To the Beat of My Heart

Our Hearts to Know

If this were some awesome teen flick, we'd have snuck Ansel away or sweet-talked Jaz into folding. This isn't some awesome teen flick. This is reality, mate, and it bloody well sucks.

Vancouver is neat. Yeah, that's the adjective I'm going with. Okay, it's drop-dead gorgeous. Like a fortress city in the middle of a lake, all glass and sleek and I could see myself living here, drinking overpriced coffee, watching the blush-peach evening sky.

SKY! Don't get me started on the skyline! Cable cars like vines infest Grouse Mountain and beyond that the distant peaks of Washington State. Those mountains hold off rainforests and ski resorts. A taste of the Pacific in every street. Stanley Park is basically a small city.

People on bikes EVERYWHERE. We took a break after setting up to get a bus to the Kits, one of the many seawalls in Vancouver. One guy almost clipped Kai, which prompted a furious outpour of f and c bombs, and a lot of bashful people stared on. Plenty of rogue rollerbladers, too. Bloody hell, but the people here like their exercise. Some of the guys in Vancouver get my blood pumping and I have to remind myself that I've found my soulmate and all is good and fair in the world.

There's a dizzying amount to do, from Gastown to Granville Island and Lions Gate Bridge. Kai does not let up on how overpriced everything is. I have to agree, even if hearing his nonstop grumbling puts a damper on things. But the air is sharp with the smell of compost and exhaust fumes, with a hint of wet dog and manure. Sometimes you get the salty ocean drift tingling on your tongue, and we passed Chinatown to a sensory overload of spices and sizzling vegetables.

More bikes. Olympic Village. Ooh look, is there a bike race going on...? Plenty of boutiques and then the promise of beer carried on the wind. Ya know, after the manure and exhaust fumes. A trail of hipsters drinking craft beer, and the worrying pong of pot. Like, I've got nothing against drugs. But we keep that shit well clear of Clay. He can't afford a relapse. I won't let that happen.

Kai follows his nose towards the astringent smoke, exclaiming 'fuck yeah, mate', and Ansel drops off from us the first brewery we stumble on. As long as they meet back at the hotel by five for soundcheck, they can do whatever the fuck they want.

I am scrolling through unusual Vancouver attractions on my phone when Clay smashes his finger down on the screen, giving me a mini heart attack.

"The fuck, Clay...?"

"Jimi, it's, I mean... shit!"

"Jimi Hendrix shrine?" I meet Clay's eyes, a powerful hunger in them. I shrug. "It's pretty close, actually. We can get the bus up here."

Not even half an hour later we were off the bus and asking this friendly-looking guy on the street where we could find the museum. He told us to follow the trail of electric guitars. With that cryptic clue in our pocket, we walked on and sure enough, a bright selection of painted guitars on walls pointed our way.

Our breadcrumb trail leads us to a... uh, quaint little redbrick building, more like a shack, really. Super ancient compared to the rest of gleaming green Vancouver. Clay was trembling, squeezing my hand tighter than usual until he let go, placing his hands against the window, against the large shrine to Jimi Hendrix.

It used to be Vie's Chicken and Steak House, apparently.

"Used to?" I ask Clay.

"Mm, Nora Hendrix, Jimi's grandma worked there. Pretty fucking insane, right?"

"Right... And of course you know that. Bet you know the exact hospital ward Jimi was conceived in, how he got his first broken ankle, and which public loo he took a shit in when he thought up the riff to Purple Haze."