You’ll find bike-share stations outside of most public transit stops in Vancouver, like this one between City Hall and an underground rail station.
PHOTO BY RAHEEM F. HOSSEINI
About the author:
Raheem F. Hosseini is news editor at the Sacramento News & Review.
I avoid making furtive movements as the two women holding machine guns eye me curiously. There’s a tall one and a short one, both dressed in crisp gray shirts, black slacks and bullet-proof vests, the snouts of their rifles pointing downward as they guard entry into the country.
Or are they preventing escape?
I didn’t have an appointment, hadn’t even rehearsed what to say. I just showed up, expecting to be let in. Typical American.
Stationed beneath a metallic sign that read “UNITED STATES CONSULATE GENERAL,” the short one asked how she could help. Wearing a Bob Dylan T-shirt and running shorts, sweat dappling the backs of my knees, I slinked through the nonexistent queue, a fiction created by two yellow ropes leading to a mobile podium on small wheels,