Vancouver, British Columbia – I come here for the free head space and the wireless internet connection, to sit inside the floor-to-ceiling windows, separate from the noise, the clutter of passing traffic, the onslaught of everything. The smug, white walls are wholly unadorned. Exposed copper pipes hang from an equally white ceiling; they turn at the efficiency of right angles. There is a fan. The only decoration is a paper chandelier: wire attached to binder clips, spouting phrases in unknown languages.
Prado is a kind of page – the blank space I need when I’m outside, caught up in the congestion. At Prado there is nothing but possibility and no one comes for the coffee, we come for the white mugs. I could take a purple crayon to the walls or write a play on this page. Here, I am as brimful of potential as the d“cor – unwritten, unnamed. I have the illusion I have always been here; before there was anything, there was Prado. My thoughts take logical, right angle turns and feed electricity to my fan, my paper chandelier, my clock above my exit.