It wasn't such an action packed weekend for me these past couple of days. To be honest, I just fancied lazing around for once! Plus, the sun has gone back into hiding again, like a timid mouse, peeping its head out for a second and then disappearing into the depths of the floorboards.
I did tick off one item from my list of tasks, which was the Chinatown Night Market. I was hoping for a vibrant celebration of Far Eastern culture, peppered with dragons, historical warrior dress and szechuan sauce. Instead, I was greeted with "Bra and panties for $10", some dry and sticky chow mein, and kitchen knife sets. The only promise of entertainment was a large stage erected near the bottom of Keefer Street, in the heart of the Chinese area of Vancouver. Set on the stage was a bronzed, lifeless pig. I had visions of an anti-Semitic, primeval sacrifice to the gods, but it wasn't to be. The only thing that was killed that night was the couple of hours it took me to walk from my apartment to downtown and back. I hung around a long as I could bear, and then headed home.
I was greeted with an proposition to hit the town from Jackie when I made it back to my room. Never one to negate an invitation, I changed into my only dress shirt and met everyone at Kris' house, which was surrounded by the now familiar sight of drunken hobos and vociferous crack-whores. Their apartment block was, to my relief, a beacon of light within the dingy neighbourhood it sat.
To cut a long story short, I was much too drunk, and I parted with much too much money. But I had a good time, and I don't go clubbing too often, so I am not too distressed. The most annoying point was waking up the next morning with a sore, bloody knee and torn jeans, the aftermath of a stumble on the way home. Oh, to be a proud drunk!
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