From the Westside to the West End (and back again)…

A Love Letter to My Hometown

As so eloquently expressed by the eternal words of LL Cool J: Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years.

After taking this itty bitty world by storm (kinda, sorta) it turns out this Vancouverite may never fully shed their internal Lululemons, no matter how hard they may try. Apparently, there’s no amount of air pollution, tube vomit, and 3am kebabs that could ever fully wipe the forest-spritzed, hot yoga-ed, wild salmon-candied sheen entirely out of my rain-soaked spirit. Though the rain is a Trans-Atlantic unifier to be fair, London and Vancouver both sharing this charming bond of bleakness that does wonders for the skin.

No matter where you go, who you are will follow. And for the first time in a very long time I have the deep understanding I don’t need to be anywhere other than where I already am. Well then, I guess I can stop being insecure about my outfits around the Vogue girls....that’s a load off.

As Covid brought the world to its knees, its war path paying no mind to international borders, it simultaneously managed to draw lines in the Great Pacific sand for me. And here I am. Standing in my hometown looking out no further than where my trail running shoes are pointing. Luckily, the trees never forget a face, and the mountains are well schooled in patience. I do sense some of the eagles are still warming to the idea, but after much silent circling, I’m pretty sure they’re comin’ round.

Growing up on the Westside, I used to refer to Vancouver as my beautiful friend. The ultimate starlet, full of youthful, insatiable beauty and charm. You never tire of that kind of nubile wonder. Blissfully gazing at her seascapes and mountains, while softly whispering in her ear: why are you so damn pretty?

My own youth however, despite its deer in headlights naiveté, felt the distinct head scrapes of the glass ceilings over this former hippy town still finding its rooting. Sort of like eating angel food cake for dinner every evening- eventually you start to taste the air between the batter. The sugar becoming saccharine rather than sweet. You’ve heard there’s champagne and yellow brick roads elsewhere, if only you can find them. My teenage self dreamt of dark theatres and bold self-expression in dusty hallways steeped in hard truths and possibility. I’ve been lucky enough to be born into one of the first generations where women were able to study and live abroad alone without anyone questioning them. In fact I was encouraged.. And so, I bolted. Off to a mythical land full of taxis and concrete where artists like Philip Seymour Hoffman roamed freely holding bagels and coffee-soaked scripts.

New York was an intoxicating yet volatile lover who smelled of sweat and bourbon. Life pulsating out of his every pore. One moment making Breakfast at Tiffany’s seem like a documentary and the next, shoving me down to lie in the gutter looking up at the high rises. After three years of intense theatrical study and steadfast survival on a wing and a prayer, he abruptly served me papers over a dirty thin-slice in Williamsburg informing in big RED letters that my visa had run out and I was no longer welcome. Bounced ‘outta Brooklyn, baby.

Nobody ever gets through life simply by a smile and a wiggle. Neither me, nor Vancouver. I couldn’t go home. Not yet. There was still too much to know. So like any civilized person with daddy issues, I flailed as fast as I could straight into the arms of someone new. A balding, slightly pervy, scotch-drenched gentleman named London, UK. Comforted in the Commonwealth. He told me stories of history, politics, royalty, Shakespeare and the art of sarcasm. And most importantly he showed me how to cure hangovers with soft, white, fluffy bread stuffed with chips and vinegar. Soggy white mush upon soggy white mush. Don’t judge. It’s glorious.

I was infatuated. Honestly, what could possibly be more fun than getting wasted on self-deprecation and gin and tonics at 4pm whilst Kate Moss sits across the room watching Hotspurs vs Man U? Nothing. Nothing is more fun.

And up until March of 2020, I was entirely entranced by his heady spell of wit and old-world glamour. London introduced me to Pinter on haunted floor-boards walked by Olivier at a time when Vancouver was relishing Cyborg-chic in Langley. Whilst my nose blew black soot he mentored me slowly into an artist I knew I could be. He held the curtains open onto the stages of the West End allowing me to work with everyone from Kevin Spacey (some stories there) to the ground-breaking Belgian director-auteur Ivo Van Hove.

Though it’s not every river you can skate away on. And only age will teach you that. There comes a time when what was meant to be taught has reached the Thames mouth....

“Sam, we’re in a war and you need to think about where you want to ride this war out”. A friend from CNN advised as I bunkered in a boho-cool flat in East Berlin, where I decided to go when the flight prices dropped (I’ve never been in a pandemic before, forgive me). Trudeau was telling Canadians to come home, Westjet was cancelling flights, and the buzz of Berlin had turned to silence. If there’s a war and by the grace of God you have a choice, where do you go?

Within the week I went from Berlin to London, packed my tiny life into a storage locker, and headed to Heathrow in a bizarre/tense hazmat haze hoping to close my eyes and awake safely at YVR. When the border guard asked where I lived, without thinking I answered: Vancouver.

Quarantined upstairs at my parents’ house, as universal fear crept into our daily lives, we all struggled to make sense of our new world and our places within it. Outside the streets became clear and quiet, the Spring rain falling in a way I hadn’t heard since childhood, cleansing the pavement, its smell mixing with the cherry blossoms, waking a part of my heart that had long been sleeping.

In Pacific Spirit Park people were saying genuine ‘hellos’ and ‘take good cares’. The frivolousness of materialism and conversations around real- estate prices seemed to take a respite. Tenderness, kindness and community rose to the surface. Though I can’t deny the Londoner in me still appreciates the wide birth of space we’re all giving each other (I like kindness, just at a slight distance)...I started to realise my sweet Vancouver had never left me, but in fact had been growing with me the whole time. The salt of her breath filled my lungs with comfort and peace.

If you are in a war, where do you go? You go home my friend. You go home.

I write this from my freshly rented flat in Kitsilano two blocks from the very spot from whence I left. Full circle so to speak.

And as we navigate this new world together, I promise her this: I’ll bring the champagne if she brings the cake. I still like angel food.

I love you Vancouver. Thanks for being my friend.

- Sam