summer

Summer Loving: Camille’s Story

15 October, 202515 October, 2025Leave a comment

This is not your typical steamy summer romance (although trust me, I have tried). My story is more of a love letter. A love letter not to a person, but to a place. This place. Vancouver.And it’s a story that spans almost two decades, from my first visit as a first grader to my moving here just last summer. If you have watched The Summer I Turned Pretty, this is kind of like that. But queer. And hopefully, with better writing. Do it for the plot, as they say.

Now, I haven’t done this sort of thing since university so I’m a little out of practice. In this essay I will… no, I’m just kidding.

A little bit of context. Like some of you, I am not originally from here. I grew up in Belgium. I went to catholic school, sang in the church choir, etc, etc. I can confirm that the catholic school to queer pipeline is real.
And don’t get me wrong, my love for Vancouver is not the same as dislike for Belgium. I love it there and I’m proud to be from there. I talk about it pretty much all the time. The people I miss, the food, the history, and culture. The fact that Belgium was the second country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage in 2003. And yet it’s a perfect example of how different legislation can feel to daily life.
Because. Growing up there for me also meant growing up with a lot of baggage. I lived and went to school with mostly white, cisgender, straight, conservative people. My home life was a crash course in emotional survival. This and other factors made it feel like I was keeping more and more inside as the years went by. Naturally averse to any type of confrontation, I kept my head down, twisted and bent myself so I wouldn’t cause any waves, trying not to catch any attention. It was a survival strategy, something I wasn’t always aware I was doing, but, over time, it shrinks you.
Now, it’s not like Belgium doesn’t have queer people. Trust me, as someone who got a liberal arts degree, sometimes it feels like I have met most of them. And although I attended university with plenty of rainbow merch and queer friends, sometimes it still felt like I was playing a part. My real, true, queer self was starting to make appearances, before I commuted back home at the end of the day and faded into that washed-out version of myself again. I was learning how to use non-binary pronouns in French and then going home to hear how queer people shouldn’t make such a spectacle of themselves.

Something I have left out until now is that me and my sister were lucky enough to spend many summers here in Vancouver while growing up. Something I definitely did not understand or appreciate while it was happening. Why was I being shipped off to the other side of the world every summer to be with people I hardly knew or understood? Why did I have to leave my home, my friends, my language, and everything that was familiar to me? Weirdly enough, these are some of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood and adolescence. They say you can’t remember an actual emotion, only the memory that feeling left behind. Maybe that is why summers in Vancouver are so bright, painted in colorful emotions, happy, sad, and angry. Because there was a lot of anger. There were a lot of tears. But at times, I was also happy.

I had a lot of firsts here:
This is where, as an angry tween in the middle of summer, I watched my first pride parade. Right on Robson Street. I did not know what was happening; I just remember it being loud and bright and colorful.
When I was a little bit older, Vancouver is where I had first dates, best dates. Most memorably the girl who planned a walking date to visit the best independent bookstores in the downtown area. For someone with a literature degree, that’s about as hot as it gets.
I spontaneously booked a walking tour called “The Really Gay History Tour,” diving into the queer history of this city. And I felt it. A hum, a buzz, whatever you want to call it. Something small, brave, vulnerable sitting in my chest, making its presence known. This place felt good, right.

Deciding to move here was not intentionally something I chose to do for myself. It made sense for a bunch of boring legal reasons and like many, I was a bit adrift after finishing university. What do you mean there isn’t anything I’m working towards over the next 4 years? I made the choice, initially for a year, to be closer to my sister, who had been living here for years. Probably the least problematic relationship I have in my life, the person who I have leaned on (sometimes a little too much) since we were 2 lost kids in this city. It was a risk. Once again, I was leaving my home, my friends, everything I knew, but this time it was my own choice, and it was for longer. But even though I was comfortable there, I was still clenching. I was myself, but I could still feel myself purposely not taking up space at times.

So. Since I recently passed my 1-year anniversary of moving here (or my Vaniversary, as I like to call it), I thought it made sense to do a little performance review.

After many many, many job applications, I started working at what I am convinced is the queerest workplace in the greater Vancouver area. If our queer staff members were given the day off for Pride, there would be no one left to keep the place running. The people I have met there, dare I say the friends I have made there, mean more to my little gay heart than I can express.
I have also joined a queer fitness class (yes, that is a thing, and I could not recommend it more). After a fun night out dancing at The Birdhouse, I woke up the next day not with a hangover, but with a hangover and my lower back in spasm. This queer cardio class, pitched to me as “gay line dancing,” seemed like a smart solution and has led to another first. My first time actively, loudly, proudly participating in a pride event earlier this summer.
It definitely hasn’t always been easy, though. In the past year, I have experienced more than one type of heartbreak here. The distance and space have given me a lot, but they have also taken things from me. Missing out on friends’ important life events, not getting the chance to say a final goodbye. Sometimes I feel like I am living a parallel life. It is so hard to fight the urge to regress into who I used to be when my old life comes knocking.

But. There is one memory that I keep going back to. It was August 2024, right after I moved. I packed my book and towel and biked on one of the crappy Mobi bikes to sit at English Bay Beach. The pride parade was going by. I watched the colours. The sun was shining. I could hear the waves on the beach and felt the wind on my face. This memory is so warm and bright in my mind, because I felt so… peaceful. And even though I had no idea what was coming in the year ahead, I felt I could finally, truly exhale.

Summer Loving: Luis’ Story

13 October, 202513 October, 2025Leave a comment

This is a story about my on-and-off love affair with, metaphorically, the beach, open waters, and the sea.

My first ever date was in the first post COVID summer, in coastal Victoria.
I ventured out to meet a guy I met online. Through text, he was emotionally available and aware he was avoidant. The hot beach day was the perfect environment to bring any incompatibilities to the surface; looking back, I realize how the sound of crashing waves was a beautiful, soothing sound, but being caught underwater as the currents break was not. Almost immediately, we were in an anxious-avoidant trap, and it would take me two years’ worth of poems, and counting, to learn how to love myself enough to not go into steep shorelines unprepared.

After that, my longest ever relationship, although it is best defined as a situationship, was here in Vancouver with a guy I used to say was the sea, Poseidon himself. If I went with the flow, I had a wonderful time; the best dates, though technically hangouts, were trips to the beach. Blissful sunny happiness quickly clouded by my capacity to receive love that did not come with any strings attached, and unfortunately, without this clarity of what I needed, intention, I was once again in an anxious trap. A strong cycle manifesting itself like a lunar calendar. Fortunately, through poetry I was able to capture and reflect on the push and pull of the tide through this period of my life, and wonder where and why I was repeating it. Similar to the erred myth that the Aztec calendar was believed to foretell the end of the world, and not that the Aztecs were resetting their seasons, this loop of breakups and reconciliations revealed itself at the beach on January 1st:

In 2012, my cousins and I went into the sea.
Before we realized, the high tide took us away.
We tried to swim as we screamed mayday,
I split from my cousins and tried to get help,
We all got away, but not the fear that I felt.

I don’t trust the sea like before,
my sandcastle falls when a wave knocks on the door.
My comfort zone lays in more stable terrains
I even ask friends to play the water levels in videogames.
So you could say I am afraid of the sea,
Because I wouldn’t be able to blame it for drowning me.

The sea did not try to kill us, we ventured too far.
The sea does not have a memory, we remember the scar.
The sea will drown you if you let it be guide,
The sea behaves in a pull and push of the tide.
I compared you and the sea, and now I don’t know what to do with this commentary.

Let me offer my hand and help you down from the pedestal,
Take a hammer to the columns and pipes and let the water flood my skeletal.
I lean towards the synchronicity:
It’s the color blue that beacons to me.
The blue in your eyes, or the blue in your name,
Or the blue in the way you move.

I want to get out of the water, but I don’t know how.
Question the trail dripping from my body,
Wonder:
If it was an emotionally aggressive father, no,
If it’s how I process emotion and choose a path to follow, no,
If it’s how my Mexican blood reacts like oil to Canadian waters, no,
else trying to heal every other part of me when the pipes in my sandcastle are spilling water, yes.

This life isn’t sustainable.
You can’t heal personality.
I’m never in reach of the perfect standard of healing every single part of me.
How many rooms do I split myself into before I forget where every part went initially?

In this new layout of my castle, where do I fit your memory?
The thought makes the tide in my mind go red, I’ve ventured too far.
I can reason the sea’s behaviour but not a man’s vocabulary.
For that ethical ambiguity, I have no vacancy.
Not for the men I am unsure if I even “dated”,
or whatever definition fits from your dictionary.
Not for those whose banter belittle me,
Make a joke out of me and try to convince me it’s funny.
Not for the men who cross my boundary,
And dare to say the walls of my castle are imaginary.

It’s through time, in each wave that hits the sand.
That the sea and sand bank resemble each other’s hand.
I lose sight of what works for me and start becoming part of a narrative
That exists only in your mind and what I twist into poetry.

Only when I focus on what I felt
not what you said does the tide relax.
I know I’ll put the memories, the good ones left,
Not in the sea or the places we spent time in,
But in a brand new room.
Of people I rode the bus with, whom
I flirted like we were strangers,
driving away from Wreck beach, away from the currents and dangers.

Destined to get at different stops.
Dead calm waves, the high tide drops.

The idea that a place can have revealing properties is not a new one. In The Exterminating Angel, by Luis Bunuel, dinner party attendees become trapped in a sociological limbo that eventually reveals all their secrets and unravels their relationships. Robert Östlund’s Triangle of Sadness, Prime Video’s Yellowjackets, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, break and rebuild social hierarchies after crew and travellers are castawayed.

I’ve gone to the beach alone, with friends, family too, and have found similar results: an exposition of ideals and compatibility. Do you go to the beach with people who leave trash behind? Do you? How comfortable are they seeing their and other people’s bodies? How comfortable are you? Is their job really “beach” and are they qualified for it? Are you? Do they go to the beach only during summer? Do you?

I love that poetry, like the sandy coast, is as much an external as an internal space. Privacy shared publicly coexists with the secret agenda of knowing, being “in” on personal intimacy of a shared story. Being caught naked or seen in your underwear has a different moral weight than being seen at a beach wearing a range of birthday or bathing suits.

After spending the last day of Vancouver Pride weekend at Oasis in Wreck Beach with a diverse, safe, stable group of friends, I wrote about these conclusions in a poem called The beach:

I love the smell of sunscreen, sand, coconut oil;
Touch hungry, I’m picky as to who I ask for help.
At a shy distance from the ocean, water, turmoil,
I’ve learnt going to the beach’s Reckoning itself,

Of what is not said but felt: interpersonal health.
Here, where there’s not much to do but connect
We watch, talk, listen, or that’s what I’d expect,
We wear our comfort levels, habits, our neglect:

Wreck/Jurassic/Oasis, SPF, over, under dressed.
By the coastline, waves flirt with the sandbank.
A touch, a kiss here and there, a look at a chest,
A drift, a rip current wipes the shore prints blank,

Washed it away. Replaced by beautiful patterns.
The tide’s intention revealed in the rill and ripple:
It is Nature, to mix below the surface, “we” aren’t
But an undertow of elements chasing currents is.

As in, not ideal, life at the beach. I’m sunburnt
From a Sun’s hand, the Moon takes over control,
Rising and setting the pace of the ebb and soul.
I head home to myself, entirely made up of sand.

Today, as I visit familiar or new beaches, I am more aware of my qualities and needs, because I’ve been to the beach and continuously see how anxious, shy, body-dysmorphic, sexy, creative, secure I and others can be.
Today, firstly, I know myself and get a life jacket for open waters, wear a speedo and SPF 50, and trust I am capable of swimming… for survival, probably not for recreation.
Today, if I am curious about the health of my relationships, with myself or with somebody else, I go to the beach.

Summer Loving: Claus’ Story

8 October, 2025Leave a comment

Day 1
The speedboat dropped us off on a deserted beach and drove away. Ahead of us was the West Coast Trail, a 75km trek in Vancouver Island. It was the end of summer 2018 when my friend Carly and I embarked on this adventure, with $5,000 worth of hiking gear and a shared sense that, maybe, we weren’t quite prepared for what lay ahead. (Carly is straight, btw, but we won’t hold that against her).

The first five kilometres took us an unbelievable six hours, climbing over tree roots, balancing on slippery logs, carrying 50lb backpacks.
“Do you think there is wifi at the camp?” Carly asked, shocked and dehydrated after hours of hiking, even though we both knew we’d have no cell service or electricity for a week. During our orientation that morning, we were told there was “running water” at the campsites; Carly thought they meant bathrooms. They were referring to rivers.

Reaching that first campsite at Thrasher Cove (KM 70) felt like a small miracle. The final stretch alone nearly did us in: steep, muddy switchbacks that seemed to go on forever, followed by ladders that dropped the equivalent of a fifty-story building to sea level. There, we used the remaining daylight to set up camp, and had to cook and eat our dinner (dehydrated space food that expires in 2099) in the dark. Two Advil for the pain. A hot chocolate spiked with bourbon to reward ourselves. Sleep.

Day 2
We woke up cold and sore, and took a ridiculous four hours to pack up and eat breakfast. As we left camp, the skies opened up, and we quickly discovered that rain gear, even when it costs hundreds of dollars, isn’t fully waterproof. We would not be dry again for a week.

When we hit the first of four cable cars (small metal boxes that fit two people and two backpacks, hanging from a rope and pulley system to help you cross swollen rivers), we were already trudging through ankle-deep mud, and knee-high water.

We ended the day at Camper Bay (KM 62), tucked between the forest and the sea. By our second night, we thought we were starting to settle into the rhythm of trail life: wake up sore, put on wet clothes, pack up, walk, set up camp, eat space food, take two Advil, drink a bourbon hot chocolate, sleep, repeat.

Day 3
We challenged ourselves to take down our camp, eat breakfast, and pack faster. We cut down our time in half… which means it still took us two full hours.

If the West Coast Trail is infamous for anything, is its ladders. There are around seventy of them along the trail, varying in length and inclination. Some of the ladders stretch the equivalent of a thirty-story climb. One ladder is completely vertical, and another is tilted slightly sideways. Most of them are slick with rain and moss. Every one is a test of courage; a slip can end up in disaster.

After hours of literal ups and downs on a ladder-heavy day, with hands and legs shaking from holding on to slippery rungs, we set up camp at Walbran Creek (KM 53), on a soft square of moss between two logs. Space food dinner, two Advil, hot chocolate — dammit, we emptied our bourbon flasks, meant to last the week!

In the middle of the night, Carly shook me awake.
“Papi, there’s something outside the tent,” she whispered fearfully.
“A big something, or a little something?” I asked, alert. The West Coast Trail is home to bears, cougars, and wolves.
She thought about it for a while, then whispered, “A little something…”
“Carly, wake me up if you hear a big something.”

Day 4
We woke up that morning to a full downpour, so strong that we didn’t cook our usual hot oatmeal for breakfast. We tried to speed up our morning routine, but ended up taking two hours to pack up camp — again.

Shortly after leaving, we reached the longest cable car, stretched across an impossibly wide river. We loaded in and let gravity do its thing… except, the soaked rope sagged so badly that we stopped dead centre, dangling above the rapids, with rain blasting from every direction.
I began pulling at the rope with all my strength, attempting to pull us across to the other side, while Carly… well, while Carly cried. “I can’t do this,” she sobbed, broken by the elements.
Now, I’m not known for being patient. But Carly needed a pep talk, so I was honest with her. Yes, this was hard. Yes, I was broken too. But staying in that swaying metal box wasn’t an option. So, together, we hauled ourselves, inch by inch, to the other side.

Later that day, we came across “Chez Monique’s,” a legendary burger shack in the middle of nowhere. Except, Chez Monique had died the previous winter, so the place was closed. A man was there, and he let us sit under a tarp to cook a much-needed hot lunch away from the rain. He also sold us an outrageously expensive beer (which we paid for, gladly). And then he said we could set up our tent there for the night. Carly agreed cheerfully. I declined politely, convinced we’d end up in some sort of West Coast Chainsaw Massacre story.

So, we quickly escaped through rain that had gotten worse during our break. We walked along the sea (where Carly hilariously got taken down by a wave), then trekked through the forest.
The trail eventually spat us back out to the coast, and it felt like coming through to the other side of the looking glass. A path of tall grass led from the woods to an endless beach, bathed in beautiful golden light. The sea was deep blue, the pine trees a brighter green, the seagulls resplendent white.

The sun’s warmth seeped into our rain-soaked bones as we walked to Cribs Creek campsite (KM 41.5). We spent the evening on the beach until the sun set, giving way to a black sky speckled with glittering stars.

Day 5
After leaving camp, we walked along the ocean shelf at low tide, admiring sea creatures trapped in the tidal pools, and watching otters darting along the rocks — probably feasting on said sea creatures.

In the afternoon, we reached Nitinat Narrows (KM 32.5), where we enjoyed a BBQ salmon steak and baked potato at the Indigenous-owned Crab Shack. Sitting on the sunny deck, eating a real meal (not space food!), and sipping on a cold beer, we almost felt human again.
After lunch, we took a boat across the narrows. On the other side, a thick, cold fog rolled in. We couldn’t see beyond 20 metres in any direction as we walked along a rocky beach, with barely an hour of daylight left. We both began to lose hope, thinking we’d have to set up camp on the uninhabited beach, but finally heard the rushing water of a fog-covered Tsusiat Falls, our next campsite (KM 25).

Space Food. Two Advil. Virgin hot chocolate #sadface.

Day 6
A long, but easy day: flat, with well-kept trails. At Michigan Creek campsite that night (KM 12), someone started a campfire, the first and last of the entire trek. We gathered with a dozen other hikers around the fire, and for a night, it felt like a vacation: sharing stories, laughing, warmth soaking into our bones.
Absolute bliss.

Day 7
Our last morning began with another two-hour packing routine — why can’t we get better at this?! The trail was once again easy, incomparable to what we had experienced the first five days. A few kilometres in, we got one last highlight: Sea Lion Rock (KM 9), where dozens of massive creatures barked and rolled atop a large reef. It was like nature’s grand finale.

We got back on our way, and suddenly, there it was: the one-kilometre marker. Euphoria surged through us, as we walked that last stretch to Pachena Bay, back to the real world.

***

Despite the challenges and bad weather, I’m grateful for the opportunity to have experienced such beautiful, untouched nature. And to appreciate the little things, like feeling joy every single time I saw a mustard-yellow banana slug, or a funky mushroom, or when I found my favourite lichen (old man’s beard) in the most unexpected places.

The West Coast Trail was breathtaking. It was brutal. It broke us down and built us up again. It made me closer to Carly than I ever expected to be to a woman. And I wouldn’t trade a single rain-soaked step of it for the world.

Summer Loving: Sergio’s Story

24 September, 2025Leave a comment

Tuesday, May 13th, 2024. 5:45pm.
I was at the gym, pretending I was the fittest guy alive… Well, actually, I had already finished exercising and was just lying down, getting a massage. (Fake it till you make it, right?)
Then the thought hit me: text Virgo. Yeah, that’s what I call him. Why? Because he’s a Virgo… original, I know.
“Hey, I’m going to be at Sunset Beach tonight. It’d be nice if you came,” I texted.
I waited for his reply, checking every two minutes — No response.
So… maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t like me, or maybe he has a boyfriend, or he is not interested, or I’m not his type… Sh*t, why did I invite him?
(I was raised watching Mexican telenovelas… of course I gotta be dramatic).

But let’s rewind. Where did Virgo even come from?
LGBTQ+ soccer league, summer season in Vancouver. I’m a goalkeeper — which is basically a full-time job of trying not to get distracted by hot, sweaty guys. And then he appeared. He had missed the first two games, but when he finally showed up, I swear I thought: “All my life, I’ve been good, but now… wow.”
Virgo: cliché perfection. White, blonde, blue eyes, toned, 5’5, killer smile. He was like a rom-com character who accidentally got dropped into my real life.

But back to the story: still no reply from him.
I tell myself, “Relax, he’s busy. Don’t be dramatic…” (too late).
Finally, after an hour and a half, when I had already given up all hope, a text from him: “Hey, sorry, I just saw this. It would have been nice, I guess it’s too late now. But I see you’ve got a beer and chips.”
With revived hope, I tried again: “I’ll be here until sunset if you want to come.”
And he says: “Ok then. See you in a bit.” (*Cue me pulling out a bridal veil*).

Ten minutes later, there he was — short shorts, tote bag, hat, the full “West End summer chic” look. He hugged me, we talked, and then… he took off his shirt, and asked me to rub sunscreen on his back. Sunscreen. On. His. Back.
(That’s when my brain said nothing, because my heart was screaming too loud.)
We talked for hours. About life. About love. About what makes us happy. And then watched the sun say goodbye to us, lighting up the ocean, painting the sky orange, red, and pink.
I looked at Virgo and saw the sun lighting his face. He was smiling, and I was just happy… I was very happy.
It was my first sunset of summer 2024… but in my mind, it was our first sunset.

Photoshoots and Minions:
We both love acting, and I had just started doing background work, so I offered to take some shots for his profile. On our second date, we wandered the West End, doing a photoshoot: changing outfits, laughing, joking… He told me about his family, where he is from in Canada. I told him about my hometown and its traditions, my friends, my family.
Have you ever felt that connection when someone looks at you and smiles? You know that look, right? The one that says more than words ever could? Yeah, that one. He was looking at me like that the whole time.

On our third date, we watched Despicable Me. Not exactly the most romantic choice, but trust me, the way we laughed together and looked at each other was romantic.
After the theatre, we walked the seawall, talking about our lives, and I realized that we were very similar in how we viewed things: commitment, friendships, relationships, work, the future. I discovered Virgo has a beautiful heart and cares about others. That he cares about his own mental health and is working towards his future. I was slowly falling in love with him. He was the guy I had been waiting for, for a long time.

The Ocean and the River :
Days later, we found ourselves back at Sunset Beach.
No kisses. No hug. But music, songs, secrets, glances… We told each other some personal stories that have changed our lives, that have made us cry, grow, smile, laugh. And me, lying there thinking: This is something I haven’t felt in years.
He was playing Avril Lavigne songs: “That’s whyyy I smile, it’s been a while… Suddenly, you’re the reason I-I-I-I smile. I smile.”

But here’s the catch: When we were together, it was magical. When we weren’t? Silence. No texts. Being left on read. It made me feel confused, frustrated, and sad. I didn’t want what had happened before in my life to happen again. Not with him. I was hoping this would be different.

So I kept planning the next move, the next excuse to see him. Still clinging to the idea that this was real.
“Let’s go for a swim on Friday,” I texted.
He responded: “Yeah! Let’s bike Stanley Park, and end at Third Beach.”
I told myself: this time, HE has to text first. Friday comes. Noon. Nothing. So I give up, shower, and decide to go solo… when my phone lights up:
“Hey, a friend from Australia is in town, we’re going to Lynn Canyon for a swim. Wanna come?”
Of course I went. And again — with him, everything felt amazing. His friends were late, and Virgo and I had a great time. There were many people around us, but it was only Virgo and me that mattered, sitting on a rock, under the sun, having a beer. When my Converse fell in the water and got soaked, we joked about it, and laughed. We laughed a lot together.
We swam to the falls in freezing river, and he lent me his goggles so I could see what was under the water. Lots of fishes, lots of nature.
But just the two of us… No one else.

Truth:
The following Wednesday, a soccer game. I got injured — bad. I tore my ACL, and limped off the field, helped by teammates. Other soccer guys came up to me to ask how I was, what happened, if I was ok. But Virgo: he kept watching the game, and never came to check on me.
And right there, I knew. Maybe it was never real for him. Maybe it was only real in my head. So I stopped. No more texts. No more plans. I decided to move on, and start healing. It was the very first time I cried for him. It was my breakup.

We reconnected in December, because life literally put him on my way — twice. First, he started going to the same gym as me. Then, we both started working on the same film… We were together the whole day. So I thought life telling me: ”try again.”
I asked him out again. We went to the movies, and we went to see the Christmas lights at Stanley Park. How romantic. But then, the same story… No texts. Being left on read. One sided.

Four months later, I received a text from him. Not “hi.” Not “how are you.”
A favour. He wanted me to be his reference for a job. And you know what? I said yes. He got the job, and to thank me, he invited me to dinner. But this time, I was done lying to myself.
“Thanks for the invite,” I wrote back, “but I’m gonna be honest. I have feelings for you. Every time we hung out, I felt like there was something more… and I don’t want to confuse myself again.”
To be honest, I felt such a relief to say what I was feeling. To finally put myself first. End of story. Fin del cuento.

Summer gave me sunsets, laughter, and a boy named Virgo. But it also taught me: sometimes, what feels like a love story, is just a beautiful illusion.
After all, I’m happy because after years of being afraid, of running away from guys, I finally decided to give myself another chance to love. To put my heart out there and try.
Maybe it didn’t end as I wished, but I’m glad it happened, because I will always have that first sunset as one of the most beautiful memories of Vancouver.

Summer Loving: Andi’s Story

18 September, 2025Leave a comment

I remember sitting at my desk and feeling every molecule in my body pull me towards the door. In the past 6 months, I had only enough energy to come home after work and sleep. I would wake up the next day, head back into work, and completely disassociate.
At work, sounds were becoming louder, I could hear the photocopier at the rear of the office better than the person trying to converse in front of me. I had zero short-term memory. If a conflict arose, even if it was an easy fix, my mind would draw a blank, my eyes would well, and my voice would stop working. I felt like I was hanging on by a thread; I had no core inside my chest to hold the weight I was feeling.
I thought to myself “why am I the only person not able to cope in this environment?”

On that same day, I listened to my gut and I started the process of going on medical leave. I made a doctor’s appointment, I emailed HR for the paperwork, and then I bawled my eyes out that night thinking I was a failure and doomed to go nowhere in life because of my perceived shortcomings.
A few days later, after processing some emotions, I realized how deprived I had been from the things that brought be joy and peace. I made a plan. The first thing I was going to do was put in the film The Sound of Music, because Julie Andrews knows how to do.
Then I was going to commit to doing more art and, despite not having a car at the time, I was going to get out of the city one way or another (these are a few of my favourite things).

I thought about flying home to see my folks in prairie nowhere, Manitoba, but given the circumstances, I didn’t think a family visit was going to alleviate the stress and guilt I was experiencing. There was, however, one family member I had recently reconnected with who I felt understood me more than anyone else at that time: My 93-year-old Great Aunt Maizie; the eccentric sister of my late grandfather who had moved out to the West Coast in the 1950s to practice yoga and to become a “heathen” (as Grandpa would say)!
I remembered first meeting her when I was 5 years old during a trip to Vancouver for my uncle’s wedding. I thought she was a spunky old lady… And that odd old house she lived in decorated with beads, candles, and photos of bearded East Indian men, it was so different from my regular surroundings…That yard she had, it was full of lush trees and flowers… That ocean, where I collected shells near that massive park… that terribly scary swinging bridge I cried the entire way across holding my Dad’s leg for dear life… those Godly Totems… That had all been 23 years prior, and it had evidently left a mark on me. It became clear to me where my journey out of Calgary was going to be: Vancouver.

Remember when Airbnb was cheap? I booked 5 nights in a shared apartment that overlooked Davie Street for $37 bucks! I mean, it was no Shangri-La, the room was a closet with a window to the kitchen, and the folks living there didn’t care much for their own privacy (saw a lot of bum), but hey! I made it!
After dropping off my bag, I went straight to Beach Avenue and down to the water. I felt the sea air fill my lungs like drinking a cold glass of mountain spring water. The bay was like glass and appeared to stretch beyond the horizon. I needed to swim. I stripped down into my bathing suit. I fell into the sea, and then it fell into me. In the middle of a busy city, I could finally hear the silence I so desperately needed just beneath the water’s surface. I felt an internal exhale.
Afterwards I walked to the edge of Stanley Park and around the giant trees. I felt nostalgic, the farm I grew up on was full of big trees and I missed them, but another feeling returned to me that I hadn’t felt in years. I felt like I was home.

The following day I ended up going over to North Vancouver. The journey up and down the mountain felt magical; a maze through hills and trees, all of which extended beyond my bus framed vision. But you know what else was fricken cool? The Seabus! Woah, I was on a boat! That may seem ridiculous to some, but if you’re from the prairies, it’s absolutely delightful! The angle of the light during my initial crossing lit up the buildings on the North Shore as if I was entering the ‘Kingdom of North Vancouver.’
And then there was Maisie’s house… It was EXACTLY THE SAME as it had been all those years prior! Maisie however, was much older, much more frail, but that did not stop her from showing me her flexible yoga moves! We chatted about family for a bit, then life and philosophy. Despite the enormous age gap, I felt like I was talking to an old friend who understood that I needed to set my spirit free.

Coincidentally, a few different old friends were in Vancouver at the same time, and I ended up having a blast catching up with them! I went out on a party boat and hit up all the gay bars on Davie! Joy had returned, and experiencing a little more Queer representation around me also brought about a sense of safety.
I went back to the North Shore once more, not just for that Seabus thrill, but to shop and chill at the Lonsdale Quay. I sat at the brewery that shared its patio with the promenade, sipped my IPA, and watched the ships, boats, and aircrafts go by. Despite my busy surroundings, I had found a bit of peace.

Inevitably, the day to board my departing flight had come. I settled into my window seat and felt tears come to my eyes. I didn’t want to go, but I knew I would do my best to return. I consciously left a piece of myself at YVR that day, imagining that one day, even if only for a week every other year I would meet myself again.

That soul cleansing visit in the summer of 2015 put me on a incredible trajectory. 3 weeks after returning to Calgary I would meet my future wife. 5 months later I left my job for good. 2 years later, my partner and I would take a trip to Vancouver together to start apartment hunting after she accepted a new position. 5 years later in Vancouver, I would be diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder which allowed me to reflect on and reevaluate my own needs at work and in life (as it turns out I have selective mutism and what I had gone through was burnout). An engagement, and a whole pandemic later, my partner and I married in a spectacular service at Christ Church Cathedral with all our family and loved ones present.

As for my dear Great Aunt Maisie of whom I found a kindred spirit, she would pass on just shy of her 101st birthday. Sometimes we fall in love with people, and sometimes we fall in love with places, whether it’s a summer “fling,” or something that later becomes a long-term commitment. Vancouver was my summer fling that later became my home. Vancouver opened up her ocean stretched arms and nestled me into her mountainous earthy embrace, she filled my cup, and restored my peace.

Whatever the future has in store, even if my wife and I end up leaving this place down the road, I will always love Vancouver because Vancouver reminded me how to love myself.