On homeless people and Vancouver food

The Homeless:
So anyway I was on my way to the Depeche Mode concert when I stopped for a coffee, and as I was reclining outside the cafe in the 5 degrees C evening I could discern over the deafening din of my headphones an intrusive kind of music. Removing my earplugs I realised it was less like music and more closely related to the intoxicated incoherent verbal rantings of a decidedly dirty and scruffy homeless guy staggering behind a trolley full of plastic bags across the other side of the street. Someone nearby commented how sorry he felt for the guy. I watched as another person walked up to the destitute and handed him some coins, then walk away. After a few moments he finally comprehended what had been handed to him, and in a voice thick with emotion announce to donor, and the whole city block, a simple "thank you." I too felt sympathy for the guy and thought to myself - how hard could it be for me to spare a few coins, here and there, for these homeless people?

Traditionally I would toss some coins to buskers and on the odd occasion to homeless beggars. I made a decision to be more attentive to them so as soon as I polished off my coffee I walked out of the cafe and immediately ran into a potential donor with his hat out. I wasn't quite ready for him and only had my coins half-way out of my pocket. In that moment of indecision and hesitation - whilst still moving - I made the mistake of looking him in his piteous eyes. By now I was no closer to getting my coins ready but had moved beyond the gravitational range of his cap. Eye contact broke and I kept moving. "I'll make up for it with the next guy" I thought to myself over the cacophonic racket of my walkman. Unfortunately the "next guy" was only 4 metres away and was already watching me. I was sure the last guy still bore his eyes through my bag and jacket, so I kept walking. "Ok, the next guy will think it's Christmas" I consoled myself. However this time the "next guy" was just a few metres further. I looked up to see two more after that. Either I was walking through the slums or there are a lot of needy people in Vancouver!! I soon got into the swing of it however it only lasted a couple of minutes as I very quickly ran out of coins. Later I realised that there are, in fact, quite a lot of NFA's in Vancouver. If I gave each one a few coins I'd be joining them in the not-too-distant future... I have reverted to my former system of handing out coins to the occasional alms hunter.

The Beverage:
My first coffee here was an interesting experience: I immediately fell prey to the multi-national monster that I've avoided up to this point. Starbucks was the only place open at an obscenely early hour one morning soon after arriving in Vancouver. Thus I had little choice and rationalised that it can't hurt just this once. I walked in and ordered my staple "flat-white". The snotty-nosed smug prick smirked "oh, I've heard of those. You're not from around here are you? We don't do that here - you have to serve yourself the milk." What right did this punk have to turn his nose up at me (the customer)? Instead of doing the right thing and punching the guy before gracefully departing I sleepily breathed "just give me a 'coffee' then" thinking that he would produce something similar anyway. They had a huge shiny coffee machine after all. What was my surprise (and horror) when the bastard turned around, sloshed some muck out of a thermos into a disposable cup and smirked once more as he handed it back to me pointing to a row of milk thermoses and sugar sachets. I left it and walked out. Starbucks? Now I know what Trent Reznor was writing about!!

Since then my coffee experiences have improved. I discovered that instead of a "flat-white" you simply need to ask for a "no foam latte". And avoid Starbuck like the plague.

Another discovery: Root beer is not ginger beer. Period. More like Dencorub. Avoid it at all costs.

The Food:
Not having ready access to hearty meat-pies and lips-and-arse sausage-rolls I've been forced to find a quick and dirty alternative. As ubiquitous as the University Coffee Carts are on campus, so too are Hot-Dog Carts in Downtown Vancouver. I discovered to my delight that they are sooo much better than the Australian morsel masquerading under a matching moniker. The sausages are kept in a big esky, then whacked onto a brazier-type bbq (in place of the coffee machine) when cooked they are slapped into a fresh (yes, fresh) bun. Plus they're twice the size!! And they taste great. I am a convert.

The drawback, of course, is when I am walking away from the sausage cart and immediately pass a homeless guy who says (in my best Vancouvern accent):
"Oh, hi, gidday! Look I don't want to bother you but I was just wondering if you could possibly spare some change for a little food or some pop [soft drink]..?"
When I sincerely state, with hotdog in hand, that I have spent my last coins the reply is usually:
"Well that's ok. And hey if I don't see ya before the weekend, you have a good one, eh!"
By now I have become used to the homeless. They seem to appear every single time I have purchased some food or a beverage.

More Food:
Doner Kebabs are once again nothing like that which we get in the land of Oz. And yes I am only basing this on a single experience three weeks ago, but that's hardly the point. I realise in hindsight that I had obviously made a couple of crucial mistakes on this particular evening; the first and most importantly being a severe lack of intoxication (ie, I was completely sober - big mistake). The other error was not realising when to pull out.

It's easy to see a clear path of error in hindsight. The first indicator was the cleanliness of the place. No kebab shop is genuine without a thick layer of grease. In fact, not only was the establishment spotless, but it was spartan too! Where were the meat rotisseries?? Where were the tubs of hummus and garlic sauce? The shredded lettuce, tomato, cheese, and vine leaves? Strangely enough the loud gurgling in my stomach blocked my mind from noticing these anomalies until it was too late. So I ordered a kebab. The cheerful (too cheerful!) gentleman took this order, then went through a curtain to some room out the back. First alarm bell started going off. Where's he going. Does this mean I won't see him constructing my meal? Correct! A few minutes of anxious waiting and he reappeared with something rolled up tightly in a paper bag. Turns out it held some similarity to a doner kebab - with one major difference; the meat. What was that stuff that looked like linoleum? Isn't it strange how passions can override wisdom and experience, especially having adverse effects on judgement? My passion for satiating my severely starved stomach reigned supreme, and I ate. It didn't look good. It didn't taste good. I didn't feel good. I put it down to experience.

I have been eating my usual fare of fresh home-made meals and packed lunches for the main part - it's only the odd occasion that I am away from home, ravenous, and am forced to resort to this tonsil torment.

ADDENDUM (10 Jan, 2006):
In the pouring rain I drove to Downtown Vancouver for a free movie promoting a new Independant Bookstore. The movie: La Haine ("Hate" in English) - more on that later. Eventually finding the place I parked where I could a block away. Not willing to risk the proven wrath of the Vancouver parking police I fed the appropriate parking meter - unbeknownst that I was being watched! Up trotted a homeless guy cheerfully postulating the needlessness of feeding the meter as metered parking finishes at 8pm. I pointed out it was only 6pm, "oh, yeah... so it is... Say do you have a dime [ten cents]?" Couldn't see that coming! No doubt he would have loved the three bucks I gave to the governemnt seconds ago.
"Sorry, mate" is my well practiced reply. This time I had a plan; I amiably added "I can give you a mueslie bar!?"
"Eh?"
"Chocolate bar?" I produced one of my chocolate mueslie bars I carry around to stave off the wolves. He seemed affronted, but not wanting to be rude (as is the apparent Canadian doctrine) he accepted with thanks. Maybe it's the cynic in me but I suspected he would have preferred the ten cents he originally asked for rather than the full dollar value of the chocolate... For what, your guess is as good as mine.

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