This last portion of our trip we have both become quiet. There is something about crossing the Oak Street Bridge that changes a conversation, or ends it, or begins a new one. Richmond is so different from Vancouver, all flat, industrial, agricultural, residential but bland, grey, beige and desolate. I am not even tempted to look at my phone but to stare out at the brown waters of the north arm of the Fraser River underneath. Along Garden City Way things appear still a little bit green, but the open fields and pastures are already mostly eaten up by housing and condo developments, as though they are almost embarrassed that anyone would want to grow food on this, some of the world's most fertile soil. This is a municipality that does not deserve to be called a city, and if Richmond is a city, then it is a city without a soul.
On Westminster Highway we approach the hotel parking lot and we are able to stop near the front entrance.
"There is a London Drugs nearby, less than a five minute walk", say I. Maybe we could stop there to pick up some treats for our people."
"That sounds like a good idea..."
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