Blaise Cendrars (1887-1961) once made a visit to Vancouver. He wrote:


Ten P.M. has just struck barely heard through the thick fog
that muffles the docks and the ships in the harbour
The wharfs are deserted and the town is wrapped in sleep
You stroll along a low sandy shore swept by an icy wind
and the long billows of the Pacific
That lurid spot in the dank darkness is the station of the
Canadian Grand Trunk
And those bluish patches in the wind are the liners
bound for the Klondike Japan and the West Indies
It is so dark that I can hardly make out the signs
in the streets where hugging a heavy suitcase
I am looking for a cheap hotel

Everyone is on board
The oarsmen are bent on their oars and the heavy craft
loaded to the brim plows through the high waves
A small hunchback at the helm checks the tiller
now and then
Adjusting his steering through the fog to the calls
of a foghorn
We bump against the dark bulk of the ship and on the
starboard quarter Samoyed dogs are climbing up
Flaxen in the grey-white-yellow
As if fog was being taken in freight