I regularly go with a group of college students at night to the Downtown Eastside (DTES) of Vancouver. That area is sometimes called “Canada’s poorest postal code” on account of its high concentration of hostels and flophouses. Once there, we set up a couple of foldable tables on the sidewalk and give out cups of hot chocolate and bran muffins. During these visits to the DTES, we meet and engage in friendly conversation with a variety of people: homeless, drug-addicts, prostitutes, or residents simply passing by. Some do not want to talk much. Others seem grateful to linger and chat about life. A number of these encounters will remain on our memories for a long time.
One of the people we met is Barney.* He told us he was homeless, but survived by hustling and the free meals the various missions provide. Barney stayed talking with us for a while, would disappear, then return again, each time asking for more muffins. Eventually he admitted they were for his friends on the sidewalk around the block, telling us they were crack dealers, and couldn’t leave their spots or they’d lose business.
