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)..."