On the 14th of April of 2015, I walk to the Richmond Public Market, I first climbing the stairs outside. Inside, the wide atrium-like building is like a garden in a jungle surrounding, I imagine. Already quite hungry, I trot to Captain Wa, the food vendor, to get noodles with squid, fish, and tofu, as well as hot tea. As I eat, a handsome First Nations man in a purple T-shirt walks by. Then a handsome, stocky Jewish fellow walks by. A few minutes later, I begin to thirst, so I get a cold Mint Bubble Green Tea at the vendor QQ Bubble Tea and Coffee. I sit by the stairs to sip. A threesome family sits eating nearby, the man being black, the woman being Oriental, and the child being a hybrid. Addicted to Bubble Tea, I get another one, this time at Peanut's. It is a cold Green Apple Bubble Green Tea. It is delicious. I take the escalator down. On my way to the washroom, I notice a big aquarium full of probably giant red Alaskan king crabs with barnacles on their legs. They remind me of extraterrestrials, somehow. At the bookstore, I buy a heavily illustrated green botany book in sinograms. I left it on top of a box a month ago and it is still there. It is $14. I take the escalator up. Addicted to Bubble Tea, I spend my remaining coins on a cold Lychee Bubble Green Tea. It is delicious with even bits of white lychee flesh.

Source: Tatoeba

In addition to cold beer, the bar serves food, including grilled sirloin and pizza, the newspaper reported, adding that the steak comes with rice, beans and pasta and costs only $4.40 a plate, which is much cheaper than anything else nearby.

Source: Tatoeba

It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps

Source: Tatoeba