Whenever my brother visited during my previous Vancouver sojourn, we’d trek out bright and early to the Granville Island market.
The market offers food and fun for every age. Inside there’s fresh fish, free-range meat, flowers, milk, cheese, strange Asian spices, hand-crafted pottery, jewelry, woodwork — the gamut of West-Coast art and handiworks.
Outdoors there’s sailboats moored at the dock, a small water taxi, fish and crab mongers and a flurry of feathered creatures. Long ago at his wee-tyke-youngest, Homeboy here tore after pigeons and gulls the size (tho’ not the grandeur) of Canada geese.
The appeal, bizarrely, continues as both Homeboy and the Princess attempted to trap the wily creatures.
The birds always win.
After perogies served by a Chinese babushka (go figure) and Vietnamese spring rolls served by … well, I’m not sure… we wondered where the rain went.
All this Gore-Tex, after all.
The Country Mice 
I remember it well.
Most of my father’s relatives live in Vancouver. One went and then all the rest followed. Except my parents who were, in the very nicest possible way, always different from the rest. Ten years ago or so we went out for my aunt and uncle’s 60th wedding anniversary. We have a picture of Hannah chasing the great-grandfather’s and great grand-mother’s of those very gulls on that same stretch of board.
Nice place that.
Mary
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