when I think of Vancouver
There is only one airport in the world I love. YVR—arrivals, never departures. Everything is quick, like a habit. Step off the plane, into the airport and to your right, through vast windows, are mountains dusted with sugar. The air looks good for you. It’s the quickest exit from an airport (unless you’ve travelled to Newquay, Cornwall). A breezy 15 minutes through electronic passport readers and past a smiling Canadian borders officer. If you’re unlucky, your bag will come last (this happens often for me), and for less than £40, you’re in a cab into the heart of the city.
The drive to Kitsilano is 30 minutes, and it’s there I’m greeted by an extension of me. As we drive down West 16th, I remember each cross street like a flash flood: Fir, Pine, Burrard, Cypress, Maple, Arbutus, Yew, Vine, Balsam.
For three years, I’ve spent one month a year in Vancouver. The first, I left London brokenhearted. I took long walks alone at sunset and cried on every street, but I was also the first one to hear my best friend was pregnant, a yelp from the bathroom, six tests scattered on the floor, us both in shock (and slightly regretting the bottle of rosé we drank in the park two days earlier). A year later, her daughter—my goddaughter—was turning 6 months old, and I spent 30 whole days watching this little thing wriggle, grow, smile and cry whilst Kyla and I drank wine from the Okanagan (Plot, Ursa Major, our favourites) on the back patio.
How do I describe this city? It is home like the mountains are home, the water is home, the forest is home; where happy hour is home and my favourite brewery is home; how moving your body is home and driving at night with your best friend is home.
The month begins like this. Arrive late, fumble through the jet lag by staying up later than your eyes can handle until you fall asleep and wake up too early—but with a view of the mountains. Take the 16 bus to Yaletown and arrive at Jaybird, where the neon sign asks you: are you out of your mind? Potentially. This is the best workout you’ll ever do: pitch black, hot as hell, candles lining the walls; heaving, sweating bodies moving to the beat, music turned up, sweet release.
The days in Kitsilano look like this. Walking to Arbutus Coffee and sitting on the corner. Tater tots and a breakfast sandwich at Their There. Or the breakfast burrito at Kokomo, eaten whilst rocking a stroller hoping she’s sleeping. Remaining horizontal on Kits Beach, popping into the sea for salty dips when the heat takes over. Happy hour at Nook. The lobster claypot at Maenam, just because.
When I think of Vancouver, I think of beer and sushi. That time I bumped into an ex-lover at 33 Acres and ordered a 24 ounce of Mezcal Gose; the sips salted and sour, much like the feelings between us as we drank and got caught up in our own nostalgia until they kicked us out. My 31st birthday unexpectedly spent at Strathcona Brewing Co because I was too heartbroken to go back to London. The Lavender Sour from Moody Ales bought on repeat, stocked in the fridge and cracked open whilst the grill is fired up or at 3:00 pm just because. Then it’s Temaki on West Broadway, where we grab lunch on a weekday for the goma-ae and octopus karaage and the salmon belly sashimi. Or ending up at Sushi Mania on Main for the spicy tuna hand roll and the prawn tempura.
The days on Main Street look like this. A workout at Lagree to stretch out the limbs and humble you deeply. Shopping at Woo To See You and buying Korean brands you’d never heard of. A coffee pitstop at Liberty with a savoury scone. Onwards to Front & Company for vintage finds and then to Neighbourhood and Company for crystals and cosmetics (I’m just a girl!). A juice at Juice Truck in between. Happy hour at The Acorn, but sat on the suntrap patio, two glasses of wine and the Caesar salad.
I take the sea bus to North Vancouver once a week because it feels important to cross the water and because there’s a German Shepherd named Willow (and her owner, a great friend of mine) whom I must walk through canopied forests. Off the sea bus and straight to Ride for a quick spin class (did I mention Vancouver is the home of workouts?), then a coffee at 49th Parallel. Up the hill to the Salvation Army, where you can find vintage crockery and a killer men’s shirt that becomes your uniform for under $10. You could make your way to Cates Beach (by bus, or if you’re lucky, someone will pick you up) and lie on the dock reading a book for hours. But it’s Deep Cove for me, forever. Looking out across the water and the pines before sushi at Osaka. And, finally, a cool-off river dip at Seymour Creek with the dogs.
I could write about taking the ferry to Gibsons and exploring the Sunshine Coast. I could write about Bowen Island. About the mountain trails and climbing in Squamish. About Tofino and Victoria and driving east to the Okanagan.
But let me finish with days on Commercial Drive that look like this. It’s thrifting at The Only Vintage after a breakfast carbonara (no, really) at Livia. It’s browsing the shelves of Gatley Lifestyle Store and spending too much on a laundry detergent that smells like bergamot. It’s waiting for a solo spot at Lunch Lady for Vietnamese food and eventually ending up at Pepinos for a late-night dinner where you order the rigatoni alla vodka, a dirty martini, the fried brussels sprouts and a singular, perfectly rounded sugo sauce meatball.
When I think of Vancouver, I think of mountains, forests, beer, sushi, movement, growth, a German Shepherd named Willow, a baby named Lennon, the sister I never had and home.
Cat Sarsfield
Not everyone is a reader, but when Cat puts pen to paper, just about everyone becomes one. A Londoner, certainly, but this storyteller has actually laid roots in many places across the globe. From Cornwall to Bali, she's seen it all. While her bread and butter is crafting concise copy, what's dearest to her may well be, well, bread and butter. Or rice. Or roast chicken. Come to Cat for perfect pubs, great restos for a solo dinner and the dreamiest surf spots.
