We left during second period, knowing the game was finished, that the Cup was lost. In hindsight, that might be considered strategic.
Our mistake was staying downtown. I had taken Dylan, Lorna and Mark to one of my favorite restaurants on Robson, savoring two aloe vera and vodka’s, sharing Tuna Tataki. I felt pride that they were enjoying the food in a city I haven’t seen in over a year.
Since I’ve returned, the Vancouver that met me has been a dose of pleasant. I walk down the tree-lined streets, inhaling musky droplets after a sprinkle of rain. It always reminds me of a load of laundry coming out of the dryer. Clean, fresh, new. I’ve revisited memories, places that made me ridiculously happy.
That night, it changed.
I could recount moments after our dinner when we looked towards the skyline, as smoke billowed upwards. That was Georgia, at least two cars burning to blackened, twisted metal.
I could recount our walk towards Granville, where Dylan and Mark were staying. We had little knowledge of what was unfolding. Our banter and gait was a pause. That moment when an intake of breath happens and you wait, unsure what will come.
I could recount the crowds as we approached closer, the screaming, a high-pitched scraping sound as someone toppled a newspaper stand or howled in unbridled angst. Against what?
Lorna, ever the documentarian and calm presence, snapped photos of the riot vans parked. We observed