I came across this question in a parking lot at the UofA, and knew immediately that I wanted to answer it. You see, I can think of plenty of times when a bus stop becomes romantic, and as for moonlit fountains, well, to be quite honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one, except in a movie, and that doesn’t seem to count. So, here are a couple bus stops that I can call to mind:
Near the Emergency entrance at the UofA hospital, a man sits with a white cowboy hat on his head. In his hands are six more identical hats, but in brown. He places them atop the first, so that his head becomes a hat-stand for the collection. And he sits, and waits for the bus.
In my neighbourhood, several of us stand, waiting. We squint into the silence of the morning sun, searching for a bus. Then, there is the sound of a squirrel skittering up a tree. In an instant, our heads turn, but the squirrel is already gone. We return to waiting.
As I begin to write answers to the graffiti artist’s question, it occurs to me that this isn’t so much about answers after all. I think the real reason that I was drawn to this question is that it speaks to my affinity with this city – we don’t have much in the way of moonlit fountains, but we do have plenty of bus stops. And I don’t think there’s anything particularly romantic about either of those things, until you decide to look. When I walk through Edmonton, I’m looking for ways to make those bus stops and street signs and sidewalks and skyscrapers and storefronts seem romantic. Or, if not romantic, then intriguing, mystifying, comforting, [insert adjective of the day]. It’s about finding something a little bit extra, about asserting your own needs over your city space, and finding ways that the existing space can meet with your desires.
That said, somebody else did feel an answer was important:
A: When the company kept is paramount to any scenic view
