Faculty of Art
It started with a conversation about Vancouver bus routes, one of those unexpected detours that happens in the middle of a meeting. Carolyn pulled up Google Maps to help me make sense of my poor direction skills and general confusion about how to get anywhere in this city. Soon we were zooming in and out of neighbourhoods, following bus lines, and naming places I’d somehow never visited. That’s when North Vancouver came up. A place I’d heard about but never actually been to. It hit me that I’d been at Waterfront Station for months, walking past the SeaBus signs like scenery, always heading exactly where I needed to go and never where I didn’t.
So I decided to go. No overthinking, no itinerary, just me and my questionable sense of direction. I walked straight to the SeaBus entrance at Waterfront Station, half-expecting a chaotic ferry situation where I’d have to fight for a seat, stand the whole way, or accidentally end up somewhere completely wrong (which, given my track record, felt possible).
Instead, I stepped into this surprisingly calm, spacious vessel that looked nothing like the crowded commuter nightmare I had invented in my head. And the biggest shock? The ride was fifteen minutes. Fifteen. I had mentally prepared for an hour-long voyage, snacks and all, only to realize I barely had time to process the view before we were docking on the other side. It felt like discovering a hidden shortcut in a city I thought I already understood. It was a small, unexpected reminder that most things aren’t as complicated as I assume they are in my mind.
When I stepped off the SeaBus, I didn’t open Google Maps. A bold choice for someone who once got lost trying to find the UBC bus loop. I just let my feet decide where to go. The air was colder than downtown, the kind of crisp cold that feels intentional, like North Vancouver was built to remind you that you’re near mountains. The smell of seawater drifted through the air, sharper here, less city-ish, more “you might see a seal if you’re lucky.”
As I walked, I kept noticing pockets of familiarity: the same cafés I’ve seen all across Vancouver, the chain ones with the predictable pastries and the same three seasonal drinks. It was oddly comforting, like the city was easing me into something new by reminding me I wasn’t that far from home. But the calmness was different. Not the forced calmness of a study break or a walk to clear your head, but the kind of calm that makes you briefly consider moving there. I was halfway through imagining my new North Vancouver life; morning walks, a fresh routine, a personality shift, before it was interrupted by the reality of a four-dollar tea. Suddenly, the fantasy cleared. I don’t know if the place was genuinely calm, or if there’s something about stepping off campus that tricks my brain into thinking life is instantly more serene. Maybe it’s the act of crossing water. Maybe it’s the absence of course deadlines. Or maybe it’s simply that when you’re not rushing to your next class, everything feels like a mild vacation.
A little further into my aimless wandering, I stumbled onto a second-hand bookshop not tucked anywhere in particular, just there, suddenly, as if it had appeared for people exactly like me: directionally confused but open to surprise. The sign outside leaned at a slight angle, and inside, the books were stacked everywhere. Not in any specific order, not even pretending to be organized just joyfully overflowing in a way that felt charming rather than chaotic. I wandered between tilted piles and narrow pathways until I found myself in the biography section, trying to pretend I wasn’t already committed to buying a book. Somewhere between two uneven stacks, I picked up a small book titled What School Doesn’t Teach You. It was five dollars. I attempted to skim a few pages like someone who wasn’t already sold, but the truth is I had mentally added it to my tote bag within seconds. While I was still pretending to browse, the owner drifted over cheerful, warm, and already mid-story. She apologised for the books being all over the place, then explained that she had recently hired someone who claimed she could “fix the biography section.”
“Two days in,” the owner said, lowering her voice as if letting me in on a secret, “I started thinking I might need to tell her not to come back. Turns out she didn’t actually know how to arrange books. “Not even a little.” We both laughed, the kind of laugh that feels like exhaling after holding your shoulders too high for too long. It was the small nudge I needed to stop pretending and actually buy the book.
By the time I walked back to the Seabus with my five-dollar book, I kept thinking about how unexpectedly enlightening and refreshing the trip had been. It reminded me how rarely i let myself do things without a plan. Grad school has a way of making every hour feel accounted for, every quiet moment swallowed by readings, endless assignments or the looming idea of career planning. But this tiny excursion to North Vancouver reminded me that not everything needs purpose. Sometimes curiosity is enough. With winter break coming up, I’m holding onto that. Maybe it will look like going to the Shipyards Christmas market, or wondering through a neighbourhood I’ve never been to, or doing absolutely nothing except reading that book I bought in a bookshop were enthusiasm clearly outranked organisation.
Whatever it is, I’m giving myself permission to be surprised. It turns out a small adventure can be its own kind of rest and maybe that’s exactly what December is for.
Written by Marjorie Rugunda, PhD Student at the Institute for Gender,Race,Sexuality & Social Justice, Communications and programming Assistant at the Arts Amplifier.
Published 9 December 2025
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