the ground. Obesity is also a problem, as is domestic violence, although the latter is very well hidden. Gambling is a problem, and for a glaring example, I met a five year old girl who could correctly fill in a Keno slip, yet could not write her own name. The social problems are similar to other outback towns, although the cause is somewhat different.

Having said all that, there is still the underlying feeling of co-operation that is present in almost all of Australia's rural towns. When things need doing, the people of Roxby do it. The Royal Flying Doctor Service, the Children's Hospital in Adelaide and various other charities benefit from fundraising activities within the town. When someone is killed our injured, people rally round the families in support. Its sometimes strange to me to see a town that is at once egocentric and gregarious, in different measures.

Part Two later.