I was obsessing about finding some sort of pull-out bed for my new livingroom because I wanted my place to be THE pit stop (and hopefully destination) for friends and family when they’re in Vancouver.
I obsess about things. Pros? I take the time to get the good stuff. Cons? A guilt complex and a lighter wallet.
So, I found a hide-a-bed that was free. I called the guy:
“What’s the condition?”
“Oh, excellent. We’re Italians so you know right there that it’s in fantastic condition…”
I did not know this, and whether it was a fact of life or a big fat stereotype.
“Uh, okay. Why are you getting rid of it?”
“It was my sister’s. She died a month ago and her husband just recently died. But, don’t worry, they didn’t die on the couch.”
My brain would have never come to that thought, but I’m really glad he told me just in case I went to sit down with Julia, cuddle up and watch a movie on the thing and all of a sudden formed that notion. Paranoia would sent in, consisting of my try to inhale strong enough to smell any odours that I hadn’t noticed, and trying not to inhale too loud so I didn’t get her attention.
Her: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Oh, I wasn’t sure if the previous owner died on the couch, so I’m sniffing for decomposition.”
But, hey, free retro hide-a-bed! And this is where the couch gets multicultural…
-> I get it free from an Italian.
->Delivered by an East Indian.
->Received by me, a white boy.
->Assisted in a beautifully choreographed zig-zag into my livingroom by my Chinese landlords.
I understand this city now. I get it. We all feel like minorities, but when we combine forces no majority can stand in our way. (or couch). So if my logic is correct, then Vancouver is like Voltron, with language barriers. Vancouver Voltron may take twice as long to save the day, but we’d save it at some point, damnit.