No Kidding

Around my neighbourhood in Vancouver, it’s not uncommon to hear over the din of traffic a lone voice belting out arias. For decades, Opera Man, as he’s called by locals, has strolled the streets singing in Italian, and recently I heard an impassioned rendition of Aznavour’s “La Bohème.” Is this guy a delightful eccentric, dealing in whimsy and charm? Or is he a nuisance who interrupts, like clockwork, the area’s tranquility? It depends, of course. I’ve observed people shyly smile in enjoyment, ignore the spectacle altogether, or freeze mid-sentence, all senses alert to the possibility of danger — an emergency? a terrorist attack? — before the more benign reality makes itself clear.

Everyone has idiosyncrasies, of course, but it takes real commitment, perhaps even a costume, to become a full-fledged character or, better yet, a local legend. In the late 1960s, such an individual emerged, dressed in a motley of blue and red.

Joachim Foikis is the subject of...