The unavoidable cliche; East coast vs. West coast

I first arrived, like so many before me, to the city where that fille de joie, Lady Liberty, tantalizes every immigrant who awaits at her gates. Brought on while I sit in my West coast high-rise apartment, TV Guide on one side, tortilla chips and salsa on the other and having spent the better part of the day observing cable decadence, my mind slipped back a decade or two to that first encounter with the "new world". A compilation of short films on channel 47 ("Subway Stories: Tales from the Underground" the TV Guide reads) stirred those memories. It is of the people of New York that I think today.

Though my recollections generally speak of seven frustratingly ectopic years, something from the scenes of this film dug deep through the layered epochs of memory's sediments and struck ground that rekindled an attraction I felt for the city of New York. Not at all thinking that I have witnessed its essence, I assume it must be something about its gritty surface that has taken to me; that which a good friend calls "people being rude". Features of this surface can be seen in a different light however, especially once the observer is willing to denounce the comfort of familiarity and routine.

I've seen New Yorkers proudly exhibit their disregard for protocol, which often means viewing courtesy with contempt. Unformatted communication can be pretty unsettling and that's what usually comes out; one ends up feeling not at all welcome. But I'm sure you can see the cut-the-crap flip side to this; it saves you from hypocrisy overload! My favorite part of it is seeing NYorkers scorn at the facade of success, a sharp contrast to the fortune-hunter's West were it's a well-accepted, virtually must-have apparel.

"Social analgesia" (which may just as well have been a NY invention) takes on bewildering proportions and sheaths every excursion from one's own niche. Looking closely though, you can observe piercing cracks of radiating empathy every now and again to testify that what we see as social analgesia is in fact a grotesque shielding with the purpose of preserving sanity for the compassionate in a society of such deeply rooted inequality.

To say it plainly, people in difficult circumstances are rugged people and, in NY, they're not ashamed to show it. The up side to this: life is made a lot more interesting. While faced with pressing problems, people swindle around more and find new ways to surface; that's how the alternative and the avant-guard pop-up.

From my short experience, I'd say that on the West-coast everything is so meticulously covered in beautifying substance that behavioral norms are far more homogeneous. Even the heralded multi-culti aspect of Vancouver is not of significance, overshadowed by what the Chili Peppers might call "Californication". Sure, take a look around and you immediately see people decorated with everything the global gene pool has to offer. But what you see is all that you get because people sound scarily alike; same anxieties, same aspirations, same ideas. 'The recipe to success (social as well as professional) is documented; why the hassle of re-discovering it? Focus on doing it rather than on what to do. No time for dilemmas, even charm needs practice!'

Vancouverites are very proud of the fact that racial, cultural or religious background don't matter here. I was told "where you're from is not even an issue in conversation!". That's very relieving when faced with the curses of racial segregation or "misallodoxy" [from Greek: misos=hate, allo=other, doxa=faith], but its hardly the pinnacle of a cultural melting pot; all that remains cosmopolitan in here is the food... and I bet some would say "well, what the hell more do you want!?".

I'll leave you with a quote I ran across from Charles Lamb: "The most common error made in matters of appearance is the belief that one should disdain the superficial and let the true beauty of one's soul shine through. If there are places on your body where this is a possibility, you are not attractive - you are leaking."

In the begining I thought that if he would've had a choice, he'd preferred to live here. He would also jog. But then it occurred to me; expression of such blatant pragmatism... where else than in NY!

Perspective, habituation, adaptation

So many things are in constant motion. And we, it seems whether we persist or advance, constantly find ourselves anew.

I, for example, found myself salivating on the bus at the thought of sushi and rushing for an assortment of maki and nigiri at the nearest take-out. Change, you see, is not random. Change is adaptive. If all around there's raw fish to be had, it will be raw fish that you will eventually desire; and this in itself I find a rather extreme example (although the inhabitants of BC bluntly attribute the craving for sushi to minerals in the fish).

I came here and it was as if I was all this city was not and this city was all I wasn't. To coexist, one had to change, and I must say Vancouver seems quite unaffected by my presence. So I guess it is I that changed. As a word of caution, I point out the subtle inner workings through which such changes came about.

First step: perspective. I guess it started out with one good day at the lab. Having asked my colleagues what they do here for fun (actually meaning what kind of music they like to listen to when they go out or what they prefer to drink, if they go out in large or small groups, if they prefer dancing or going to performances...) I received two answers that took me aback.

"I like to go skiing" one said,

"I mostly prefer scuba-diving" said another.

Those were the only answers to this question I've received so far; on separate occasions I should point out! When my expression betrayed my bewilderment and I was in turn asked to answer I had to revisit all that I took for granted and say something quite fundamental "I like to go out".

So on this day I was greeted in the morning with an unusual proposal from my colleagues. "There is one guy who works just down the hall who also likes 'going out', so we asked him if you could join him some time! Would you like to?" This was, in all its peculiarity, a very sweet gesture. As "going out" was now officially a hobby, it seems I would get to practice it a bit. This had to make me smile.

Add to this several positive occurrences in my work and I left that day feeling cheerful. Have you noticed how everything looks so much nicer when you're cheerful? it's quite amazing, you see the same things as before but now they seem fundamentally transformed; the people on the bus were smiling, the corporate buildings looked docile and the urge to blow smoke in everyone's face had subsided!

Through perspective, you deeply influence what is out there. It almost seems like the choices we make in life, what we keep and defend versus what we reject and strive to change, solely depend on what perspective we happen to take when we first encounter them. I have so many examples of this, and they will probably be mentioned throughout these memoirs at some point, but I think this may be self evident, though surprising if you state it as fact.

Second step: habituation. There are, surely, those things we encounter which we have already made negative associations to. There are things we just don't like, or have the conviction of not liking (my list here: smoking on the streets, living alone and living with TV). What happens then if we are forced to put up with them?

As it turns out, the mind has an amazing ability to tolerate reoccurring nuisances; habituation. It's as if your mind gives you some time in which it makes you fully aware that a situation is undesirable (you feel bad) and motivates you to somehow change it; when it sees, however, that this keeps coming up without you being able to do anything about it, the mind gives up and decides to live with it. You are not bothered anymore and are relieved of the urge to change.

The potential danger of this phenomenon is obvious. When a situation is introduced that people don't like, they tend to revolt against it. If this situation is not refuted quickly, then the less likely it is to be refuted at all. A situation which endures this critical period of habituation, is stabilized regardless of whether it is desirable or not. I can think of many, many revolting establishments that survive on this principle.

Third step: adaptation. It's been tough, but 10 days into this ordeal, I think the city and I finally managed to mutually tolerate each other. This is far from being able to enjoy the time spent here, however things around look less alien and most probably so do I. But don't take me wrong; I accept this fact without aversion only because I hope that all these traits will quickly be remedied when back in Goettingen; apart maybe from my new found addiction to sushi. After all, I do have a passion for addictions!

Buying stuff

I've finally installed myself in my new downtown dwelling. The "Shangrelah", physically speaking, has nothing to do with my recollection of it on that first nighttime visit; hell, it isn't even called "the Shangrelah". However, the view from my balcony (see above) remains the best in town and so does the promiscuous ambience of its interior. The room itself is tiny and furnished like a ship's cabin; I think Pablo Neruda, if not in his less frivolous moods, would enjoy it. As for myself, it's simply perfect. So now, how was I to exploit my promotion to the twelfth floor? Buying stuff, I guess.

It's at the shopping centers and supermarkets where North American lifestyle admits to its true obsessions. Flexy-fit wristbands with super absorbent nano-cells, the Flash-tron Pacer Pro digital pedometer, Hypercharge "+" Energy Drink in spout-nosle bottle and the all new Mystique Essentials Aromatherapy bath salts with massaging micro-crystalls; all designed to turn a jog in the park into a lucrative source of income. And in conditions of a "healthy" and "prosperous" economy, consumer society caters to the gluttonous desires of every lifestyle and age-group, no potential market untapped; from Fanny scratch-on diapers with allergy-proof lining to the Acousto Maxima-2000 hearing aid. Everyone with half a dime in their pocket -or with one yet to be made- will be served.

Shop open times are extensive to assure unobstructed access to merchandise and services, while help in developing one's consumer habits is always readily offered;

"would you like some assistance in carrying your groceries to your car, sir?" inquired the concerned employee at the cash register.

"I don't have a car."

"...(blink, blink)... oh then..." no trained response to handle this situation it seems.

It's difficult not to make the comparison to the shopping culture of German supermarkets where one limits his list of desirables depending on the size of the once full of tetra-packs cardboard box he finds amongst the shelves in order to carry off his groceries on the back of his bike. A transatlantic visitor would be stumped by the fact that there are only two brands of canned mushrooms or margarine (one generic and one eponymous). On the other hand, one can marvel at the plethora of salami and sausages to be had, paralleled only by the vast assortment of over-the-counter drugs and food supplements found in North American supermarkets. And as you stand in the winding lines at the German checkout counters, puzzled that most of the other consumers can carry their items to purchase in a single hand, you would soon find an unanticipated source of tranquility in the absence of the minute-intervaled jubilant announcements of the "amazing" offer of buy-one-get-one-free extra-strenghth, super-absorbent, 3-ply toilet paper packages on aisle 5, or the "fantastic" all new ultra-slim, safe-guard maxi-pads with comfort flap technology on aisle 12; I'v always found myself wondering how her perky voice would sound if she ever ran out of amphetamine.

the Shangrelah

It lays two streets from broadway, the massive concrete building rising up over the quilt-work landscape of takeout booths, gas stations, laundry mats and pawn shops (the latter nowhere to be seen but certainly present). The nighttime drizzle had painted the towering side walls a dark gray and glistened their surface so that red and green streetlights decorated the whole structure. The front entrance at first seemed out of place; an exploding melange of oriental and maritime ornaments, heavy rugs with colorful plumes sprawling through the foyer and down the corridors. Bright illumination seemed to be coming from the same multitude of sources as the noise of skittering feet. All sorts of people were whisking by, each on different paths, all of which seemed to loop endlessly in perpetual cycles; I could have sworn that one guy was constantly coming out of the elevator but never going in.

"Siiiiiiirrrr, can I help you siiiiiirrrrr" the calling was for me. Behind the booth was a skinny, collared kid looking at me impatiently with a slightly effeminate hand-on-hip posture. Next to him sat his much heavier colleague. This kid was of ambiguous age and had the characteristics of all the races in the world (something like I would have imagined Adam to be in the garden of Eden; Asian yet African, Nordic but also Aboriginal); truth be told, he fit perfectly in this setting! I approached the reception booth.

"Excuse me, can I have some toilet paper please" comes a voice from beside me. The heavy one in the booth does his best to smile and stretches to grab a roll without ever detaching from his chair. A man with disproportionately long arms and drooping belly stretches across the counter taking the toilet paper roll. Happy enough with his new possession, he turns to his somewhat inappropriately overdressed lady and escorts her into the lift; she, smiling with pride at her husband. My depression was fading fast!

I had come with suspicions. I was here just to look at a room, a smoking-permitted room actually, nothing more. Just curious as to which dark basement they've put smoking rooms at. "Well, the room we have available for you sir is on the top floor, balcony facing North to the skyline; veeeery beautiful!" Says the kid. Interesting...

The theme of the elevator cell was gold and blue. The walls were so densely covered with trinkets that it was difficult to find the elevator buttons; twelve. All around were posted messages addressed to me, the client. "Be happy at Shangrelah!" "We'll brighten up your days and flavor your nights" "the management has put a lock on the trash bin behind the parking lot to avoid unwanted trash.". Oddly enough, despite the swarms of people that seemed to be infesting this hive-like dwelling, the elevator was faithful to me and went all the way to the top without stopping in between. A 'ding' on twelve as a respectful confirmation of my orders being fulfilled and the doors open. The colorful parade on the carpeting and walls had surely enough made it all the way up here as well. On the row of doors stretched ahead were miniature golden ship wheels that encircled the room numbers. The number on my key was all the way to the end, the last room of the top floor.

Walking out of the Shangrelah was like stepping out onto a new city; flashing neon lights must have hastily been installed along the streets while I was in the building. The authorities brought in people from street corners, squares and alleys from all across the world in truckloads to infuse this city with life, all while I was inside! From the alleys came intense smells of things surely inedible. Colorful umbrellas followed awkward silhouettes as they drifted together with the haze that was creeping down the sidewalk over the spattering raindrops. My senses had multiplied; I was in awe. The little slip of paper in my pocket certifying that in two days I was to be an official resident at the Shangrelah was effecting everything and everyone around me. I now realize... it was decadence that I was craving.

I must have been smiling those smiles that are permanently plastered on your face without you realizing. To have escaped from my "exclusive west-side neighborhood" was to have a brilliant new scope on things. The bus had already stopped with doors open in front of me. "Hello bus driver!" I yelled doing like the locals; Shanghai noodles in soup (number 4) spilling out a bit from the takeout bag as I held on to the rails with the bus fare in hand.

Getting out

Day four; for some reason this day is important. I seems to be a turning point. Though depression started to crescendo at around midday, the night was ashine and with it the first glimmer of hope for me here. I started off early, as jet lag is working pretty well for me so far (even though I still haven't managed to get to work before 10). Being a bit nostalgic of my previous life-style, I went out at 7:30 for a morning cigaret, on the beach as I had the previous nights. I don't think that I'll be doing that again though. There I was, cigaret in one hand, bottle of degassed coke from the previous night in the other, amidst the hoards of the Vancouver health-concient elite. Jogging, cycling, dog walking and yoga is all one sees at 7:30 am on these Pacific beaches.

The fervor and devotion with which people here work out is remarkable. Rain, sleet or snow, the joggers armed with white headphones and Sympatex are pushing forward undaunted, while the assortment of gym multiplexes downtown are packed any time of day that I've passed by. It started to make me wonder; can it be that sushi is just really caloric? Later on that day I was told that Vancouver has the highest consumption of organics, the highest density of veggan restaurants and the lowest smoking rate in all of Canada (which, frankly, sounds like in all the world to me).

And there it happened. I started feeling shame for my ruthlessly disrespectful and self-destructive lifestyle. I rushed back for refuge in my depressing little house by the beach; "quiet and exclusive west-side neighborhood... free-range eggs and organics... non-smokers only, please!" read the internet ad... which should have been warning enough! The landlady is honestly scary and as for the other tenants drawn here by this inviting announcement, one would best describe them as... well... senile. One thing was obvious, it was time to be getting out of this place.

It had been the day before that, just out of curiosity, I had searched accommodations in Vancouver using the "smoker tolerant" filter and only one hit came up (actually that was one hit more than expected). "Shangrelah": everything about this place seemed a bit bizarre; the sketched-over image of the building, the description of the rooms being like boat cabins (though clearly this was a downtown high-rise), the very low prices (almost half of what I have currently booked) and last but not least the "smoking rooms available" part! The whole thing seemed a bit dodgy and, dejected as I was, I didn't look into it further. It was only the eerie coincidence later that day that made me think again...

Go West to find the Orient

Vancouver, the edge of Western civilization, the Alexandria Eschate of the Occident; it's so West that it's virtually East! Going around town one immediately feels the aggressive yet seductive flirt of the Orient on the city. With an Asian population that seems unparalleled in the West, Vancouver is booming; glass high-rises and sushi are the local fetiches here and everyone is happy with it.

At lunchtime today, while our crowd was heading for turkey sandwiches and salads one asks me "do you like sushi?"

"Um, I'm not sure; I haven't really tried" explaining that my sole two experiences with it comprise of one dirt-cheap Athens fast-food place -a purely nauseating ordeal- and homemade sushi night at Geist... vegetarian. As if hardwired to a central command server everyone simultaneously turns right; "sushi!"

After discussing the selection of sushi bars on campus (!) we arrive at a very authentic looking venue (not that I would actually know authentic); aesthetically very Asian without any of the kitsch extremities that curse European Asian dining. The place was packed, too!

Tempura, sashimi, nigiri, gyoza... needless to say I was ordered for. The first dish I got, the overture that was supposed to ease me into Japanese dining, was fish, raw. Now, I know that that's what sushi is all about, but this was raw fish, only raw fish; three unadulterated slabs of tuna and salmon. No greens. No rice. No kidding.

What followed were assortments of colorful and masterfully intertwined bundles of larger-than-bite-sized sushi. I did relatively well I think; I may even end up craving it with a little conditioning; once I overcome the mushy consistency of freeze-thaw softened fish flesh, the taste is good!

What I found to be a greater than expected obstacle was the seemingly disproportional size of my oral cavity compared to the sushi lumps. Everyone else was gulping them down in one go. I, on the other hand, had to use them chopsticks in weird ways, avoiding eye-contact with the others while doing so. First attempt; stuff the whole thing in the mouth using one chopstick to hold the main mass in place while using the other to scavenge the things still dangling out. I'm sure this looked disgusting...

For the sake of those eating around me I decided to go to the next obvious alternative; bring them down to size. The catch here being that the only utensils available were again, the chopsticks. So first you stab the bundle making a piercing with the chopstick. Then you take the other chopstick on the outside and try to squish the thing apart, at which point you will undoubtedly end up with the seaweed absolutely refusing to give in. Having isolated the strip of seaweed between your two chopsticks, you proceed to rub them together, the seaweed in between, counting on the friction to break it apart. Let me tell you, this can take a while and if you're in a sushi bar in Vancouver, you're going to get dirty looks from everyone in proximity which you will feel on you regardless of how concentrated you will be on the task at hand.

Popular on the streets

Walking alone on the downtown streets of a busy metropolis is no simple matter. Your brain starts playing tricks on you as a response to being socially deprived amidst the swarms of charming couples and groups who are next to oblivious of you; you are on the fringe. It seems no matter who you are, at this point you are an outsider.

Being here in Vancouver actually is an opportunity; this is a chance to see the "real world" again, to emancipate from academic small-town and remember what it's like to have trends, TV and money!

I'd just before seen the beautiful Vancouver library and "the Centre" of performing arts and was eager to plunge in. I run to a 7eleven looking for the town guide... only restaurants to be had. It was at this point that my urbanization took a turn for the worst. I think again "trends, TV and money!" repeating the mantra as I scan the stands; and there it was. It would turn out that on this day I would betray everything I've ever believed in... truth be told, only for the sake of indulging in the experience. I picked up a copy and went to the checkout counter. The cashier rang up the bill; Vancouver Eating & Drinking Guide and... Gentlemen's Quarterly, the prime style guide of the metrosexual urban population; tips on wearing ties with V-cuts, on matching sox with shirts and the answer to the reader question "does the Vermouth go in the shaker or in the glass for a dirty vodka martini?"; in other words, the works for the eager to be initiated into pop culture. I despised it, thank god (especially the meager attempt of the editor at political satire; stick to pinstripe Jerold!). There was however one tip that I -and my grandpa Yiorgos- agreed with... it seems that it's in fashion to drink wine out of a short glass nowadays... good to know. To top it all off I entered an elegant Southeast asian bistro for my style-rebuffing reading and prepared, chopsticks clumsily at hand, to be immersed in the West-coast liberal neo-bourgeois.

That experience considered lived, I felt, now more than before, the need to find my place in the this city; a way of me being here.

As I cross Seymore and Davis, I light up. I wouldn't usually walk and smoke; no, smoking is to be leisure, observed in tranquility and allowed to evoke its own state of alertness. But this was different. Everyone seemed to have something to do, somewhere to go, someone to see. What about me? Well, I had to smoke. This was my duty.

I started looking around for people with cigarets in hand and found that there were many, more than one would see in a smoker-tolerant European city. What irony! Vancouver streets are full of smokers since everyone smoking at any given time is displayed on the sidewalks and squares for all to see and despise. I asked a waiter who was taking a cigaret break "is there any place here where we can smoke inside?"

"Nope" he says and puffs away.

"In the entire city of Vancouver, not one place?"

"in the entire city. Not one" he says repeating, only slower.

As I walked away though, it wasn't despair that I felt -I had expected this answer anyway- but a sense of compassion, a feeling of unity; I'd never seen this guy before in my life, but I knew that we were both the victims of mass hysteria. Scapegoats of an ailing population of anti-depressant chugging professionals, steroid-enhanced athletes and exfoliated yuppies with their anorectic siliconated partners. Amongst all, it is us that are the symbols of disrespect to our bodies, only us that are prioritizing other things above our health. I think I know why, too. We do it in front of everyone; not in the privacy of our bedroom, not in the gym locker rooms, not in a clinic. We are there to remind everyone, to expose and feel shame. And that explains the public smoking ban. They don't care if we screw with our bodies, just so long as we don't do it in front of them. I started to roll another cigaret.

"Hi buddy, do you think I could have a smoke from you?" came a voice off the sidewalk to bring me back from my thoughts. It was a guy sitting on the corner, some rugs spread beneath him and a hat full of coins. I handed him the cigaret that I'd just finished rolling.

"Wow DRUM, that's fine tobacco; hey man, thanks a lot,"

It wasn't much farther than two corners down when another voice from the sidewalk jumped in; this time the voice of a girl with a shaven head. "Could I get a cigaret from you, I know they're all expensive and stuff, but..."

"Don't worry about it, they're from overseas so they're cheap" and I take out a wad of my fine tobacco.

"But I don't know how to roll... oh you're rolling it for me, that's really cool..." and she was saying this by lingering on every third word.

And these encounters went on... "I can guess where you got your shoes if you give me some coin or cigaret... you got them on your feet!" and on....

I realized I had a following; I was not alone and I had my buddies, comrades, to appreciate. The sidewalk dwelling was my new social homeland in this city and it felt good!

Just as I'd decided that my 'entrance' to Vancouver downtown was complete and was finding my way to the bus stop a skateboarder kid yelled out "Hey man, I'll buy that cigaret off of you!"

"No"

"Man, I'll give you a dollar!"

"...('I pity you' look)..."