Granville Island jaunt

Vancouver’s generosity allows my daughter and me to bike all along the ocean to Granville island and back. We watch an inventive play called Patch by my writing droogie, Alyssa Kostello. I am proud to introduce my daughter to this young woman who just gets out there and gets the thing done: forming her own theatre company, writing and directing about environmental issues she’s passionate about and sporting a most excellent French bob.

On our way back home, pedalling lazy circles in the sun, we pass three sweaty brides with too much make up on. I wish they could just strip off their hot heavy beaded dresses and jump naked into the sea “relief! relief!” all those curls and tiaras bobbing in the water with buoyant breasts finally freed from bondage. The grooms all look accommodating but in need of a good cold beer. Whose idea was it to get married in August? Whose idea was it to hire this photographer who is taking so bloody long? Why didn’t I eat before I got dressed? Do I tell her that her lipstick is coming off? No. Not going to get my head bitten off over something we can photoshop.

Not that I am adverse to marriage, I’m not. I am an absolute believer in marriage for love. I’m just not big on the whole “posing with the wedding party” situation. So weird to me. So false. Something to put on the fireplace mantle: collective discomfort.

I chuckle and pedal on. We stop for Nora to climb a tree and my phone goes “bing” happily. It’s my fellow writing me something surprisingly naughty.  I close my eyes and smile as sailboats glide by and senior citizens walk hand in hand and muse about the heat.