A German Dream in Victoria

 

January 27 th 2005

Snow covered the earphones of the plane mechanic when he waved the blinking sticks in his hands to guide my plane into position, which brought me away from the stormy winter days in Ontario as I was thinking. When the laughs of the passengers died down, after a “West Jet”-crewmember told a joke to compensate the long process of sitting and watching the gray clouds pass, without a glimpse at the beauty of the Rockies that mark the entrance into the West of this big country, I looked around and saw the jackets being pulled out of the compartments and the gloves and hats put at hand. The weather here had underwent a radical change and suddenly the white that I thought I had left behind was shining at me through the small window. What am I going to find here?

It’s been six months since I have left my home country Germany. And since I had said goodbye to my friends on the Tegel-airport I have experienced everything a young man wants to go through. After a lost passport I found myself traveling through Toronto, Ottawa and Halifax. Living the east Canadian life to the fullest. After a broken heart I lived out in the country near Niagara, taking over a monotone pattern of life. The hope for a job brought me here to the other side. And while I’m descending the steps on which I left the plane I already saw myself in mud and rain, planting trees on the west coast of the island, close to the sleepy town called Sooke. But before I would leave for the wilderness of the coast my new home would be Victoria.

Friends had reserved me a dorm room in a Hostel close to the Down town area of the city. My thoughts wonder to the artist houses of Vienna and Berlin when I stepped foot into the door of the place that caries the promising name “Ocean Island”. The taste of beer is still on my tongue, reminding me of the strip club my friends took me right after I had landed. The first time in my life I saw the beauty of a woman unwrapping herself and watched with a shy and unconcerned smile on my face. Here we come together the packs of men, united in our search for skin.

While I was waiting at the counter to get the key to my room I read sleepily, the letters that form the sentence: “you are beautiful”, written above the reception. How nice to hear!

This corner building on Blanshard and Pandora was built in 1889 by Carlo Bossi an immigrant from northern Italy who left his country to escape the conscription through the Austrian army. “We won’t serve, Giacomo, we won’t. We’ll go- we’ll get away somehow and go to America.” These were the words with which Carlo Bossi convinced his younger brother to take the hard journey to the new world. Carrying only a sack of flour, a frying pan and himself he reached Esquamalt Harbor in 1859, after spending some years in New York. Tired of the city he saw his new chance in the west. In Victoria he finally found what he was searching for. A future. Cutting marble, which he learned in Italy helped him getting his first job with the construction of the growing city. Together with his brother he later opened two stores selling Italian specialties and they became wealthy men, building the so called “Osborne House”, which steps I was climbing that night to find my room. Rumors link the family to the not very powerful mafia on the Island. After Carlos death on Nov. 2, 1895 his childless widow renovated the building, turning it into a so called “wartime housing”. After she passed away, it was used as an apartment building and a Hotel. Now the nicely painted walls, with flowers growing up the stairs and Horses and Dragons guarding the doors, leave no signs of the old stories these bricks can tell, but creat a friendly and almost fantastic atmosphere.

In the Lounge I find the first people drinking to the fallen night and from the community kitchen I can hear cheerful laughter and the noise of cooking pans being used. Who would stay in their room when he can find quiet but lively place in the community room? My restless eyes exited about the new location for my journey wander over the stacks of books with which everybody can satisfy their hunger for literature and an old German saying pops up in my head: “Der Weg ist das Ziel.” (The journey is the goal.) Where ever the cold north winds take me next, here I have found a peaceful place.

Three weeks later the snow has vanished and only left the slight memory of the days where unusual snowfall reminded us of the changing times and the shifting climate. Now rainy days make me spend more time in the warmth of the hostel than I wish but the friendliness of the staff and the always changing roommates with their different stories and lives have planted in me a feeling of home I never had before. The security of constant change and the inspiration of the never ending meeting of new people create a more exiting way of living and conquered my heart for this city.

In these times of my young life, where I’m searching my way through the impressions and influences of this world I have found a place where artists, musicians and writers come together, all on their own journey, to find a place to rest and be inspired. And when at the “open mic”-night each Wednesday these people passing through from so many countries leave a bit of their art behind I know that I’m in the right place and am thankful for their present.

Victoria is revealing its secrets bit by bit and with every day my heartbeat synchronizes with the pulse on the streets. The sentence of the famous singer of “The Doors”, Jim Morrison, becomes an irrefutable truth: “The West Is The Best…”

 

Written by Benjamin Frech

 

	List of stories :
		A German Dream in Victoria
		Finding China Town
		Spirit of Victory