There are odd moments when you know you belong. Unclear what to, but some sort of bond is created with a community of people and it gives you a feeling which humans only get when they are part of something larger, when they escape the vaunted self and become just a bit more than an individual. OK, let me pause. I am not to describe a grand spiritual experience, nor did I, in some fashion, participate in actions that served humanity's weakest members. I am, in fact, talking of a garden party. An event in a green house with yellow trimmings, a house that just turned a century old, somewhere close to Commercial drive, in Vancouver's east side.
The event included, singing (not by me), drinking, talking, chatting and altogether doing all those things that I normally associate with summer in Greece. There was even a lady standing before a basil plant and rubbing its leaves with the accidental movements of her skirt, making the whole garden smell like some mediterranean herb-patch. What more? There was the customary tour of the house, the charm of the creaking floor boards, the sense of age and history that comes with the stuccoed ceiling, and the neon art pieces collected by the owner, Nigel.
Yet, the experience speaks of some other, more somber realities. House bought in the early nineties, when a couple of professionals could afford one in Vancouver. House renovated over the years, by people more patient than most of us, people who put in their own work to make things happen. All in all, the little world created in this nice corner of Vancouver, is nearly impossible in today's economic realities. Still, the garden was nice, the bier was great, and the company fantastic.
There are odd moments when you know you belong. Unclear what to, but some sort of bond is created with a community of people and it gives you a feeling which humans only get when they are part of something larger, when they escape the vaunted self and become just a bit more than an individual. OK, let me pause. I am not to describe a grand spiritual experience, nor did I, in some fashion, participate in actions that served humanity's weakest members. I am, in fact, talking of a garden party. An event in a green house with yellow trimmings, a house that just turned a century old, somewhere close to Commercial drive, in Vancouver's east side. 
The event included, singing (not by me), drinking, talking, chatting and altogether doing all those things that I normally associate with summer in Greece. There was even a lady standing before a basil plant and rubbing its leaves with the accidental movements of her skirt, making the whole garden smell like some mediterranean herb-patch. What more? There was the customary tour of the house, the charm of the creaking floor boards, the sense of age and history that comes with the stuccoed ceiling, and the neon art pieces collected by the owner, Nigel. 
Yet, the experience speaks of some other, more somber realities. House bought in the early nineties, when a couple of professionals could afford one in Vancouver. House renovated over the years, by people more patient than most of us, people who put in their own work to make things happen. All in all, the little world created in this nice corner of Vancouver, is nearly impossible in today's economic realities. Still, the garden was nice, the bier was great, and the company fantastic.
