Standing on a creosoted log, the sun setting over my right shoulder, the Folk Fest happening on the other side of the fence. I lean against a sun-bleached stump, sipping from an illicit can. My hair is loose and wavy, long down my back to below my shoulder blades. Dry grasses quiver around me, and I soak up the music.

After, I ride silent through the night along the seaside. The satisfying mechanical murmur of my chain.

I ride casually, taking it all in. The city, the twilight silhouetting the mountains. The island of glass condo towers that is downtown, illuminated and reflecting double in the harbour.

Groups of people gather on blankets in parks, on the beach. So much of life playing out in public - a rarity for the rainy west coast. In Vanier Park, a large group has gathered at The Gate to the Northwest Passage with illuminated hoops and juggling clubs. I turn off my headlight and coast past.

I pass the tents of the Shakespeare festival, voices shouting, un-amplified, out from the backs of the open stages.

And passed a bar leaking Cuban music. Mambo? Salsa? Cha cha cha? I was supposed to learn the difference when I was there, wasn't I?

And then through the Olympic Village, the patio overflowing with drunken revelry.

And a rat runs across the seawall in front of me.