Vancouver Rising

Published: 08/10/2008

Vancouver
Yasmin Alibhai-Brown

The day before I left Vancouver after a glorious, sunny week, it rained and rained thick, obdurate, rain falling out of a grey-black sky. My hotel room windows, way up on the twenty fourth floor, looked as if they might dissolve. Gone were the superb vistas- mountains, the ocean, a glittering, glass city and the sun which set royally. The deluge made it easier to say goodbye and was a reminder too that Vancouver is a very wet place most of the year.

Not that it matters. This is an exceptionally lovely city with cadence and rhythm like the contented sea that washes it on the waterfronts. My downtown hotel, Four Seasons, recently refurbished, has retained old fashioned warmth, resisted the cool, ultra-modern look which I find as aloof as avant-garde jazz. The carpets, though are gaudy and distract from the beautiful Canadian wood and subtle fabrics. My suite in the sky was gracefully Edwardian and softly spoken. The staff were always on hand. Special thanks to sweet Harry Huynh who repeatedly sorted out my computer and internet needs.

Jet lag? You must be joking. Your lungs seem to breathe in vitality, airborne vitamins, deeply restorative for a tired Londoner. Still unpacked, I took off on a wooden trolley moving slowly round the main sites. In Stanley Park, one of the largest in the world, I marvelled at giant cedars, holding aloft eagles’ nests. All around me was movement of the people, jogging, walking, bicycling, swimming. A wonderful water playground had frolicking, disabled children; a mum on rollers was pushing a space age pram. Bliss. The winter Olympics in 2010 is coming to a fit place.

I first visited Vancouver in 1973 to visit my ex-in-laws who had gone there after being ejected from Uganda. There wasn’t time nor money then for enjoyment. Then I was back thirteen years ago, for a brief stopover. The city was small, inward and provincial, nervous about the Hong Kong Chinese flooding in and self consciously English in a faintly absurd way. Now it is a confident, cosmopolitan metropolis with soul, repeatedly voted one of the top cities to live in and visit. No wonder Vancouverites are so cheery, chummy and chatty. Although I was travelling alone I didn’t often feel lonely. They even greet you when you step into an elevator.

Built on a peninsula, Vancouver, (population two million), is the youngest city in the world. In 1858, gold discoveries brought a rush of prospectors into the area. In 1867, ‘Gassy Jack’ opened a drinking saloon and a settlement developed around it called Gastown. Although now known for boutiques and restaurants, ghosts from that disreputable past linger. Standing around are interesting drunks ( I talked to one for two hours) and native Canadians with still, etched faces. Some loiterers look like jumpy prospectors, desperados with nothing to lose.

Then there is Kitsilano, where houses go back to the forties, historical edifices, I guess, in the short timeline of this city. Hippies dwelt there once as did the founders of Greenpeace. It is, says one tourist brochure:’ a liberal paradise of well heeled vegetarians and yoga-mums’. It was my favourite location, even though I can’t stand tofu and bean sprouts and yoga- buffs.

I went to a production of Twelfth Night, part of the annual Bard on the Beach ( in a tent) festival, mostly for the novelty value not expecting much. Snobbish and wrong. It was performed to perfection. Set in the period between the stock market crash and the Depression, the production paid homage to Gershwin, Porter, the Blues and the Charleston. The stage was an open backed, art deco structure, with the landscape and flying birds forming the backdrop.

Then off to Victoria on a seaplane which sweeps you up as if you are a babe in arms high above the twinkling sea, gentle islands, a palate of blues and greens, divine paintings. You land too quickly. Victoria, the capital of BC, at first felt like a Disney town. With horse drawn carriages and cloying pleasures on offer, I escaped to the off street Oswego hotel, spacious and with a gorgeous deck where I drank wine and read a novel. In a neighbourhood restaurant I ate sublime ceviche marinated in hot chilli, lime, and Chilean brandy and gorged on yet more smiles and goodwill.

Later I, usually lazier than an ailing snail, went power walking and tried kayaking near the shore. Victoria then come alive. What’s more, this dashing gent, who looked like Cary Grant offered me Champagne and a moonlight sail on his yaught. I accepted the drink and went instead to the Brasserie l’Ecole and ate a delicious big steak and real chips. He should be put on Tourist posters forthwith. Victoria’s Butchart gardens are a wonder to behold. The wife of a millionaire owner of a cement factory, started to plant flowers and vines in grim quarry walls and desolate pits and her garden grew into today’s arboreal miracle.

Off to look for killer whales, in an aluminium cruiser, in the company of strangers and an erudite, marine biologist. Cold winds blew as we cut through the sea. The whales showed up and how. One was throwing up a small porpoise, entertainment before execution, awful but mesmerising. Seven others danced for us , too close but spectacular. And all the while huddles of seals barked on a small island, as if noise would protect them. Nature is cruel in BC. The day I got back to Vancouver, in the suburb of Coquitlam, a black bear savagely attacked a woman in her front garden, a few streets away from where I’d had tea with an academic.

A friend took me around culturally distinct enclaves- an East Indian area, Chinatown, Italian neighbourhoods and many others. Citizens and politicians celebrate this variety with irrepressible gusto. Small joints in Chinatown serve the best food ever but the Indian grub lacks the subtlety we now get in Britain. It was the only disappointment of my trip.

Granville Island market is a foodies paradise. Never had I seen such an array of produce. Tomatillos, a cross between a gooseberry and a tomato, flowering chives, mountains of plump blueberries, pecan sweet bread, cheese brioches, fantastic cuts of meat, local cheeses oh and Fred Flintstone ‘dino’ bones, smoked for the discerning dog. In an enormous warehouse, hundreds of lobsters, crabs and other creatures snatched from the sea languished in tanks.

One stall sold yummy noodles with garlic, spinach and peanuts and pasties filled with spiced minced chicken. At the Granville Island hotel I had fishcakes alive with fresh green herbs and a glass of excellent local white wine. I met Viktor, a Czech designer who migrated over in the eighties. He loves Vancouver but misses Europe, its messy history and complicated living. I could see why, but for this week, it was good to be in a place so at ease with itself.


At the hotel restaurant The Yew, I dined with the manager Simon Pettigrew who ordered five varieties of oysters, each with a bespoke sauce, an orgy of pleasure. Their head chef, Rafael Gonzales, cooked us local duck reared tenderly and probably killed as a live orchestra played Mozart. Tasted like it had had a good life and death.

The day before I left, I went up to Grouse Mountain, fifteen minutes using the super Skyride to take in the panoramic views of Vancouver where I had felt so welcome and invigorated, this civil, civic city I shall not forget.

Jo, Eileen will tell you re travel sponsors
Hotel: Four Seasons
791 West Georgia St
Vancouver

Restaurants
Vancouver
Yew, Four Seasons
Granville Island Hotel, 1253, Johnston St
Cactus Club, Bentall Building, Burrard St, Downtown

Victoria
Brasserie L’Ecole, 1715, Government St

Published in Evening Standard