It marked the first church my wife and son had entered in Canada—and, remarkably, it has since become our church home in Vancouver. There, my wife met her first Canadian friends, and I met my first pastor.

From a Chinese perspective, Christmas in the West carries the same significance as the Spring Festival does in China. It matters to everyone, regardless of race or cultural background.

Like the Spring Festival, Christmas celebrations begin in the evening. At dusk, people arrived from all directions to the small church, drawn by the good news—God is with us.

Elderly people in formal attire, young people in down jackets, old neighbors, and new immigrants all gathered at this hour. At the church entrance, different languages mingled in soft conversation before everyone entered the sanctuary, where the cheerful atmosphere settled into peaceful silence as Pastor Jim began his brief sermon.

The midnight service on Christmas Eve forms the celebratory climax. Large cathedrals resound with the rich tones of pipe organs, evoking history itself, while smaller chapels fill with joyful worship music.

When the familiar melody of “Silent Night” begins, a sense of peaceful holiness fills the air—even for someone like me, who is not yet a Christian.

Cultural diversity defines Vancouver. During the service, brothers and sisters read the Bible in various languages. Even in my small community church, worship rang out in seven tongues—English, Korean, Hindi,

German, Spanish, and others. A refugee from Africa took the stage to read a passage of Scripture in an indigenous African language.

For believers at the crossroads of multiple cultures, this night’s ceremony becomes both a return to faith’s source and a moment to seek an anchor for the soul.

The candlelight ritual moved me most. A large altar candle was lit first; then its flame rippled outward, row by row, hand to hand, until everyone held their own light. In moments, the hall glowed with gently flickering, starlike points. In that soft light, faces appeared calm and serene; to me, Christian faith seemed profoundly warm and gentle.

As the ceremony drew to a close, the congregation wished one another “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year”. When the candles finally went out, everyone said their farewells and slowly stepped out into the cold, rainy night—the familiar drizzle of Vancouver. The inner peace they had received in the church—kindled by shared songs and candlelight—was the warmth they would carry back home.

Christmas at home differs greatly from church. At its centre stands a fully decorated tree, beneath which global traditions converge: German nutcrackers, Swedish straw goats, Chinese peace knots, and Indigenous woven ornaments—all side by side, quietly redefining “home.” Families gather to exchange gifts amid peace and joy.

My first Christmas in Vancouver was not white, but rainy. I felt that my wife had seen the True Light, and I myself began to learn to open my arms and embrace the people around me.

P.S. I am not yet a Christian, though I may become one someday. I volunteered to take photos at the church that Christmas Eve.

The post Vancouver in My Eyes VI – Christmas appeared first on Jonathan Lee.

Unlike the summer rain, which comes with force and stops abruptly, the early winter rain is gentle yet unrelenting—an omnipresence that permeates every cubic inch of air. There seem to be no raindrops at all, only a fine‑knit web of moisture drifting with the wind, blurring distant mountains and nearby trees into a gray ink‑wash painting. The grayish air, saturated with water, hangs heavy with the crisp, slightly cool scent of humus and rain‑soaked pine needles.

The asphalt on the streets deepens to a darker gray, like sheets of Chinese painting paper, with the light of sky and cloud as its backdrop and the hazy, shifting reflections of buildings and trees forming picturesque scenes.

In winter, darkness envelopes the city early, pushing night forward to as early as five in the afternoon. One by one, the city lights flicker on, and the rain shifts from solemn gray to beguiling color. Red, yellow, and white lights are softened by the rain, stretched in the darkness, and scattered by watery reflections, turning smooth, mirror‑like puddles into fragments of shattered, resplendent galaxies. As car headlights pass, they carve through the darkness with fleeting golden ripples amid rivers of sparkling light.

In the winter rain, Vancouver sheds the brightness and flamboyance of sunny days and becomes a tired beauty without makeup—detached and lonely. Yet within this boundless dampness, the city turns tender and contemplative.

Umbrellas become extensions of the body, and footsteps take on a slightly more purposeful haste.

As buses move through the rain, their windows glaze over with a thin mist, turning the warm interior lights and human silhouettes into impressionist paintings. Restaurants seem more crowded; through their windows, white steam and shifting figures create scenes of inviting warmth in sharp contrast to the cold, wet streets outside. The rustling of rain on rooftops is the day’s constant background sound; at night, it turns into a monotonous yet peaceful lullaby that lulls people to sleep.

Wrapped in pervasive dampness, life does not disappear; it simply adopts an inward, subdued state, lying dormant in preparation for future growth. Autumn dyes the maple leaves red, and the winter breeze then plucks them from the branches, spreading them as a thick carpet on the ground, to which the fine rain adds a glossy sheen. The lawns remain stubbornly green, and the pine needles, washed by rain, glow with the deepest shade of their green. In sheltered corners, cold‑hardy camellias stand quietly in the rain, waiting for the moment to bloom.

The winter rain soaks clothes and shoes and slows people’s pace; even the flow of time itself seems dragged into a slower rhythm. It wraps heaven and earth in a transparent crystal dome, shutting out the clamor and compelling people to look inward and reflect. The rainy season is contemplative and calm, nourishing a moist tranquility as the city moves quietly into winter.

PS: This article was written on Oct. 24, 2025 which was my mother’s 85th birthday. I dedicate this short piece to for her good health and longevity.

港燦在溫哥華之五 雨

溫哥華由深秋過渡到初冬的標誌，不是氣溫計上驟降的數字，而是一場來了便彷彿不再打算離開的雨。

它不像夏季的雨，來得暴烈，去得也乾脆；溫哥華初冬的雨，是一種彌漫在每一立方空氣裡的無所不在。它是矜持的，細如牛毛，隨風飄灑，將遠山近樹暈染成一片水墨的灰濛。空氣也似乎吸飽了水份，沉甸甸的，帶著腐殖土與濕透的松針那清冽而微涼的氣息。

街道上，柏油路面的顏色變得深沉，像吸墨的宣紙，將天光雲影都收納進去，映出兩旁建築與樹木朦朧的、流動的倒影。

不到下午五時，夜幕已提早垂落，城市的燈火逐一亮起，雨便顯露出它最為魅惑的容顏。那些紅的、黃的、白的燈光，全被雨水濡濕、拉長、打散，在平滑如鏡的積水窪裡，流淌成一片片破碎而璀璨的星河。車燈劃過，便在這星河裡犁出一道道轉瞬即逝的金色波痕。

此時的溫哥華，褪去了晴日下的明媚與張揚，像一個卸了妝的倦美人，顯露出幾分清寂，幾分疏離，卻又在這無邊的濕潤裡，滋長出一種內向的、沉思的溫情。

傘，成了人們手臂的延伸。步伐不再悠閒，多了些許目的明確的匆促。

巴士車窗玻璃上，總蒙著一層薄薄的水氣，將車廂內溫暖的燈光與人影，暈染成印象派的畫作。餐館的生意似乎也好了起來，隔窗望去，氤氳著白霧，人影幢幢，成了濕冷世界裡一個個誘人的、溫暖的標點。雨水敲打屋頂的沙沙聲，成了白日最恆定的背景音；到了夜裡，則化作催人入眠的、單調而安詳的搖籃曲。

在這彷彿無休止的濕潤包裹中，生命並未褪色，只是換了一種更為沉潛的方式。微風把紅透的楓葉都摘了下了，在地面鋪上了一層厚厚的地毯，細雨再給其加上一抹亮澤。草地依舊是執拗的綠，松針葉被雨水洗刷，綠得幾乎要滴下汁來。城市角落裡，耐寒的山茶已然鼓出飽滿的花苞，在雨中靜靜等待綻放的時機。

雨，固然濡濕了衣襪，拖慢了行程，卻也彷彿將時間的流速調緩了。它將天地籠進一個透明的水晶罩裡，隔絕了喧囂教人不得不向內審視，與自己的思緒相處。於是，這雨季的溫哥華，成了一座巨大的、流動的禪院。它在窗外淅淅瀝瀝的低語裡，供養著一種潮潤的靜謐，與一種在灰度中辨認細微光影的、安寧的敏感。

另：今日是母親85歲生日，僅以此文祝母親大人健康長壽。

The post Vancouver in My Eyes V – Rain appeared first on Jonathan Lee.

Born in Hong Kong in 1927 to a poor family, Uncle Kiu fled with his parents to his father’s hometown in Dongguan during the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong in the Second World War. After the war, Chan’s family returned to Hong Kong, where he helped his mother sell fish at the market to make ends meet. Yet, he knew early on that fishmongering was not his calling. Through a relative’s introduction, he found a job taking photos for tourists with a wooden box camera at Tiger Balm Garden—a humble opportunity that marked the beginning of his lifelong journey in photography.

In 1956, Uncle Kiu joined The Standard as a darkroom technician. Three years later, he moved to the South China Morning Post, becoming a full-time photojournalist. Over a career spanning more than three decades, he captured many defining moments in Hong Kong’s modern history: the 1962 influx of mainland refugees, the 1967 riots, the arrival of Vietnamese boat people, devastating typhoons and floods, and the Sino-British negotiations, among others.

His body of work was not only vast—reportedly exceeding 40,000 rolls of film—but also rich in depth and historical value. His achievements earned him six Honour Certificates from the World Press Photo organization and the Queen’s Honorary Medal in 1985, recognizing his outstanding contributions to journalism and historical documentation.

Uncle Kiu retired in 1987 in Hong Kong and immigrated to Canada in 1993. He passed away in Vancouver on April 6, 2024.

Like Uncle Kiu, I myself entered the industry in 1989 also as a darkroom technician at The Express News, and later became a photojournalist. Though I eventually switched to writing, my interest in news photography has never faded, and I’ve remained close friends with many photographers. When I started out, Uncle Kiu had already retired. I remember meeting him once at an industry gathering — a brief encounter that left a quiet impression. Yet, as I viewed his photos at the Vancouver exhibition this time, his warm smile and familiar presence vividly came back to mind.

港燦在溫哥華之五 雨

溫哥華由深秋過渡到初冬的標誌，不是氣溫計上驟降的數字，而是一場來了便彷彿不再打算離開的雨。

它不像夏季的雨，來得暴烈，去得也乾脆；溫哥華初冬的雨，是一種彌漫在每一立方空氣裡的無所不在。它是矜持的，細如牛毛，隨風飄灑，將遠山近樹暈染成一片水墨的灰濛。空氣也似乎吸飽了水份，沉甸甸的，帶著腐殖土與濕透的松針那清冽而微涼的氣息。

街道上，柏油路面的顏色變得深沉，像吸墨的宣紙，將天光雲影都收納進去，映出兩旁建築與樹木朦朧的、流動的倒影。

不到下午五時，夜幕已提早垂落，城市的燈火逐一亮起，雨便顯露出它最為魅惑的容顏。那些紅的、黃的、白的燈光，全被雨水濡濕、拉長、打散，在平滑如鏡的積水窪裡，流淌成一片片破碎而璀璨的星河。車燈劃過，便在這星河裡犁出一道道轉瞬即逝的金色波痕。

此時的溫哥華，褪去了晴日下的明媚與張揚，像一個卸了妝的倦美人，顯露出幾分清寂，幾分疏離，卻又在這無邊的濕潤裡，滋長出一種內向的、沉思的溫情。

傘，成了人們手臂的延伸。步伐不再悠閒，多了些許目的明確的匆促。

巴士車窗玻璃上，總蒙著一層薄薄的水氣，將車廂內溫暖的燈光與人影，暈染成印象派的畫作。餐館的生意似乎也好了起來，隔窗望去，氤氳著白霧，人影幢幢，成了濕冷世界裡一個個誘人的、溫暖的標點。雨水敲打屋頂的沙沙聲，成了白日最恆定的背景音；到了夜裡，則化作催人入眠的、單調而安詳的搖籃曲。

在這彷彿無休止的濕潤包裹中，生命並未褪色，只是換了一種更為沉潛的方式。微風把紅透的楓葉都摘了下了，在地面鋪上了一層厚厚的地毯，細雨再給其加上一抹亮澤。草地依舊是執拗的綠，松針葉被雨水洗刷，綠得幾乎要滴下汁來。城市角落裡，耐寒的山茶已然鼓出飽滿的花苞，在雨中靜靜等待綻放的時機。

雨，固然濡濕了衣襪，拖慢了行程，卻也彷彿將時間的流速調緩了。它將天地籠進一個透明的水晶罩裡，隔絕了喧囂教人不得不向內審視，與自己的思緒相處。於是，這雨季的溫哥華，成了一座巨大的、流動的禪院。它在窗外淅淅瀝瀝的低語裡，供養著一種潮潤的靜謐，與一種在灰度中辨認細微光影的、安寧的敏感。

另：今日是母親85歲生日，僅以此文祝母親大人健康長壽。

The post Vancouver in My Eyes IV – Shadows of Hong Kong Past appeared first on Jonathan Lee.

My first encounter with the Lions Gate Bridge was while driving from my home in South Vancouver to a doctor’s office on the affluent North Shore. After passing through downtown, the road cut through the forested heart of Stanley Park. Suddenly, the green steel bridge—with its two lion statues standing guard—appeared before me. Just moments earlier, I had been surrounded by towering trees; now, I was driving high above the ocean, with the sea stretching endlessly on both sides. The sudden shift was dazzling with its impact was both visual and physical. The bridge is relatively narrow, with only three lanes, and as cars sped past, I felt an uneasy thrill—as though one careless turn of the wheel could send me off the edge. Even inside the car, I could feel the vibration and hum of the deck, as if the whole bridge trembled with each passing vehicle.

Though the speed limit is 80 km/h, few seem eager to reach it. Perhaps the view is too awesome—drivers instinctively slow down to take it in. Or maybe, like me, many simply have a touch of vertigo.

The Lions Gate Bridge spans the First Narrows of Burrard Inlet, connecting downtown Vancouver with the North Shore. It stretches 1.5 kilometers, its twin towers rise to 111 meters, and the deck hovers 61 meters above sea level. Its name comes from “The Lions,” the twin peaks that crown the North Shore mountains.

Construction began in March 1937, and the bridge officially opened on November 14, 1938—nearly ninety years ago. It was designed by the same engineer who created San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Initially privately owned, it was purchased by the Canadian government in 1955. In 2000, the bridge underwent a year-long restoration to widen the lanes and pedestrian sidewalks. On March 24, 2005, it was designated a National Historic Site of Canada.

Automobiles have been widely used for just over a century, yet this nearly 90-year-old bridge remains one of Vancouver’s key arteries.

The Lions Gate Bridge reminds me of the Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong—both are suspension bridges of roughly the same length. The latter, completed in 1997, is larger and structurally more complex. Yet the Lions Gate Bridge, built sixty years earlier and still carrying heavy traffic every day, deserves the highest respect for its designers and builders.

Despite my fear of heights, I once visited Stanley Park to walk across the bridge. Unlike Tsing Ma, the Lions Gate has pedestrian pathways where people stroll, jog, cycle, or walk their dogs while enjoying the view. But after stepping onto the bridge and walking only twenty or thirty meters toward the first tower, my knees began to weaken. The height was unmistakable, the surface quivered underfoot, and faint creaks echoed through the steel cables. I kept telling myself: this bridge has stood here nearly ninety years, carrying thousands of cars each day—surely, it won’t fail today. Yet, that small voice in my head insisted, “Leave now… hurry up!”

In Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour is crossed by three tunnels. When the Eastern Harbour Crossing was first proposed, some suggested building a bridge instead. Advocates believed a bridge would become a new city landmark and a draw for visitors, while critics argued that typhoons would make it unsafe, it could disrupt harbour traffic, and its cost would far exceed that of a tunnel. In the end, the government chose the tunnel.

From a practical point of view, the decision made sense. But still, one cannot help wondering—if a bridge had been built across Victoria Harbour, open to both vehicles and pedestrians, offering panoramic views of the city and sea—it might have become every bit as iconic as the Lions Gate, something no tunnel could ever replace.

I once came across a short piece of prose online about bridges. One line stayed with me:

“Walking across a bridge is passing commas in time;

The bridge itself is the eternal em dash—

Linking two shores that seem apart,

Knitting all the stories and poems, and

Travel between them.”

港燦在溫哥華之五 雨

溫哥華由深秋過渡到初冬的標誌，不是氣溫計上驟降的數字，而是一場來了便彷彿不再打算離開的雨。

它不像夏季的雨，來得暴烈，去得也乾脆；溫哥華初冬的雨，是一種彌漫在每一立方空氣裡的無所不在。它是矜持的，細如牛毛，隨風飄灑，將遠山近樹暈染成一片水墨的灰濛。空氣也似乎吸飽了水份，沉甸甸的，帶著腐殖土與濕透的松針那清冽而微涼的氣息。

街道上，柏油路面的顏色變得深沉，像吸墨的宣紙，將天光雲影都收納進去，映出兩旁建築與樹木朦朧的、流動的倒影。

不到下午五時，夜幕已提早垂落，城市的燈火逐一亮起，雨便顯露出它最為魅惑的容顏。那些紅的、黃的、白的燈光，全被雨水濡濕、拉長、打散，在平滑如鏡的積水窪裡，流淌成一片片破碎而璀璨的星河。車燈劃過，便在這星河裡犁出一道道轉瞬即逝的金色波痕。

此時的溫哥華，褪去了晴日下的明媚與張揚，像一個卸了妝的倦美人，顯露出幾分清寂，幾分疏離，卻又在這無邊的濕潤裡，滋長出一種內向的、沉思的溫情。

傘，成了人們手臂的延伸。步伐不再悠閒，多了些許目的明確的匆促。

巴士車窗玻璃上，總蒙著一層薄薄的水氣，將車廂內溫暖的燈光與人影，暈染成印象派的畫作。餐館的生意似乎也好了起來，隔窗望去，氤氳著白霧，人影幢幢，成了濕冷世界裡一個個誘人的、溫暖的標點。雨水敲打屋頂的沙沙聲，成了白日最恆定的背景音；到了夜裡，則化作催人入眠的、單調而安詳的搖籃曲。

在這彷彿無休止的濕潤包裹中，生命並未褪色，只是換了一種更為沉潛的方式。微風把紅透的楓葉都摘了下了，在地面鋪上了一層厚厚的地毯，細雨再給其加上一抹亮澤。草地依舊是執拗的綠，松針葉被雨水洗刷，綠得幾乎要滴下汁來。城市角落裡，耐寒的山茶已然鼓出飽滿的花苞，在雨中靜靜等待綻放的時機。

雨，固然濡濕了衣襪，拖慢了行程，卻也彷彿將時間的流速調緩了。它將天地籠進一個透明的水晶罩裡，隔絕了喧囂教人不得不向內審視，與自己的思緒相處。於是，這雨季的溫哥華，成了一座巨大的、流動的禪院。它在窗外淅淅瀝瀝的低語裡，供養著一種潮潤的靜謐，與一種在灰度中辨認細微光影的、安寧的敏感。

另：今日是母親85歲生日，僅以此文祝母親大人健康長壽。

The post Vancouver in My Eyes II – Bridges appeared first on Jonathan Lee.

From the moment I set foot in Canada, Vancouver revealed its “true colors” to me: lush, abundant greenery.

We Hongkongers take pride in our natural spaces within the city and consider ourselves environmentally conscious. Our Legislative Council carefully scrutinizes construction plans in the suburbs to protect nature. Vancouver, however, is quite the opposite—green wilderness dominates, making an urban person like me struggle to believe I’m still in a city. My son’s school in South Vancouver is said to be in a “downtown” area, but to me, it feels anything but “downtown”.

In Hong Kong, “downtown” means skyscrapers and postmodern symbols of urbanization and commercialization. While in Vancouver, however, “downtown” simply refers to an area with more settlements compared to the surrounding areas. Here, people focus on protecting human lives while embracing nature, especially when bears showing up at the yard of the houses in the suburb areas.

Around my rental places, trees, grass, flowers, and chubby, timid squirrels surround us; bold blossoms brighten the landscape, and mountains stand like guardians in the background, making the sky feel lower than it does in Hong Kong. There’s a Chinese saying mocking those who look for greener grass abroad—“the moon looks fuller in a foreign land”. I’m not one of those people, but I have to admit, the sky in Canada does feel lower than in Hong Kong.

This makes it a wonderful place for my son to enjoy flying his drone. Ten years ago, I bought him a drone thinking Victoria Park would be the perfect spot to fly it. However, before we could even unpack it, a park staff member stopped us. “We must protect passers-by!” the patroller explained. In contrast, Vancouver feels “empty” compared to Hong Kong, offering plenty of open (and low) sky for my son to fly his toy drone.

Sounds perfect, right?

Of course not—I didn’t bring a drone with me! They are all in Hong Kong!

為了小兒子安心讀書，三個月前辭了做了三十多年的媒體工作離開香港，來到加拿大溫哥華當陪讀家長。雖然以前多次到加拿大旅遊，對溫哥華並不陌生，但在這里裏生活，我才真正感受同為國際大都會城市，溫哥華和香港的各種不同……

港燦在溫哥華之一 綠

香港是一個人多地少的城市，香港社會對綠地的保護相當「執著」，政府如果要砍一棵大樹都需要小心奕奕，想在新界的廢棄農地搞發展也需要經過環境評估及立法會通過，更不用說動用郊野公園土地了。但即便如此，在大多數人的認知裏，香港是一個石屎森林城市，不論是商業區還是居民居住區，想找點綠色都是很難的，如果在市區擁有一個能見綠色的住宅，已可稱為「豪宅」。

不過，在溫哥華，「綠」則是居民生活的一部分，推窗見樹出門踏青是生活常態，不論是在由高樓組成的鐵路鎮居民住宅區還是溫哥華市商業中心地區，綠色也不會從視線中消失。

據官方的數據，溫哥華的「樹冠覆蓋率」即使在人口密度最高的Richmond也超過10%，有些地區的 「樹冠覆蓋率」更超過60%。溫哥華近年經常在各項世界最佳居住城市排名中名列前茅，其中一個最大的優勢就是有很好的空氣質素，而空氣質素的優劣則和綠化的程度息息相關。

為方便兒子讀書，我租住在溫哥華南的一個住宅區。由住宅出門，不論向南

或向北，走不到百米，都會見到一個公園。公園內有古樹，有兒童遊樂設施，有步道，還有足球場及棒球場。

來到溫哥華，為方便出行買了一輛車。一次自己想在家門口洗車，有鄰居見到阻止，「這是犯法的」，「在街上洗車是違法的，因為它會把化學清潔濟和油脂衝進路邊排水溝，污染下水道，也會破壞路邊的植物」。

在兒子五、六歲時，他特別喜歡遙控飛機，於是我網購了一架遙控戰鬥機。但買回來才認識到，在香港根本不太可能找到一個可以給初學者試飛遙控飛機的地方。在香港最大的城市公園維多利亞公園，管理人員明確警告，公園內不能施放遙控飛機，即使在中心大草坪上也不能，「會撞傷人」。香港有不多的幾個大型球場，但顯然球場內是不可能讓孩子去玩遙控飛機的。於是，至今十多年過去，孩子已出洋讀書了，那架遙控飛機依然躺在收納室的架子上，一次都沒有飛行過。

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