High above me, exposed from the shelter of this urban forest, the wind attacks the bridge. The banners on the lamp posts go CRACK! CRACK! with every shift in direction, and the huge signs overhead proclaim only that the weather was better once - for nobody would go aloft in this weather to build or maintain them. I was a sailor once, used to watching the squalls chase across the surface of the water. There is no such play here. There is only wind. It comes stolidly from the north and attacks along every avenue, lying in wait at the end of each block like a persistent child whose parents have tired of the game long before he him.
Granville Market is an oasis of light and warmth hidden under all this matter. The buildings are dark, the eaves are barely lit, but inside each is a gallery, a fishmonger, a sit-down restaurant, and a whole permanent market of cheese, vegetables and Chinese food. We spent perhaps two hours there, and experimented with salmon pepperoni, samosas, some rather indifferent mangos and some excellent persimmons. After all, it made sense to declare any change to be an honorary break in the weather. Perhaps even the darkening evening made the drops harder to see in the puddles, so we left, and hopped from awning to post until we got back.
