Nonfiction

Finding Kingsway

What is it about Kingsway anyway? It’s like a main artery gone awry. Every time people I know get onto this street, by default or not, they get so turned around that grown men have been known to break down and cry. I kid you not.

If you are unfamiliar with this main Vancouver street, I suggest you Google it. That’s always fun. You will see that it slices a good chunk of this fair city in a diagonal half, making it awkward and seemingly impossible to find your way if you take a turn off of it, as it goes completely against the grid.

Weeks before moving to this neighbourhood near Kingsway, I tried to show a friend my new home, a pretty little heritage house draped in wisteria and ivy. We saw the entire neighbourhood, several streets more than once, but could we find my house? Not a chance.

Fortunately since that time I have gotten to know the area well but Kingsway continues to be a thorn in my side. I still walk home from nearby functions or a neighbour’s place, admittedly after consuming a few small beverages, and become so lost

I have to call a cab to drive me the few measly blocks home. “It isn’t my fault”, I plead as the Cabby grumbles about the distance, or lack of, while taking my three dollars including tip. “It’s Kingsway’s.”

My friend and I decided to head over to a neighbourhood cafe one evening, to listen to some live music. It had been so darn hot all day that a walk to Main Street from my home near (dare I say) Kingsway would be a pleasant relief. After a glass of chilled Pinot Gris and small talk, we were on our way.

The moon was little more than a sliver on this warm summer night and I took note, for no apparent reason at the time, that it shone down on us from just over my left shoulder, or more precisely, to the south west at about eleven o’clock. We crossed Fraser Street and wandered into Robson Park. After living in the hood for two years my navigational confidence was at an all time high. We pushed on across Kingsway toward Mount Saint Joseph’s Hospital.

“I’ll have you know I was born here,” boasted Linda as we cut through the parking lot of this ancient structure.

“So I guess that makes you one of the chosen few in this city of transplants,” I quipped back. She wasn’t necessarily being stuck-up about her birthplace but I felt a comeback was necessary just the same.

When cycling to work I cut through Saint Joseph’s parking lot, winding down past the emergency doors, arriving very conveniently and easily onto 14th Avenue, which I continue to follow west toward Main Street. But this night my good friend, who remember, was born at Saint Joseph’s, directed us left out of the parking lot and onto some street with some other Saint’s name. Suddenly I felt not only lost but surrounded. First of all, where were all these Saints coming from, and why had they settled here in my neighbourhood? A brief wave of guilt swept over me from my Catholic turned heathen upbringing. If this was a dirty trick he was playing, I did not like it. I straightened my shoulders, ready to forge ahead. Perhaps I was getting just a little carried away.

“If my memory serves me,” Linda announced without being asked, “Main Street should be straight ahead.” That should have been my ‘red flag’ – that and the moon, now hovering above me to my right.

We continued on, chatting breezily and taking in the warm August evening. Charming character homes, doors open wide to the summer heat, surrounded us as we rambled along uneven, weed-patched sidewalks. Cats meowed. Dogs scurried to gates and barked making our forty year-old hearts jump. Fussy babies could be heard whimpering in their beds, hot and tired after a long day spent playing in the sun and surely the water. In the cool of night the neighbourhood let out sighs.

Soon Main Street was in sight, neon storefronts and the bright headlights of cars whizzing past. Our steps quickened as we anticipated our arrival at long last. But wait. How did we get here? How the heck did we get back to Kingsway?

We stood like two dumb sheep following the leader, but no leader was in sight. We waited for the answer but none was offered. We laughed. How had this happened? Finally Linda spoke. “Well,” she said, and paused. “I guess it was the other way.”

“Really?” I replied, with more than an edge of sarcasm. What I wanted to do was to call her by her Saint’s name, or at least her Saint’s son’s name. You know the one I mean.

“I guess that’s why the moon moved from my left shoulder to my right,” I ventured. “It’s all beginning to make sense now.” But of course it wasn’t.

I don’t know why I was blaming Linda for all this. I should have put my best foot forward and been more assertive about the moon and all, but I hadn’t and she didn’t, and so it was. Besides, she had grown up in this neighbourhood. I was counting on her.

“Alrighty then…if we were over there, (she pointed in that direction, don’t ask me which), and we want to get to Main Street, we should go that way, (and she pointed that way). “Hmmm,” I grumbled. “I’m a little confused. I thought it would have been this way, but hey, who am I to say?”

“No, let’s go that way. We have to find it. It only makes sense.”

So off we traipsed, across more sprinkled lawns, along further blocks of cooling summer sidewalks, past yet another sleepy household. Confidently we marched toward our destination, conversation flowing like a sprung hydrant.

“If I had known we were doing a 20K hike I would have worn appropriate shoes,” I complained as my strappy sandal continued pressing into the top of my foot making a clean, even slice. I think I saw blood.

Soon more lights were spotted and we eased our pace. “Hey, that street up ahead seems to be running at an angle. Are you sure that’s it?” There was a moment of silence as we approached another Main Street in disguise.

I can’t disclose the steady stream of profanities, not to mention Saint’s names that followed. What I can tell you is we were standing appropriately in front of Glad Tidings Church on Fraser Street. Kingsway, in all its glory, was straight ahead.

It was then I realized I needed to use a bathroom, and fast. We had been walking for forty-five minutes and had laughed for fifteen more. That equals one hour. I may be directionally challenged but I can still add. I had consumed a lot of water throughout the day, chased with a hefty glass of Pinot Gris. It was definitely time to unload. We briskly walked the few easy blocks back to my house, emptied our bladders, hopped in the car and drove to Main Street.