To Chinatown

The charms of staying centrally on Seymour Street had worn off. The coffee spilt, reservation losing computer combined with the wooden floorboards that cried for help every time someone walked past, meant it was time to move on. The previous night it was a head on car collision outside my room that had caused me to stir in the early hours. This time, without warning, I was woken by a strange dream. In somewhat bizarre fashion, people were shouting at the top of their voices to ‘leave the scene quick, before the police came’. It was only after ten minutes of being awake that I realise it was no dream, but a comical, almost film set like production going on outside.

I dragged my bag through Gastown, wondering how the area had got its name. I went through the obvious, maybe it was historically a stopping place for cars to fill up, to the ridiculous, wondering if the local population had a reputation for flatulence, after all, their clocks were powered by steam. To my disappointment, it was, in fact, named after a drunk English Sailor called ‘Gassy’ Jack Deighton, who moved there from the sea to open a bar in 1867.

Walking up past Gastown, I made my way towards Chinatown. My destination was a hostel sitting on the outside, named, Pender Lodge. As I realised a long time ago, staying at characterless, uniform hotels is, at best, colourless. Sitting in a Holiday Inn in Rio would just be like being in a hotel in East London. All Big Macs taste the same after all, it’s just sometimes you have to pour the sauce yourself.

The Chinatown in Vancouver, is, unlike some, authentic to the homeland as you could get. Housing over 35,000 people of Chinese descent, the smells and sounds make even the most lost traveller find themselves again. As I walked through Pender Street, I felt distinctly foreign, the signs were all in Chinese, the people spoke little English. Indeed it was easy to understand why this was this was one of North Americas largest Chinatown’s, even the buildings looked Chinese, whatever Chinese buildings looked like.

I approached Pender Lodge with some apprehension. For exactly half the price of my previous lodgings, I was wondering whether I would have to share my room with a large extended Chinese family. Okay, I didn’t get a free heavy metal concert below my room, complimentary car accidents, steaming reservation losing computers or musical floorboards, but I entered wearily.

“Hello, I’ll be one minute” came the voice from around the corner. I was starting realise why it was half as cheap as the Cambie Hostel. She appeared, a scrubbing brush in one hand, a folder in the other. The Chinese lady was certainly friendly. “Ah, you come from England, why Blair follow Bush? All those innocent people in London”. As she took my details she added “Your room is not ready yet, I tell the people to be out by eleven, by they are never are!”. It was probably due to the fact that she was the cooker, the cleaner, the manager, the night porter. She confirmed my suspicions. “Ahh, yes I work fourteen hours a day”. As left by bag, I made sure to tell her not to rush on my behalf. Afterall, I had enough trouble cleaning my own room let alone fifteen others.