Granville St Sunset
I'm exercising the newfound freedom of taking the new iBook to the Café Crêpe, where I can type away while sipping on a giant Illy latte, while watching the lineup of people outside anxiously awaiting getting in to see a band at the Commodore, and, as it were, all this happiness and ideal setting means that there's not much to say.
It's a great night, though. It's a little after 9pm, and the setting sun is growing dimmer than the neon lights on Granville St, bit by bit, and the warm pink sunset color on people's faces gradually fades into the red and blue cast of the neon signs around them.
The neighborhood homeless guy, who seems to have recently availed himself of a good shower and a hair trim, weaves his way in and out of the waiting line, asking for change, casually chatting with people.
The air is full of the sounds of a hundred conversations, set against the electronica soundtrack of the cafe, the rumble of passing buses, and the undulating clash of two different street musicians alternatingly hitting peaks and swells of their respective recycled Pink Floyd songs.
A table of Korean teenagers finalizes their plans to take over the world.
A couple on a date share a crepe with ice cream.
A group of three girls wait for their waitress friend to get off her shift so she can join them for drinks.
And I sit here silently sipping my coffee. And writing. . . .
It's a great night, though. It's a little after 9pm, and the setting sun is growing dimmer than the neon lights on Granville St, bit by bit, and the warm pink sunset color on people's faces gradually fades into the red and blue cast of the neon signs around them.
The neighborhood homeless guy, who seems to have recently availed himself of a good shower and a hair trim, weaves his way in and out of the waiting line, asking for change, casually chatting with people.
The air is full of the sounds of a hundred conversations, set against the electronica soundtrack of the cafe, the rumble of passing buses, and the undulating clash of two different street musicians alternatingly hitting peaks and swells of their respective recycled Pink Floyd songs.
A table of Korean teenagers finalizes their plans to take over the world.
A couple on a date share a crepe with ice cream.
A group of three girls wait for their waitress friend to get off her shift so she can join them for drinks.
And I sit here silently sipping my coffee. And writing. . . .