Is there something about the number 13? My initial plans to visit the coast of English Bay were dashed with the weather report of 80% chance of rain and a look out the window that indeed, there was rain. My alternate plans were to visit a strip of street across from the Richmond Library filled with many shops and to get a book of bus tickets.
Instead, I ended up only roaming the Richmond Centre (which is basically a mall of relatively unimaginative architecture–but then what mall is imaginative?) and running around in the rain to different places asking for bus tickets that were all sold out. And my umbrella broke. This was not how I planned to spend my day. The only redeeming thing about the mall was a Chinese bakery called Maxim’s (I’m told it’s very famous in Hong Kong) with very delicious, abet fattening, pastries.
I can never go anywhere without looking up where the libraries and bookstores are. The Richmond Library (intriguing because a significant proportion of the books were in Chinese) is located in a large building called the Cultural Centre. Next to the library is a tiny museum titled aptly, the Richmond Museum which primarily archives documents of cultural and historical significance to the city. I found the old street plans and the industrial exhibits particularly interesting. It’s a very little visited cranny–in fact, I was the only one in the museum the entire time I was looking at the exhibits. And when I looked in the guestbook, the only visitors who had signed in where Richmond natives. (Although technically now, there’s also me with an address in the States.)
In the evening, I attended the opening to For/Toward, an art show at the International Village in Chinatown which was sponsored by the University of British Columbia. It was…interesting. I’m not so much one for art theory and trying to decipher what sort of meaning someone wanted to convey with a pile of knitted yarn unraveling, or even worse, baby paraphernalia lined up on a table and strung up on a clothes line with no discernible order or intent. I’m more comfortable contemplating more traditional forms like painting, photography, sculpture.
Since it was the opening, there was also a bit of one-time performance art which involved young women wearing white t-shirts playing in a pile of ice as if it were a sandbox, occasionally reciting random poetry from books, and throwing said books into the pile of ice. To say the least, I did not get it.
At least, after the art show, I discovered that the nearby 7-11 had bus tickets on stock.