Two events over the last few years
made me realize just how much Vancouver had become my home, how much I cared
about my city. The first was the
Olympics, when we hosted the world in one of the highest profile events a city
and a country can hold. Like everyone
else, I watched in horror as tragedy struck even before the Games started, and
like everyone from around here, I was disappointed but not surprised as warm
weather and rain threatened to derail the events on opening weekend. The Glitch Games, they were dubbed, possibly
the worst Olympics ever before we were three days in… at least that was
according to the London tabloids, those noteworthy purveyors of high-quality
journalism.
Even as all this was happening,
though, the feeling on the streets was different. All day, every day, the city was full of
people from all over the world, locals, tourists, officials, and athletes,
mixing together to give the city an atmosphere that gradually began to overcome
the initial problems. By the final day,
as thousands gathered in the streets, celebrating the golden goal and breaking
into more spontaneous renditions of Oh Canada than I ever thought possible, the
question was no longer are these the worst games ever, but are they the best
ones to be held. .. and those of us from here no longer even cared that the
question was being asked. We had shown
the world our best: our beauty, our personality, our resilience, and our pride
of place.
Of course, that pride took a
beating not much more than a year later, as we showed the world the dark side
of our city. After our Canucks took us
on a wild ride that sadly ended one win short of the promised land, the
frustration of a region (for as anyone who rode Skytrain or tried to drive into
the city that day can attest, it was far more than just Vancouver at work on
that night) boiled over, and was set ablaze by a few assholes intent only on
wreaking havoc. Mob mentality took over,
and we watched in horror as our city’s storefronts, any vehicles in the mob’s
path, and our civic pride, were smashed and set ablaze by a few hundred
drunken, foolish people, even as thousands more stood aside and let it happen,
or caught it on their phones. I sat at
home watching the news in disbelief, almost sick to my stomach as my city was
ravaged.
Of course, even before the fires
had been put out, Vancouver was making plans to wipe this smear from its
streets, if not from its heart.
Thousands of people, armed with whatever cleaning supplies they could
gather, descended upon downtown to repair the damage, physical and
emotional. I headed down as soon as I
could after work the next morning, and gladly joined in to help with the last
of the cleanup, and add my message to the others that appeared on the plywood
covering the broken windows on The Bay, and Chapters, and all the other stores
that had suffered at the hands of the mob.
Again and again, the same message appeared: THIS is my Vancouver. Not the mob from the night before, but this
one that had appeared in the morning, gathering to repair as best we could the
destruction we had suffered.
And now, even as I sit in a living
room that has been almost emptied, looking at a stack of boxes that will soon
be loaded up and taken to a new city, I prepare to begin a new phase. The timing seems perfect, considering the
milestone birthday that is three weeks away, and the pending start of my first
full school year as a teacher. This new
life won’t include walking down the hill to go for a walk at Kits Beach, or
sitting on the deck watching the sun set over the ocean, but that’s ok… it will
include my family, and a budding career that I love, and a million new
adventures to find. I’m sad to leave,
but excited for a new start… it’s time.
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