J.ALL.
OP columnist

I’ve only been on the bus for fifteen minutes, and
things already look very different. At 11 a.m. on this
sunny Thursday morning, Vancouver’s East 49th
Avenue is busy as always, but as we travel further west
things begin to change.

The trees have become statelier and | think there is
less garbage on the street. Yes, definitely less garbage.
| begin to wonder if the calibre of my fellow passengers
hasn’t improved, as well. Since we passed Main Street
a few moments ago, the usual bus conversation has
become less "colourful". One glance around and my
suspicion is confirmed. When | boarded at the stop out-
side my apartment in deepest East Vancouver, the
seats were filled with a motley assortment of noisy
characters.

As | scan the seats around me, | notice the remain-
ing passengers are laden with Oprah-endorsed novels,
Sony earphones and M.E.C paraphernalia. Everyone
has dropped their baggage into the newly emptied
seats around them. It feels as though the entire bus
has heaved a huge sigh of relief.

While | welcome the extra space and quiet, | find the
complete silence unnerving. Only a few moments ago
the bus had been filled with the cheerful, if somewhat
overwhelming cadence of Hindi, English and Chinese,
all being spoken at once. Gone too, are the bright saris,
security guard uniforms and the insane getups of the...
well, the insane. As | stretch out my legs, | decide the
atmosphere is now decidedly more conservative, defi-
nitely more refined and noticeably less ethnic. We have
passed Ontario Street, we’ve crossed the border—
we’re on the West Side.

This isn’t my first trip into Vancouver's West Side; |
actually make the trek daily. Like many residents of
East Vancouver, | have a bit of a complex when it
comes to what is generally considered Vancouver's
better half. When | think of the West Side, my mind’s

 

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eye conjures up images of branded babies, solar
fleece and itty bitty cell phones. They have the beach-
es, the art galleries, the best restaurants, and | hate
them for it.

Lately | have come to the conclusion that these feel-
ings are neither healthy nor reasonable. | work with
some really nice people who all live in the West Side.
For them, | have decided to re-examine the area, make
a day of it and really explore the neighbourhood.

So here | am. | have disembarked at 49th and
Granville and | haven't long to wait before the #98 B-
Line from Richmond picks me up. This bus is fantastic.
| mean, it’s huge and brand-spanking new, complete
with cushy, blue carpeted seats and clean windows.
Cynically, | surmise that such posh public transit is
designed to make the eco-savvy commuter feel as
though they never left their SUV in the driveway. But,
hey, clean windows! Things are looking up.

| get off at the corner of 14th and Granville, deciding
to explore the popular strip between 16th and
Broadway. | find myself standing in front of the Bread
Garden and | remember the women at work raving
about the fresh lemonade sold inside. After coughing
up $4 for a drink, and being shamed into tipping the
rude bastard behind the counter a dollar, | head out
onto the street to begin my western adventure.

The lemonade was a good idea. It tastes okay, but
more importantly, | blend in with the locals. It seems as
though everyone is sipping something from the Bread
Garden or Starbucks. Once | notice this, it is nearly
impossible for me to see beyond the muck of labels |
am wading through. DKNY, GAP, Nike—a veritable
who’s who of the foreign child-labour scene.

| remind myself that self-righteousness is unbecom-
ing and | carry on, determined to keep an open mind. |
decide to head south on Granville and check out the
Bau-Xi Gallery. The air-conditioned cool of the gallery

matches the frosty greeting I’m given as | enter. No
matter, Margaretha Bootsma is showing on this day
and I’m glad | dropped in. Her mixed media photo-
graphs, with their jarring colour combinations remind
me of the East Side portion of my bus ride. This, in turn,
reminds me of my quest.

Reluctantly, | walk back out onto the crowded side-
walk. I’m not really sure what to do next. | have my sig-
nature beverage and I’ve done the Granville gallery
thing; there’s one thing left to do, | suppose—shopping,
which is what this street is famous for.

Considering | have precisely $6.75 in my wallet and |
need $2 of that to take transit home, | opt for window
shopping. The artwork has cleansed my palate and |
am actually looking forward to joining the endless
throng of shoppers.

| walk north toward Broadway, which is where the
action seems to be. | am enjoying myself; the sun is
shining on the old brick buildings, goods spill from
store fronts where fresh-cut flowers and Persian car-
pets vie for the attentions of fickle consumers. The
chocolate shop, second-hand book store and bakery
distract me from the institutional, urban post-modernist
shrines of Starbucks, Bedo and Caban that crowd in on
all sides. | am charmed that these small businesses
can survive in this neighbourhood and it renews my
faith in these westerly Vancouverites.

As | near Broadway, | am once again aware of how
many people are moving so purposefully toward it.
Even though | have been down this street many times,
| have never walked it for the sake of walking it. | can’t
actually remember what's on the corner of Granville
and Broadway and | find myself excited to rediscover it.

As | pass the second Starbucks in as many blocks,
my happy anticipation falters. The brick-fronted shops
are thinning out. As | approach 10th avenue, | see why.
Squatting on the 2500 block of Granville, as busy as
two bloated anthills, are Restoration Hardware and
Chapters.

| have to shake my head to clear it as | look back at
the blocks | have covered. Granville has been swal-
lowed in a sea of designer sunglasses and sports cars.
| have been duped. From here, | can’t even make out
the little shops that had delighted me only minutes ago.
Standing in front of the third Starbucks (this one
attached to Chapters) | give in to the sudden urge to
run home and shower.

As | walk up to Broadway to catch a bus back home,
I’m really okay with how things worked out. I’m more
than okay, I’m feeling downright smug. Sure, | know
some lovely people who live around there, but the vis-
ible majority pretty much lives up to my expectations. |
don’t suppose | really wanted to be proven wrong
about the West Sider’s. | need them to be shallow and
tacky, so that being poor seems like a choice rather
than a circumstance.

When the bus driver calls out Manitoba Street over
the speaker, | can’t resist smiling. The bus stinks, it’s
noisy and the windows are filthy. I’m going home, soul
intact. °