Back to the ships – powrót na statek

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

(Polish language version in the last section)

My last Journey Of Memory, last major saying ‘goodbye’, au revoir. Trails of past 50 years. Perhaps the most poignant – big part of my daily life since 1994: BC Ferries ships and Terminals.

Some of the ships are gone having served hundreds of thousands passengers, as the old, venerable V-class vessels: ‘Victoria’, ‘Vancouver’, ‘Saanich’ and ‘Esquimalt’; the Queen of ‘Burnaby’, ‘Nanaimo’ and ‘New Westminster’ were the C-class[i]. Next ones came the workhorses of the entire fleet: ‘Spirit of BC’ and ‘Spirit of Vancouver Island’ where I spent most of my career. These large ships were also built in British Columbia and given the Class-S specification. Both of them went in 2017 to Poland to undergo a major half-life refit and an addition of liquefied natural gas propulsion alongside the traditional heavy oil.

It is important to notice that all these ships were build by Vancouver, Victoria and Esquimalt shipyards. The shipyards are now long gone memory, thanks to misguided policies of all past governments both provincial and federal and (not to be forgotten) thanks to a new USA import – new President of the BC Ferries, Mr. David Hahn, who forbade the corporation to order new ferries from Canadian shipyards – he is gone now and not missed.

The next major purchases were the three large Coastal Class ferries built in Germany in 2008: ‘Renaissance’, ‘Celebration’ and ‘Inspiration’. Not my favored ones from the point of view of catering operations due to the ships convoluted internal design of lounges and catering services – but otherwise good and sturdy large vessels.

The last major purchases were the modern ferries build in Poland: these four smaller ships (‘Raven’, ‘Orca’, ‘Heron’ and ‘Eagle) have surprisingly large capacity of nearly 600 passengers. They were given Salish/Class designation. They were built in 2016.

There are still many smaller ferries operating on many other small routes to numerous islands, and one large sailing all the way from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert with connection to Haida Gwaii – but that is another long story for other time.

Monday on the 22^nd of June I went back to the ships, to the Terminal in Tsawwassen, to the place I spent a big part of my life. The first surprise was the ticket Agent, who sold me the voyage. I have heard that almost no one from ‘my times’ is still working. Well, the agent looked at me and said: Bogumil?! How nice to see you again! Speaking of anonymity, LOL. I didn’t want to go the regular way with the passengers, but to be with the crew, at the dock. Right by the luggage rack I met a Van Driver from the ship – of course I worked with him years ago and we laugh about me ‘coming back to work’, LOL. Then I went to spent a silent moment to the bench and cement block filled with soil and some green living arrangement – our memorial to a dear friend and steward from many, many years ago, who suddenly passed away, too young and before his time. My John was particularly close and fond of him and we did many outings together to Downtown Vancouver for some fun time.

Back at the birth good laughs and jokes with the Chief Steward, Chief Cook, some deckhands and officers of the ship with whom I did worked. Speaking of anonymity again, LOL. And some of ‘my children’, as I called my crew on my last summer with BC Ferries.

Of course, there were people .whom I did not know and who did not know me. Including – out of all of the crew, LOL – the Captain of the ship. Although I must say that it wouldn’t have happened back in the ol’ days. At that time (especially in the early years) most crew advanced their career while working onboard from the lowest position: from the deckhand to the captain, from catering attendant to the chief steward, from 3^rd engineer to the chief engineer. But it was very long time ago and things were changing gradually over the years, probably for the best in many cases.

Walking through the ship, visiting the ‘command centers’ of the enterprise – Main Galley (that means kitchen – for you poor civilians, LOL), Chief Steward Office (that brought a lot of memories, LOL) which is not, as many travelers probably think, simply a Tourist Information Booth (although it is that, too) but a very busy place – a main office of a very large and expensive enterprise. It always amazed me how two or mostly three people (if you include the Chief Cook, who is part of the structure – that would be four people, but Chief Cocks don’t have time to spent too much time in the office, their ‘office’ is the Main Galley) manage to replace easily five or six clerks, accountants, office managers that usually would do the job in buildings on land. But I will not expand on that subject… LOL.

The last one was very pleasant visit with an old friend on the Bridge, the Chief Officer on this watch. My God! I remember him as a very young boy, who just started on the Ferries, straight from school. Now he is second in command and from what I have heard (and know myself) a very able and good Chief Officer. I used to work for many years with his father – a retired now, long time Captain of the ships; worked with his sister. Jimmy (the Chief Officer) seem to be very capable officer of the ship. Good job Jimmy, keep her and the course steady-as-she-goes. I am sure your father is very proud of you. The bridge look-out was familiar face, too. The Bridge and the navigational and command consoles looked the same. The chairs felt familiar, too. LOL.

When we were leaving the birth in Tsawwassen I wanted to be alone on the outer deck to see the maneuvers of leaving dock. Always liked to observe it, did the same while we were docking at the Duke Point Terminal near Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island. Nothing special, eh? Really? Anyone, who says it is an idiot without any knowledge. The births s are very narrow and squeezed between other births, often with other large ferries leaving or coming at the same time. It is an art sometimes, especially in bad weather. It amazed me many times, and not many things amaze me that easily …

Goodbye my ferries and those, who run them. Very special bunch of people.

Specjalny dzień moich kolejnych pożegnań. Nie byłem pewny, czy chciałem to zrobić, bo to powrót do bardzo długich lat służby na statkach na których spędziłem ćwierć wieku, statkach na których pływałem i pracowałem razem z Johnem. Statkach, gdy koleżanki z pracy żegnały mojego Johna w sposób szczególny, gdy powiadomiłem ich z Nowej Szkocji, że odszedł od nas. Statek zwolnił ruch, prawie się zatrzymał, Chief Steward i Second Steward rzucili do wody przed wejściem do Active Pass wiązanki pożegnalnych kwiatów. /…/ Teraz ja pojechałem na jeden z tych dużych statków pożegnać się z tym światem morza i statków.

Uprzedzano mnie, że mało kogo poznam, że załogi się bardzo wymieniły i większość nowych ludzi teraz tam pracuje. Ale już kupując bilet na przejazd do terminalu Duke Point sprzedający agent rozpoznał mnie natychmiast; drugą spotkaną osobą był kierowca pojazdu odwożącego bagaże pasażerów na statek. Potem powitania za znajomymi stewardami, oficerami. Niewiele się zmienili. Może zmarszczka lub dwie więcej. Nie wchodziłem drogą pasażerów ale razem z załogą. Jak kiedyś. Uściski, trochę żartów. Przepraszałem, że zapomniałem założyć mundur, LOL.

Zanim weszliśmy na statek, zrobiłem krótki spacer na ostatnie, specjalne pożegnanie. Na końcu nadbrzeża, tam gdzie na ogół ‘parkują’ największe statki czyli ‘Spirit of British Columbia’ i ‘Spirit of Vancouver Island jest specjalna ławka i cementowa ‘donica’ upamiętniająca innego drogiego kolegę, który przez wiele pierwszych lat był moim stewardem. I bardzo bliskim przyjacielem mojego męża. Często razem jeździliśmy w dni wolne do centrum Vancouveru odwiedzając kluby gejowskie. Barry nagle i niespodziewanie zmarł na atak serca. Przeżyliśmy to bardzo, zwłaszcza mój John. Potem uczestniczyłem w rozsypaniu jego prochów ze skrzydła głównego pokładu samochodowego do wód portowych. Dostał zasłużenie prawdziwy morski pogrzeb. Więc byłem tam znowu, po raz ostatni z nim się pożegnać. Zasłużył na naszą wdzięczną pamięć.

Potem już na statku łaziłem po zewnętrznym pokładzie, po różnych kabinach, salach dla pasażerów, po wszystkich pomieszczeniach cateringu – cafeteria, sklep pamiątkarski, galley (kuchnia), biuro stewardów, gdzie tyle lat pracowałem. Poszedłem na mostek kapitański porozmawiać z 1szym Oficerem, który dowodził mostkiem i nawigacją. Zaraz posadził mnie na swoim fotelu przed tą masą radarów i czujników elektronicznych. Panel (panele w zasadzie, bo taki mostek wygląda dla niewprawnego oka prawie jak urządzenia na statku kosmicznym, LOL), który tak dobrze znałem. Cieszyło mnie, jak dobrze sobie radzi na tym mostku. A pamiętałem go jeszcze świetnie, gdy zaczynał pracę, jako bardzo młody i ledwie opierzony marynarz. Pracowała tam wówczas z nami też jego siostra, przemiła dziewczyna. Jak lata się zmieniają. Kiedy ten obecny oficer był chłopczykiem w ‘krótkich spodenkach’ … pracowałem z jego ojcem, wieloletnim kapitanem na naszych statkach.

Generalnie byłem zaskoczony ile jeszcze osób z załogi pamiętało mnie i pracowało przez szereg lat ze mną. Ale były oczywiście już też nowe twarze. Mineło już blisko dziesięć lat, gdy zszedłem ze statku.

Pewnie jeszcze przed wyjazdem, gdzieś na jednym ze statków popłynę, ale to była specjalna podróż bez schodzenia ze statku. W zasadzie nie czułem się nawet pasażerem, a po prostu jednym z załogi.

[i] Queens of Burnaby and Nanaimo were often referred to as ‘Burnaby-class’ – but for all practical reasons they were V class.

Ephemeral Art

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

On June 21 I went with a friend to Maple Ridge to an old Memorial Park. Of course not just for a ride – an artist, Elsa Chesnel made a exhibition of her unusual art: all made of very light and hand painted pieces of transcalent fabric. In a hot and filled with light breeze air all these pieces seemed to be alive, vibrating and moving.

I was also pleasantly surprised that the old and a bit sleepy town hardly changed at all over the years. It is actually a nice thing that not all have to be filled with these ugly highrises.

Andre Gide and the long trails he led me through

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

On Claude Mauriac Coversations with André Gide

Introduction:

Andre Gide as a guide – but to what light, what knowledge?

Andre Gide not himself with his books, his amazing literature, but Gide as seen in his twilight years through conversations and observations of a young Parisian, Claude Mauriac. No, no that more famous father, François Mauriac_[i](a writer, critic and member of French Academy and Nobel laureate in literature). Claude followed his father’s footsteps, who also interviewed Gide and wrote about him extensively.

All of it and all of them reminded me how amazingly important for continental Europe was the French literature since Moliere, and especially in revolutionary XIX and first half of XX century. Italian, Spanish, or German literatures had its episodes, individual, singular writers, the same as English from across the Channel. But none of them had such an impact on literary styles, thought, as did French literature as a whole at the same time frame.

I remember vividly that right after I stopped reading Mickiewicz, Kraszewsk and Krasicki_[ii] – I went straight to Stendhal_[iii]. I’m talking about a 10-12 year old boy in a peculiar cocoon called ‘Polish People Republic’_[iv]. Yes, it meant communist. France for us was modern Athens. Of course, I had to re-read a lot of it again in a two-three short years to better comprehend it – but by the time I was fifteen, I knew by memory all the streets of Paris, from Montmartre to Montparnasse. It was very helpful when I eventually ended up in Paris for a visit with Kot Jelenski_[v] – a true bridge-navigator between French high culture and Polish literary/art achievements.

The story with reading about Gide goes a few weeks back. I was trying (still unsuccessful) to get from our Library a book by Klaus Mann and his talks with Andre Gide. He was the last one to have this type of talk with the great writer. That book simply vanished from Vancouver Library – last time I was actually told that: disappeared. I went finally to get that book by older Mauriac – François. Remembered seeing it on shelf of the Library, but this time that book was gone, too. LOL. Machiavellian conspiracy?!

But they had this book by the younger Mauriac and I took it. It might have been a good idea. He was very young and very much taken by Gide, and his own criticism was not blinded by arrogance or pre-conceived notions, as could have been the case with his father writings. Even more intriguing is the fact that older Mauriac was about the same age as Gide. Claude Mauriac, being more than generation younger, would not dare to contradict, or argue with Gide. I knew he would have listen and absorb – therefore his recollections would be more crystal, so-to-speak, taken with reverence.

While reading these ‘Conversations’_[vi] in Moodswing Cafe_[vii] a strange thought came to me or, more aptly – an observation. Strangely perhaps, because on the surface it is totally disconnected from that book and it’s subject. Somehow though, it feels that I need to include it in that short essay.

Here we go:

some people, mostly the artistic type, or at the very least working on some sort of public stage while doing it, dress very differently on that stage than off that stage. I am definitely not talking about actors, as these professionals play a role, not themselves. No, my observation is about any type of performer, who presents their own skill/art in a public space. They often dress very differently than they are off that stage. Why? Are they victims of ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”_[viii] syndrome? I doubt it. Yet, it seems to me that they think as their artistic persona would be too peculiar, too extravagant for normal, ordinary life. Extravagant?! Obviously that ‘artistic’ part is very important and it shows that they are fuller, happier and more confident in that ‘stage attire’ than in ordinary, boring clothing.

They should allow themselves that freedom of dressing a bit differently simply because ‘it’ is them and ‘it’ would show confidence and joy. Being an artist does not make you better than others, but it does give you the privilege, the right to be a little bit of a peacock. Perhaps not with fully displayed tail – but a colorful peacock nonetheless.

I think that Gide helped me to have that thought, observation. Certainly monsieur Cocteau_[ix], who comes up in Mauriac’s story very often would think that. I do not shy from this ‘perversion’ definitely.

(Next day in Melriches Cofee bar on Davie Street)

Well, back to the subject, the book of Claude Mauriac.

As I said I wouldn’t have borrow that book if not for the simple fact, that the other, written by his famous father was not at the library. Yet, being as it was, I have found out that it worked very well. That Claude, young aspiring critic and journalist did not come to Gide to discuss, analyze a famous writer style, body of work. He came timidly with open mind and heart to observe, to learn about Gide from Gide, without pre-conceived notions about Gide as a man. Obviously, the age difference added to his deference.

Did he understand the peculiarity of aging Gide homosexuality? Yes, he knew of it very well, Gide never hid it, but did he knew the emotional price paid by an aging homosexual artist – even in liberal Paris of the 30ties – who was single, did not have a partner? Of course he did.

Gide still analyzed, re-lived his tragically ended marriage ( her sudden death), a marriage never fully ‘consummated’. If you are not sure of the torture, perhaps you should read the gem of literature, the „Immoralist”_[xi]. It had tremendous effect on me decades ago, when I read it first time.

Claude Mauriac was not only young (o, so very young!), he was (as his father) staunchly, almost fervently Catholic. But he did try very hard not to let himself be judgmentally opinionated in his dogmas, especially noticing that his own famous father (also fervently Catholic) did not allow himself to judge Gide writings through his sexuality or otherwise private conduct. Au contraire – he held him in high esteem.

Yet, I must say without a hint of trepidation, that I sensed very strongly, that Claude was drawn mysteriously not only to Gide’s admired writings but also to his suggestive handsome looks and his, at times, flirtatious behavior. And I also do remember the ancient times when I was at Claude’s age, and how intellectually attractive were my much older friends. One must assume that admiring these much older friends intellectual prowess easily translates into physical allure. It goes without saying that intellectually accomplished men (and women), who are artists or people formally associated with art ventures do age gracefully, and barring serious illness, they do retain physical attractiveness rather well. That ‘attractiveness’ should not be confused with just mere and banal ‘good looks’.

On p. 160 of that book Claude re-examines his feelings toward Gide and vice versa. He now recognizes Gide acting as a clever gamer, he sees his ‘perfidy’ to be friendly toward him – a boy, a budding young journalist. But is it a fair examination of Gide’s acting by Claude himself? I don’t think so. I think and I assume it, because I believe that Claude wrote that book honestly. I also believe (although he doesn’t state it as an explice) that at times, through the extended vacation in southern France, he often was jealous of his father closeness and long friendship to Gide. Closeness that took away Gide attention to Claude only. That he might have been at times in the shadow of these two towering figures of contemporary French high culture. Granted – it offered him an extra security that the father might have offered just by being close, but it did steal the singular attention of Gide that might have been his otherwise. If he did not have these feelings, he would have been indeed very abnormal young man, and I don’t think that he was ‘abnormal’, LOL. François Mauriac and Andre Gide were undeniably first class stars of French literary culture; they knew and admired each other accomplishments for decades. Hence, vis avis that Claude persona and personality fades into shades of words, of importance of their lively discussions.

(following day, back in Moodswing Café)

I have become more and more attune to Andre Gide again. Yes, it started with Claude Mauriac Journal , but it took me much farther. It is now me at times, who talks with Gide. Sometime I argue with him, sometime I adore him … and yes, sometime I just want to shout at him: shut up already, Andre. You are not god or, at the very least, you are not the only god of European Olympus! Another false claimant to Homer’s lyre.

Alas, truth to be told, I do love Andre. When Claude Mauriac takes him to visit deathly ill dear friend Paul Valery_[xii] and he is not sure what his friend was whispering to him, I feel sorry for Andre. When he returns for a second visit … he is half an hour late. Valery is dead. Claude is overtaken by the look of broken, crying Gide. Was he crying for Valery? Undoubtedly, but mostly he was crying for their youth, for ‘that’ Paris. He was crying for himself. Selfishness? Perhaps … but truly, who is not selfish at the very core, the very center of our ego, our soul? When you cry after dear lover’s death – you cry over your loss much more than the loss of another person (of course the ‘other person’ would be your lover, but the asserted ‘yours’ is the key to that loss: something, someone was yours, belonged to you and now was taken away).

Egotist? I remember years ago reading F. Scott Fitzgerald “Short Stories”_[xiii]and loved it so much. It was his greatest literary achievement and it prompted me to read his first full novel “This Side of Paradise”_[xiv] from 1920. Many have called it an absolute portrait of the generation and its first section is titled The Romantic Egotist. How appropriate! These short stories and the novel portray a generation that just went through the unthinkable loss of millions in that devastating war of 1914-1918. Generation that was hungry for life, love, excess – ALL of it.

Dear Andre, did you know during your talks with this improbable youth called Claude Mauriac, that his world (as well as yours – once again) is just about to collapse under the pitiful actions of his admired earlier presidency of Maréchal Pétain, the Lion of Verdun, who become the Mouse of Vichy? No, of course you did not. After all you went to Tunis and Algiers. Did you enjoy the young bodies of the Arabian boys? Of course you did. After all it wasn’t the first time, was it? But you still should have told some of it to young Claude. He was naïve …

Gide dies soon after Valery. I’m personally taken by these moments and his sad, somber realizations. Am I now waiting for my death? Is my return to Warsaw a Gide’s return to Paris after the war years in Africa? Return to die…

(following day, back in Melriches Café on Davie in Vancouver)

Ah, yes – it is very hard to leave this place again, these streets, buildings, even shops, stores. Perhaps it is most difficult leaving the parks and their trails. Everything is so dear for me there. Everything? If life is everything – than yes, it is.

Our love, that I will never find again, my writings. Despite many shorter and longer returns to Poland, my dearest Poland, the undeniable fact remains that I was twenty two years old boy, when I left her. Now I am close to Andre Gide’s age, when Claude Mauriac wrote his Journal and become emotionally attached to that famous French writer. Andre died in Paris few years later, in 1951.

Regrets? No, have I not left my dearest Poland, I would have never found him – My Boy, My Life, My Soul. Things like that do not happen twice. Yet – Poland is my first love of books, of literature, of poetry, music. When I finally landed in Canada (after a year in London and two years in Italy) I was a truly fully developed man spiritually and intellectually. Back in the old communist Poland young people had to develop fast and mature fast. Of course, there was time for first kisses and romances – but a romance is not That Love you dream of, when you are that young. That one was waiting for me here, in Canada. Do I believe that things are preordained somewhere for us? That I don’t know and I am not going to be wasting time trying to answer such a theoretical question – cosmology was never my strength.

I do have one regret, though. Back in the 80ties I went to Paris to visit Kot Jeleleński_[xv], an amazing intellectual and art lover. Art lover is one description – but of course he must have been a great lover romantically, too. After all, he was a lover of improbable Leonor Fini_[xvi] and improbably beautiful Stanislao Lepri – an Italian aristocrat. He did, in pre-war Poland, had a friendship with Polish great poet Kamil Baczyński (a hero of Warsaw Uprising, where he died fighting German occupiers) – I forgot to ask him if he ever made love to beautiful Baczyński? But I would like to think that they kissed at the very least, both of them were very handsome boys. That is a side thought only, pleasurable but of no consequence. Yet, my regret is that I should have asked Kot to take me to the streets and cafes in Paris which Gide frequented. Kot was Parisian bare none. It is my great regret. You don’t ask just a tourist guide for places and stories like that. Stories like that could be told only by art lovers. Or artists themselves.

Who, if not Konstanty Jelenski could have told me the true shades of Gide? Jelenski, the ever arbiter elegentiae, the guardian of Polish and European literature? How did he survived the death of his love – Stanislao, the gorgeous Italian? I didn’t know that Kot at that time was dying himself of incurable cancer. Being as elegant in every meaning of the word, he never shown anyone his physical ailments. Let’s talk about art, not of something as ghastly as death – he would have probably answered.

Our lovers die too soon.

I have talked for a long time with Giedroyc_[xvii] in Maisons-Laffitte near Paris, editor-in-chief of highly influential literary and political monthly “Kultura” – but our talk was all wasted on politics instead about literature. Those were the times, but we should have known that even during war, talking about art and love is more important than politics! One that could have put us back on these important tracks was another editor of ‘Kultura” – Józef Czapski. Tall as a skyline physically and intellectually, himself a lover of young Russian poet Nabokov and later of Ludwik Hering – but Czapski was not in Paris, when I visited Giedroyc. Maybe Czapski met Gide, he could have due to his aristocratic connections he mingled o lot in the ‘society’ circles of Paris. Eh, the occasions and talks we missed…

When Oscar Wilde took Gide to a hotel in Algiers, Wilde rented two rooms and in both rooms was a local Algerian boy. Naturally, the boy was rented, too. They both delighted in their boys. Yes, I know my dear Reader that you are aghast – but trust me, I am certain that both of these writers delighted in these Algerian boys. They definitely were not terrified of these boys. Not only that – to your surprise (no doubt) I must tell you that it was not illegal – the age of consent was not 18, not even 15. It was at that time …thirteen. O tempora, o mores! Did you, dear Reader give a sigh?! Did you just say, with wiping sentimental tear off you check: the good, old times? No? You didn’t? I thought you did – because that is what you usually say, when you comment on current times, don’t you?

O, please spare me the debacle. I am not going to Algiers tonight, or any other time. And the age of consent in Algiers now is the same as in Poland or in Canada. Even in Paris, LOL. Not sure about Texas or the Temple in Utah – religions and individual states laws and customs are very different in the ‘land of the free’ south of the border. They are Christians, too (I think?) but they are the Later Saints … or is it Latter-day saints? Maybe it is just very special Latte or Cappuccino; it is all too complicated for a simple guy as me.

Thinking of Gide for few more days and thinking of him I wrote two pieces of poetry: one in Moodswing Café in New Westminster and one … sunbathing on nude beach and swimming in Mud Bay of South Surrey’s Crescent Beach. I think it necessary to finish this essay, which no longer is an essay only about Andre Gide, with these poems. Maybe I should even dedicate it to his memory and talent.

To you Andre, to the memory of great man of letters from France.

Winter time in a small village in Pyrenees.

Night comes quickly and darkness covers

the valleys and peaks. Suddenly, the windows

off a small stony church lights up in delicate

orange glow. From the top of the church steeple

comes the song of its bells: big bam! Big bam!

big!, big! big! Bam! Bam! Bam! Baaaam-mmm!

The air vibrates with each tone of the big bell

and sends bronze-coloured sounds to the valleys.

Archangel Michael blows into long, golden trumpet.

The music envelopes the meadows, climbs up the hills.

The call of God, the call of the Shepherd:

come and be enlighten in the mystery of life

and promise of death merciful that claims us all.

They run – the tired travelers, the herds of goats.

They cry and hope, as the trumpet sounds again

and dies suddenly like the last drop of now empty goblet.

The church becomes a masjid and archangel becomes muezzin,

that intones to all: Allāhu ʾAkbar. In Pyrenees Hannibal’s army

stop their march and rise their tusks and trunks: they sense the pitch

of the hymn and the psalm as the far flung peaks of Alps slowly

cover the church, the mosque and streams in the valleys.

The curtain call of History. Birth and death of Love.

Moodswing Café, 29. 05.26

B. Pacak-Gamalski

It’s almost seven in the evening.

The sun just starts to burn its glory.

I talk to young Adonis I just met in the water,

when we were swimming close by.

Back on the hot rocks of the beach

he asks me about a book I’m reading.

That book is about Andre Gide and young

Claude Mauriac, who wrote that book.

No, I don’t suppose that my Adonis knows

who was Gide and I explain that he was seventy

at that time and fabulously-scandalously gay,

but Claude was barely twenty one and staunchly catholic.

Definitely believing being straight as an arrow,

straight as the priest, who presided piously over Holy Mass

in the church they attended with Gide and Claude’s father

in the southwestern France, in Malagar, close to Garonne’s

fast moving waters and not far from Spain’s Pyrenees.

Not sure if all that did not scared him: Malagar, big river Garonne,

close to Spain. A thought might have crossed his mind:

is he crazy per chance? And he moved few steps to the left.

Yet, he stroke a pose of Greek efeb to accentuate

his graceful, but muscular body. I pretend

not to read his mind and just admire his statuesque’s

shapes. Like a monument in Louvre or in Athens.

Michelangelo must have painted or sculptured him.

Gide and Claude in France? Who are they?

And who cares on a nudist beach

in the company of Greek efeb?!

Crescent Beach in South Surrey, 30.05.26

B. Pacak-Gamalski

[i] François Mauriac | Nobel Prize-Winning French Author | Britannica

[ii] A. Mickiewicz – great Polish poet, author of national epopee “Pan Tadeusz; Jozef Kraszewski, a popular author of many historical novels in the late XIX century; Ignacy Krasicki, bishop and writer called a Polish La Fontaine, satirist and critic of an old feudal system, XVIII century

[iii] Stendhal (orig. name: Marie-Henri Beyle) French novelist, precursor of realism and psychological portrait

[iv] Quasi sovereign satellite of Soviet Union block of states created after the 2 w.w. (1944) – the most liberal and free from the entire soviet Block. It ended in 1989 by peaceful free election led by ‘Solidarity” movement.

[v] Konstanty Jelelenski – eminent Polish émigré in Paris after the end of 2 world war; one of the three founding intellectuals, who organized and run the famous Paris “Culture’ periodic – an extremely influential magazine among intellectual and literary elite and not only for Polish people in the West, but mostly for people in communist Poland, where it widely distributed as ‘bibula’ (illegally)

[vi] Conversations with A. Gide; by Claude Mauriac; tr. M. Leback; pub. George Braziller Inc. New York 1965; s. 235

[vii] Services 4 — Moodswing Coffee + Bar

[viii] The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde | Project Gutenberg

[ix] Jean Cocteau – a prominent French poet, performer and avant-garde style movement instigator

[x] Melriches Coffee, 1244 Davie St, Vancouver, BC. | Make that happy connection!

[xi] The Immoralist | French Novel, Existentialism, André Gide | Britannica

[xii] Paul Valéry – Wikipedia

[xiii] The short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald; pub. By Charles Scriner’s Sons, New York, 1989, p. 776

[xiv] https://www.ebsco.com/research-starters/literature-and-writing/side-paradise-f-scott-fitzgerald#this-side-of-paradise-by-f-scott-fitzgerald

[xv] Konstanty Jeleński — Wikipédia

[xvi] Leonor Fini at Weinstein Gallery

[xvii] Jerzy Giedroyc – Wikipedia

Beach time season officially opened

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

It was rather late time of the day, but nonetheless I boarded the comfortable coach (with modern mechanical horses under the hood, LOL) of my travelling companion and off we went to our favorable place – South Surrey Crescent Beach. Of course to the wild part of rocky beaches for naturalist (yeah, the ones, who walk and swim void of single piece of clothing).

Water was clear as crystal, cool but very friendly. Love that spot. Afterwards we went for gorgeous paths on natural meadows and marches at the other end of the beach. It’s truly marvelous – remember and respect the rules: it is protected and very delicate area. Follow strictly only the narrow walkways and do not stray into the meadows – the meadows are the kingdom of many little birds, who nest there. There is not many meadows like that in the vicinity of large cities, so do respect it. I was overjoyed.

Sezon plażowo-pływacki rozpoczęty oficjalnie. Pojechaliśmy z przyjacielem wczoraj późnym popołudniem do ulubionej plaży Crescent Beach w South Surrey. Naturalnie na plażę golasów, na kamlotach. Ale woda tam jest cudowna, czysta, nie ma przepełnienia i prawie zawsze wszyscy obok to starzy bywalcy i bardzo respektujący otoczenie i sąsiadów.. Woda zimna jeszcze ale już po pierwszym lekkim szoku bardzo miła do pływania, nurkowania. W odróżnieniu od plaż w Vancouverze wokół English Bay, które tej przezroczystośi i bogactwa morskiej flory i fauny nie posiadają.

Po kąpieli podjechaliśmy, już przy początkach kolorów zachodu słońca, na przeurocze łąki i mokradła drugiego końca Crescent. To tereny pod ochroną, rezerwaty flory i fauny brzegowej. Bajeczne kwiaty i krzewy jakie trudno w pielęgnowanych ogrodach miejskich znaleźć. I ta masa ptasiej drobnicy, która w tych łąkach uwinęła sobie gniazdka. Proszę więc nie schodzić ze ścieżek w te łąki, bo to tak jakby włazić w eleganckie salony w upapranych błotem walonkach. Ten spacer najbardziej mnie zachwycił, bo łąki kocham.

Central Park, bike, ducks…

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Yesterday was a nice day, sunny. yet not hot. As my last few days were not the best, I decided to give myself some exercise and took the bike, went to the Skytrain and went to Central Park in Burnaby. No, not to the one in New York, LOL.

Always had a sentimental attachment to it and many happy memories. It was a nice idea. Although the part by the stadium and parking lot were totally taken by hundreds of people in colorful long saris and dresses, having their lunches/dinners on the the grass – I ventured into my own long trails, revisiting little hidden gems I remembered very well.

After a while, I biked to the shore of that wonderful lake there, with its green waters, huge carps swimming lazily, ducks and geese.

Was even able to find a nice bench by the shore and just relax. Relax – something I needed. With a book about Andre Gide in hand.

A pair of lovely ducks seemed to be a bit tired of a swarm of young kids, who were making very noisy commotion right on the edge of the lake and it seemed to be too much for the fowl family. So a pair simply walked out off the lake, marched right to my bench and simple sat next to my feet. I understood and agreed with them: too much is sometime too much. Period. There we were, the three of us seeking solitude.

On the way back to the Skytrain I changed my mind. Why taking the train? Burnaby is on a high plateau and New Westminster in the low valley of Fraser River, so why not bike home? Never mind that a long bike on busy streets is not my cup of coffee. But than I found on my phone a direction to take the BC Parkway designed for bikers. Off I went. What a beautiful path! Through places I recognized from many years ago, and places I have never been to (that I remember off). The very last leg of the trail was awful, as it takes you down to Memorial Drive and Highway 99 and you have no choice but bike on the edge of the busy highway with cars and trucks whizzing by. Still, all in all it was a nice experience. An old fart with half-broken leg biking on a long busy highway. LOL.

Vaisakhi Parade in Surrey, BC

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Traditional for many years now, the Vaisakhi celebrations and parade organized by Khalsa Order in Surrey, draws an amazing crowd of people. That Order of Sikh religion was born by the end of XVII century in India. But for many years now, there is no other place on this planet, were the celebrations are gathering so many participants as in Surrey, in British Columbia.

In past twenty years or so, I have gone to the parade few times admiring the colorful display of their culture. Since my life in Canada is nearing the end – I decided again to see it, and never before have I seen so many participants! Early estimates are of 4500 000 – that is almost half a million people, all organized and served by almost 5000 volunteers! Just amazing.

It started in the temple Gudwara Sahib Dasmesh Darbar by 128 Street and 76 Avenue. There were prayers, huge portraits everywhere of their famous Gurus (religious leaders akin to the Popes in Christianhood), martyrs and mementos of their struggle in India.

Multitude of kiosks served free food to all, who attended the parade. There were stages with traditional music, dancing and singing. And of course beautiful and colorful dresses of woman and men. They all looked very attractive in them. One of th big stage offered lessons of how to wrap their traditional turbans out of very long orange ribbon.

Of course it is not only cultural and religious aspect. One can not forgot that it is also very much a political struggle. Their aim was always to create a separate state on the Indian subcontinent as their religion does not represent the Hinduism teachings nor that of later invading forces of Muslim faith (the Mouguls – stretching from todays Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Pakistan and from th other side the Iranian form of Islam, the Safavid Iran and it’s current version). That created certain tensions and terrorist acts that were perpetrated by some leaders of the Khalsa movement in Canada – exactly in Surrey, but also some in Kamloops and Cowichan Valley – Duncan – on the Vancouver Island). The largest terrorism act ever perpetrated in Canada , was that of exploding large Boeing passenger plane off the coast of Ireland in June 1984 and all 329 people died. The Canadian Sikhs organization Babbar Khalsa was directly involved , as a response to Indira Gandhi (famous Prime Minister of India) atrocities against Sikhs in India. Indira Gandhi herself was later murdered by Siks in India. That terrible terrorist bombing of that Air India flight from Canada to England remains the largest in the history of Canada and one that was totally and probably willfully mismanaged by RCMP investigation, court proceedings and everything and everyone else. A side effect of it was also an assassination plot against Premier of British Columbia Ujjal Dosanjh, which he survived but received almost deadly blows to his skull. It is worth nothing that Dosanjh himself is a Sikh by faith but condemns the violence in the struggle of Sikhs to gain independence in India.

It is believed that now most of Khalsa Order and movement is conducted by peaceful, democratic means. The most known Canadian politician, who is Siks is definitely the former leader of federal NDP, Jagmeet Singh. He is very outspoken in the fight to end poverty in Canada and establishing different tax regime and minimum hourly wage of $20.00. He is very much outspoken about his opposition to terrorist activity and achieving political goals by way of brutal force.

Vaishaki celebration in Surrey, BC (18 of April, 2026)

Thomas Mann in another part of the forest

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Thomas Mann and Klaus Mann – father and son – have brought me back to reading novels. I have mentioned long time ago, that I have given up that old habit quite a few years ago.

After you consume rather large amount of certain dishes – you got tired of it. You recognize the same sauces, the same spices and little culinary tricks repeated by all writers.

Granted, I am not very verse in all the current new titles – but it takes more than one generation and at least and epoch to change it substantially. I do still browse through the new titles a bit at the beginning, a bit in the middle, and the epilog. It is very predictable, even if put nicely together.

But Klaus Mann, whom I have not read that much in years gone long ago, sparked my interest again in novel. I have written about it on these pages very recently, therefore I will not expand on it again.

Suffice to say, due to my own tragedy of immense Loss, his treatment and writing on the subject of love brought back to me the beauty of love, the sorrow of its end – and absolutely undisputable power of that amazing feeling. No loss is ever going to be greater than the experience of love, and no price is too big to pay for it later.

His stories in three short novels, of Alexander the Great and of two friends and the absolute and delicate way he wrote and composed it were exquisite. His tenderness of portraying these feelings gave me strength to write about them from my own perspective, my own experience. Somehow Klaus Mann became my friend, my confidante. My writing about Love and Loss was like meeting him in a café in Berlin or in Paris, perhaps even in New York and just talking about it. About his searches and mine. Books (good books) do that sometimes to you. Hence my posts were not per se reviews of young Mann’s books, but a case of mutual conversation, in a manner of speech, naturally. Below are links to this texts of mine:

Sprawa zakochania się w tekście literackim – > > Pogwarki < <

Vancouver sunsetting, Vancouver’s English Bay – > > Pogwarki < <

Na szczytach Olimpu z moim Hefajstionem – > > Pogwarki < <

Our talks in Babylon – > > Pogwarki < <

That prompted me to look for his big volume of memoires “The turning point. Thirty-five years in this century”[i]. I went to our Main Library in Vancouver to get that book. They didn’t have it on the shelf but brought it to me from some sort of warehouse room were some books spent for some reasons a solitary life. Not for eternity, mind you, LOL. Maybe it needed some fixing, repairs? It was not in the best shape. After all – that book was published … 84 years ago! Since I liked Thomas already and knew that he wrote about French writer Andre Gide, who happens to be my very much liked writer – I asked for that book, too. This time it was supposed to be on shelf not in some purgatory warehouse. I got the coded number, went to right spot – and the book wasn’t there. Returned to that young library assistant, who got me the big book of Mann memoires and ask him if he could find me that book. He said with a smile: of course, just follow me. I did. But he was going to big section called “English Literature”. So, I stopped him and asked why is going there, instead to were Mann’s book should be. His answer just astonished me and made me giggle a bit. The answer was: well, this book is in English in our catalogue.

God have mercy! – I almost shouted. Instead, I just explained to him – My dear young man, you have that book in English language, but it is a German writer. Therefore it is, as it should be, in “World Literature “section. The same as Victor Hugo, Pablo Neruda, Dostoyevsky and hundreds of other writers, who were of other nationalities and wrote in other languages.

Let me remind you again dear reader – that young and pleasant fellow was an assistant in the Main Library in a very big metropolitan city. O, tempora, o mores …

Back at the right section he did re-checked the shelves from top to bottom and the book really wasn’t there. Too bad, but of course it was not his fault. We were just about to leave when he noticed a book at the bottom and happily announced: there it is! That book about your Gide! I have noticed that book earlier. No, it was not written by Klaus Mann. That was the reason I went to him to help me searching for the right one. That one he pointed to was by another well known writer and I have read his book many, many years ago, when I was working on series of articles about the history of gay-themed literature written often by gay writers or scholars.

By then I was truly tired mentally and physically and my leg was hurting. His jumping the gun and prematurely announcing that fateful: I know proved that he didn’t know and didn’t listen, arrogantly thinking that he did.

Was he an arrogant? Maybe that would be too harsh a judgment. But I wish he listened more acutely and paid more attention to question being raised. After all, he was a library assistant. And I did ask him about a book by Klaus Mann. Not another (albeit very famous in his own right) author.

When I went home I reached to my bookshelves and retrieved from there my copy of Andre Gide “L ‘Immoraliste”[ii] and read it again. What a pleasure.

At the end I was not angry. Actually, it was sort of amusing. I think that it was a good chance (remember – Main Library in major city) of him being a graduate of some university’s (or college, the very least) Humanities Faculty. My librarian in my Junior School was not the nicest lady. But she knew her stuff. It meant she knew books. O tempora, o mores, my dear Cicero, LOL.

Wouldn’t be myself if I have missed the possibility of being … arrogant about well know book. Yes, the very voluminous volume of Klaus Mann (with the help of his dear sister, Erika) autobiography “The turning point. Thirty-five years in this century”. I have borrowed it and had to read it. Well, almost. I did huge portion of it, admittedly. Many scholars admire the book. I thought it was an awful way of writing autobiography. There are few ways to do it interestingly – he just mixed them all together, filled with thousands of totally unimportant details of country, cities he lived in (especially as a very young lad, well before becoming a writer), complicated and not that influential on himself familial connections: just way too much to consume, page after page. I wish it was half as thick. All in a total contrast to a very concise way of writing his novels. There were certainly paragraphs, sections very important to know about him and his world, but at the end it was a dinner that had way too many side dishes. At times, you felt like a guest at a dinner, who just thinks o himself: is it ever going to end? If I still want to read his book about Andre Gide, it is for one reason only: Gide. Thomas was the last good writer (he was a good writer, as I said), who went to Paris and to spent time there and to get to know the great Gide. Gide was already very mature and older writer, decades older then young Mann. Thomas told him, he will write a book about great Andre Gide. Gide, who knew Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud! All of it, young bisexual Klaus Mann, his adored French poet bisexual Andre Gide and his connection to scandalizing stars of homosexual Paris in XIX century of the decadent period. A story from my forest, and a forest I spent many years of writing about and reading about all of them (except Klaus Mann, whom I just met his year, LOL). Just like that absolutely glorious book published many years ago here in Canada: “Meanville , in another part of the forest”[iii].

[i] “The turning point/thirty-five years in this century”, Klaus Mann, pub. by M.L.B. Fisher, New York, 1944

[ii] A. Gide, “Immoralista”, trans. by Izabella Rogozinska; wyd. Zielona Sowa; Krakow, PL, 2006

[iii] “Meanwhile in another part of the forest. Gay stories from Alice Munro to Yukio Mishima” edited by A. Manguel and C. Stephenson; pub. by Alfred A. Knoph Canada; 1994, Toront

Our talks in Babylon

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

It is the most beautiful time of the year in Vancouver, particularly in the West End and around the Lost Lagoon, the charming gateway to Stanley Park. On a sunny day is all a song, a poem. The time of flowering umbrellas of rosy cherry trees, of majestic magnolias, and the tiny flowers of children sprouting from the soil in multitude of colours. The singing birds returned to their nests, their homes on the branches of massive trees. Their colossal migration almost done, they are back at home. A reflection comes to mind: just as my migration finishes. Back home, all the way from the shores of mighty Atlantic, across the vast continent.

With a book in hand I read familiar story of another traveler: Alexander, the young king of Macedonia. I have read many accounts of the ancient story written by historian and writers. The story of conquests and of battles and a story of searching for love.

Yes, there were numerous battles small and great; there were many corpses of his soldiers and generals – but all of it does not matter. In the annals of history of man there are always battlefields and dead bodies strewn on the banks of some great rivers, on the shores of some seas.

But the quest for love is different than the quest for land, or hegemony. The quest for love is worthy of all and every battle and the only thing when murder and death are excusable. For what is greater than She after all? She gives meaning to live and She excuses death.

Alexander and Hephaestion

hunting a stag

As I read the story again[i] – the battles and the fallen soldiers and generals do not matter to me. It is the travel through lands unknown bringing chances of love and romances that matters to me. How had it changed him? Each culture enriched him, each lovemaking, with a woman or man made him different, too. He was no longer Alexander of Macedonia, no longer even Macedonian nor Greek. He was the Great Alexander. Man, who could have had anyone and anything. Did he? Did he quenched his thirst, filled his hunger?

At the very end: was it one, big irony that his conquer had defeated him? Whom should I ask? Gilgamesh[ii] or the great poet Rumi[iii] of XCCC century Persia?

Indeed funny, that it brings me to these names. Not to Shakespeare, or even Dante Alighieri – they are just famous copiers of stories of ancient Love Immortal, or very much deadly indeed – Love Mortal.

The story, a tale perhaps, as told by no one other than Klaus Mann (himself a hunter of love) brings me my own memory. As he (Mann) of Alexander’s stay in Babylon – the cradle of civilization – he recounts the young king visit and tribute to Ishtar[iv], who was so instrumental for the fate of Gilgamesh. Moreover, he mentions Alexander visit to the temple of Marduk [p. 89]. The temple was from the times of king Nebuchadnezzar[v] .

I have never been a sculptor. Yet, in the equally ancient time of my childhood, being maybe a boy of twelve, maybe thirteen, I did with my own hands sculpted from the red clay of Masovia a small figurine of Marduk sitting on a large throne, with his beard coiffure intricately in layers – the way the Bavylonians did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. Ha! A friend of my father (who was, unlike me, a formally trained sculptor) grabbed that sculpture of mine, called it ‘marvelous’ and took it to some local small museum somewhere in or around Olsztyn in Masurian forest. Never seen it since, nor heard of it again, LOL. Perhaps it still is on some dusty shelf there (where exactly?), LOL. Sufficient to say I have never sculpted again. There is certainly enough of Rodins in Louvres of the world.

The old gods of Syria and Mesopotamia did not touched me and Marduk wasn’t exactly a god of love, more a god of war and revenge. Nonetheless, a god. But let’s go to our Alexander. Our lovely, terrifying, amorous, beautiful and merciless Boy-King in his quest for love. Love – the only thing that is immortal in the lives of silly kings and heroes through our entire history.

Mann states: ‘He wanted to be loved, and nothing was more important to him.’ [p. 89] .

I am not a sculptor, I am just a poet. Let me try to say it clearly in versed form:

In the Gardens of Semiramis love grew

in rows on cascading steps of all colours;

of aromas conquering their souls and hearts.

Was it forever mine to claim, cherish, to behold?

When my king will lead me to battle

and I will be slain by a sword or an arrow –

I will be happy to say: I have been loved

and I was in love. My destiny was fulfilled.

(by B. Pacak-Gamalski, March 2026)

Alexander galloping through Asia on his beloved Bucephallus comes to Egypt. There he wants his lover to be made a god. Immortal. Hephaestion is denied the transformation (as given previously for Alexander himself) and is forced to be contained with a lesser denomination as a hero. But it is of no use for him, he already was given the ultimate prize, the highest possibly – a love eternal from his Beloved himself – Alexander. When he dies Alexander weeps for days as he lays on the body of his friend and lover, when he dies. Soon after that tragic death, Alexander dies himself. Did he loved as much the young eunuch boy, so beautiful Bagoas? He did likely in the moment they were kissing, but his soul was already given totally to Hephaestion.

Gods are not very forgiving to people for their all-consuming great loves. It threatens the love and adoration they expect from men toward the gods, not other mortals. But gods are blind, too. They think too much of themselves, perhaps they love themselves too much? For everything is mortal: people, heroes and gods. The only thing immortal is Love itself.

I should know a bit about it, for I have met Love once in my short journey. Au Wiedersefen, Herr Mann, goodbye my dear god-like Alexander.

[i] Klaus Mann “Alexander”, pub. Hesperus Press Ltd; London, 2007

[ii] Gilgamesh | Epic, Summary, & Facts | Britannica

[iii] Rumi – World History Encyclopedia

[iv] Ishtar | Goddess, Worship, & Facts | Britannica

[v] Nebuchadnezzar II | Biography, Accomplishments, & Facts | Britannica

Bridges, lake and crows …

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Two stories in one. Bridges, for example. We know in Vancouver, that bridges are the backbone of our transportation. Fraser River is like an impenetrable natural border that separates two entities of our great multi-cities community: huge, deep, unforgivable. There is one equally mighty – it is, of course, the Burrard Inlet with one arm ending in Port Moody, the other in the Indian Arm fiord.

It starts with the poster-like Lions Gate Bridge – hanging over the entrance from English Bay to Burrard Inlet. Its name comes from two characteristic peaks of Coastal Mountains, resembling heads of two huge lions resting atop. Strangely enough, I have seen every morning and every evening almost identical bridge from the windows of our apartment in … Dartmouth. On the other end of Canada, by another ocean – Atlantic. It connects Dartmouth and Halifax. Drove, biked and walked across it probably hundreds of times. The similarity of these bridges was striking. Not by accident – that in Halifax and the one in Vancouver were designed by the same architect, Philip Pratley. In 1938 in Vancouver, and in 1955 in Halifax.

But for the majority of Vancouverites (that includes the majority of the multitudes of cities and town that make up the Greater Vancouver) it is Fraser River. If not for the bridges spanning the River (and a tunnel, very busy and vehemently disliked by travelers) – there would not be any Greater Vancouver. As simple as that.

Relatively new and modern Alex Fraser Bridge, oldest – Patullo, newest and impressive Riverview Bridge, Port Mann, and Golden Ears (connecting to Pitt River Bridge).

Three of these bridges are very close to my heart: the oldest and first, Patullo; the Riverview, since I watched its ‘birth’ and Port Mann.

Patullo – the oldest and first one to connect not only huge Surrey to Vancouver’s ports but originally to connect the USA farmers to trains and Vancouver’s ports – simply put: to international trade and shipments. Since I remember it was too old and too small twenty years ago. It outlived its purpose even before the monumental urban transformation of Central Surrey. And now, the other day, I witnessed the beginning of its dismantling starting on Westminster side.

Port Mann – seen it being build in 2012 and remember using the first, older one that was built in 1964, well before my time in Canada before. The current one is by far the most picturesque, especially when you see it from a distance – it appears like huge sails spanning the river.

Also remember, when the construction of Golden Ears Bridge finally connected Surrey and Langley toward Lougheed Highway, and across Pitt River to Maple Ridge.

/last picture – the opening of A.L. Macdonald Bridge in Halifax in 1953/

Lots of memories during my current, last sojourn in a place and land I have spent majority of my life. Thanks to my dear friend, who also likes travels, long walks – we visit many jewels of this amazing jungle of man-made structures of steel and cement and rich array of huge natural parks, beaches, protected areas of wilderness in the middle of this huge land of Greater Vancouver.

One of very dear to my heart is a vast wetland and marches of Burnaby Lake. I used to come here with my husband and my mom for long walks. But have not visited it since late 1990ties, when we moved to Capitol Hill in Burnaby, after our move from Calgary. It is sort of out of the way, tucked in a low laying valley. The other day I talked with my friend about it and he remarked that he has not been there for years, too, and asked suddenly: why don’t we drive today there? We did.

A kingdom of waterfowl and main gathering of thousands of crows for their daily ‘parliament’, that gathers here from all over Greater Vancouver. Nice, long trails for miles to walk, bike. We enjoyed it very much.