Life in Port Credit|Out in the Neighbourhood|Our Favourite Corner of Leaside

I was hunched over the hood at 8:10 a.m., rain still misting off my windshield wipers, trying to explain to my friend why he should care about warranty fine print while traffic crawled along Hastings like it always does. His white Camry looked like a proper candidate for a refresh, but I could tell he didn't want to spend a ridiculous amount without knowing what he was actually getting. We had driven from Kitsilano at 7:00, coffee gone cold in the cup holder, and we were bo

I was hunched over the passenger seat at 7:12 a.m., rain still spitting off the windshield wipers, scrolling through three different calendars and a thread of texts that had grown into its own small drama. My friend's Mazda sat in my driveway, hood flecked with last night's city grit. The plan was simple: drop it at the shop in Mount Pleasant by 9, pick it up two days later, and not let my friend end up carless for longer than she could handle. Simple, except nothing about

I was hunched over the hood, rain soaking through my jacket, watching the tech wipe a tiny bead of water off my friend's Prius with slow, almost reverent motions. It was 4:17 p.m., the kind of gray that makes Vancouver feel like it’s breathing through a wet blanket, and I could hear the 4th Street traffic like distant applause. I had promised to help him pick a shop for ceramic coating and ppf, and suddenly I was in the middle of the decision, shovel in hand even though I d

I was hunched over the hood at 9:12 a.m., rain still spitting, trying to wipe off a bead of water that refused to leave the paint. The friend I dragged along — Mark — had his hands shoved deep in his pockets like it was a funeral, not a car shopping mission. We were parked on West 4th, between the sushi place and a bike shop, staring at a Subaru that looked fine from ten feet and suspicious up close. The whole thing started because Mark wanted to protect his new paint wi

I was halfway through scrubbing rain off the driver's side window with my sleeve when the guy from the shop stepped out and waved me over. It was 3:12 pm, the sky a flat grey that makes everything look slightly expensive and slightly sad in Vancouver. Car idling, heat on full because my fingers were numb, I felt like I was part of some small ritual: hand over a set of keys, try to explain what you want without sounding like someone who watched one too many detailing videos.

I was hunched over the hood at 7:12 a.m., rain flicking at my collar, squinting at a bead of water the size of a dime that refused to roll off the roof. My friend Marco was late, of course. He lives in Mount Pleasant and has a habit of thinking 8:00 means 8:15. I had agreed to drive his car to work because his scooter was in the shop, and the plan was simple: pick him up, take the car for a spin, and drop it off. Except the car had been ceramic coated three days earlier and

It was 8:47 a.m., drizzle still hanging off the wipers, and I was hunched over the passenger seat flipping between two PDFs on my phone. The service bay smelled like coffee and solvent. A tech walked by and muttered something about rush hour on Granville taking him an extra 20 minutes. I told him it was fine, that I had all day for this—because I did, and I didn't. The car sat half clean, half matte after the detailer had started test-spotting a ceramic coating near the whe

I was hunched over my steering wheel, rain streaking the windshield like someone had taken a sponge to the city, staring at a portfolio propped up on a shop counter. The fluorescent lights buzzed, the heater in my old Civic coughed once and died, and my fingers were still damp from unlocking my phone to compare photos. It was 2:13 p.m., Tuesday, and I had already been through three shops that day, from Kitsilano to near the SkyTrain in Richmond. I felt like a very tired art