As I walked down the streets of Vancouver on a wet grey and windy afternoon, I could not help but to stop and stare at the old Cobalt Hotel and wonder…. How many young strong loggers gathered here in the 50’s? How many burly woollen coated fishermen celebrated a huge catch of salmon behind those pub doors with beer in hand and an exuberant hug for a long-time buddy off another boat?
How many Chilcotin or Cariboo cowboys, in town for their yearly de-bushing from the isolation of the range, wandered into the midst of all this only to find themselves with sore knuckles and empty wallets as they learned the ways of the big city bars?
I stood and stared a long time. I seemed the hear the sounds of the police cars coming to break up the brawls, the wailing of ambulances hauling away those who were brave enough but too drunk to fight, and the whispering of the hookers waiting outside ready to sell comfort those who were victorious.
I stood there a long time. I could see a parade of strong young healthy loggers, fisherman, cowboys, construction workers, trainmen, truck-drivers, and labourers, coming in one door and another stream of old and wrinkled, weak, and unsmiling old men coming out the other door in another time.
Age had gotten them all.
What stories the Cobalt Hotel could unveil to those who will stop and listen!
