The Dress Code

There was no welcome wagon for newcomers when I moved to Denman Island. No formalities, no rite of passage, nothing like that. But there was this one hitchhiker, a guy whose name I have never known, who (very likely unintentionally) provided me with that one special transitional moment, that “welcome to Denman Island, you belong here” feeling. Here’s how it happened:

“Where are you going?” I asked. The hitchhiker clicked his seatbelt into place and said, “Downtown.” 

“I can take you there,” I said. 

“Thanks.”

We drove in silence, ocean views peeking through trees along our right-hand side. 

“You know,” I said, a little shyly, “You’re the first hitchhiker I’ve ever picked up.”

“Huh!” he answered. I chose to read the quiet grunt as encouragement. 

“I’ve never owned a car before. I bought this one a few days ago. I’ve hitchhiked lots but never been able to return the favour.” 

“Uhuh,” he said. I interpreted that as friendly interest. 

“I just moved to the Island yesterday. Before this I always lived in a place with public transit, so I made it  this far without a car,” I explained. It was a 12-year-old silver Hyundai, bought off a used car lot in Vancouver. Owning a car made me feel like I’d finally reached adulthood. I was 36.

We lapsed into silence for a while, but a few kilometers later I felt compelled to add, “I’m pretty excited to be here.” 

“Yeah.” I took that as an invitation to connect.

“How long have you been here?” I asked. There were a few beats of silence.

“About six months. No, longer. More like 10 months,” he said.

“How do you like it here?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s pretty good. I’d say I like it.”

“So, what do you like best about Denman Island?” I asked. There were a few more beats of silence. Then a few more. 

Finally he answered with three words: “The dress code.” 

For a moment, I felt bewildered. And daunted. Was there some kind of social code I hadn’t even noticed? Was I missing something? Doing something wrong? This kind of anxiety was not what I’d been looking for when I chose a remote island as my home. I wanted a place where I didn’t have to worry about fitting in. Where I could just be myself.   

By then I was turning right into downtown, aka the place with the General Store. I pulled over. Hitchhiker dude unbuckled his seat belt, opened his door, glanced my way with the tiniest hint of a smile, said “Thanks” and sauntered off. 

I stared at his receding figure. What was he wearing? Faded jeans and a navy blue hoodie. Was that the dress code? Crossing the street at that moment was a woman with coiffed hair, a red hip-length sweater, clean black jeans and leopard-print boots  The day before I’d seen someone at the General Store in what I swear was a bathrobe and pajamas. Wait a minute—wait. Oh, I get it.  The dress code. Right. 

And I knew it then, for sure: I was home.

I told my mom, who lives on Hornby Island, about the hitchhiker and the dress code. She laughed and nodded. 

“Yes! I experience this sometimes when I walk down to the mailboxes. There I am in my gardening gear, with streaks of dirt on my faded jeans, wearing gumboots and an old sweater with holes. I get to the mailboxes and there’s Veronica Graham.” Veronica is an artist and clothing designer who lives in the same Hornby neighbourhood as my mom. 

As her website says, Veronica’s work “is of the earth and of the hands of textile workers who have come before—it is in opposition to the mass-produced, to the disconnect that comes with ‘new’…Her home Island is quite literally contained in her work: she uses pebbles and driftwood tumbled smooth from stormy winter seas and fleece from sheep who graze the fields.”

"There she’ll be,” says my mom, “gliding along with that regal walk of hers, wearing Victorian-style ankle boots, a silk and velvet dress, a faux-fur stole, elbow-length felted gloves, ornate jewelry, and a fascinator.

We meet at the mailboxes and have a little chat, and off she glides. It’s an infusion of art into my day.”