Valhalla (no, dear, that's not a suburb), the new Bay sits astride the corpse of Eaton's, and the old Bay is the new Hudson condos. Eaton's had a grocery store in its basement, a tunnel under Broad Street connecting its two buildings, and a serpentine, counter-service luncheonette. I remember meeting the love of my week, Diana McCoy, there, over tuna salad on white. Oh, back then, finger sandwiches were made with real fingers, not the fake soy-based ones you get now. A handful of eccentrics, alcoholics and floaters walked the streets downtown. They were "characters," not "the homeless," and were simply the smallest part of Downtown's social ecology (this was pre-de-institutionalization). I remember a lumpen regular walking Downtown's streets in the worst of weather, his green work shirt and pants visibly stuffed with insulating newspapers. And a grizzled, old scarecrow who would ask for odd jobs: "I work at your house for a dollar," he would call as you walked by. And a harmless, screw-loose guy nicknamed Sashi who loped and pinballed all over town, talking non-stop to the lesser gods in his head, borrowing meal money from you one month, mutely placing accurate repayment in your hand six months later. Victoria was Downtown-centric, small, communal in ways likely never to reoccur here. You went to a movie or a show Downtown. The tiny Carnegie Library (information and inspiration came from books, then) was on the corner of Yates and Blanshard, beside the Odeon. Your doctor, dentist, lawyer, accountant and