Let me tell you a little story....a true story...Back in March of 2009 I was teaching a workshop at the Upstart Crow in the Vancouver BC area. One of my students compiled a list of places to visit for junking purposes. I had a free day so I figured I'd hit the town looking for goodies. One of the addresses was for a place on Main St., called the Bakers Dozen. I showed the address to the concierge at the hotel I was staying and I asked if I could walk to there, after all it looked fairly nearby as far as the map was concerned. The hotel employee winced at me, paused and said, "Uh...no, you can't walk to there". I replied, "Really? I doesn't seem that far away". The concierge said, "No...you should drive". I figured he knew what he was talking about and I hopped into my car and headed down the road. The address written down for me was 352 Main St. and as I got closer it dawned on me why the concierge was so tentative with me. It was a very depressed area. Substance abuse, homelessness, metal illness, and all the other misfortunes associated with urban despair were visibly apparent. I drove around looking for the address...which turned out to be the location of the Vancouver Police department. I drove around the blocks a few times, thinking that perhaps the address was off by a number or two. On about the third spin around the block I was on the corner of Abbott and Hastings, and down and out folks seemed to fill the sidewalks. I assumed that a soup kitchen was nearby and lunch was being served. As I drove through the intersection I noticed a number of folks staring and pointing toward a fenced-in vacant lot. Curious, I wondered what the commotion seemed to be....and then I saw something I will never forget as long as I live...something poignant and mysterious that reminded me of something said in the film Citizen Kane:
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