Ah, back to the lulling hum and gentle back-and-forth of the train. I’m on day three of my five day journey home, having had plenty of time to evaluate my west coast trip from my not-so-luxurious seat in Economy class.
Here’s a list of tips and lessons-learned as a solo traveler on the west coast:
(1) Pack light. Very light. Next time I travel, which is in about two weeks, I’m going to bring two outfits: a pair of pants, a pair of shorts, two shirts, and a sweater. And I’m not going to bring clothes I’m particularly fond of, either. I will go into a thrift store, as I am wont to do, and buy a brand new outfit, while donating a piece from my backpack collection. Every time I buy one new thing, I will donate another from my sack. I bought way too much, and brought way too much: only my favourites came with me which made parting with them next to impossible, keeping my pack unnecessarily heavy. Lesson number one learnt.
(2) Avocado oil doubles as cooking oil and as body moisturizer. It’s nutritious and delicious for your insides and your skin. After surfing in the Pacific Ocean, my skin was as parched as a 12th century criminal left in the sun to burn to death (as seen at Medieval Times, yo). I slathered on this oil, originally purchased to make the killer stir-fry concocted at our B&B in Tofino, and I was immediately soft, lubricated and ready to jump through any tight space presented to me. I also like to slather on oil and imagine I’m a Greek goddess coming out of a royal bath with sexy attendants to help get the job done. Yes, I have weird fantasies. Deal.
(3) Wear crazy clothing. In addition to buying one-of-a-kind items at thrift stores, wear stuff that’s going to get attention. Since my goal on this trip was to couch surf and strictly avoid the starchy white sheets of a hotel room double bed, talking to strangers was the best “in” to scoring a spare room bed or love seat for the evening. The only “stranger” I stayed with was Trisha (and she started the conversation by complimenting my bag), since I’d planned beforehand to stay with everyone else, using that nifty thing called the internet. But had I required a place to stay, I could have easily turned, “Hey, nice shirt!” into an offer to stay the night. People in Victoria liked my hats, my shirts, my dresses – just another indication that it’s somewhere I should spend more time.
(4) When in doubt, ask a city bus driver. I found the drivers of the number 6 Downtown bus to be knowledgeable, forthright with information when asked, and honest about their opinion, especially when the topic is food. Keith, my first couch surfing host, highly recommended I try Kadoya, a sushi restaurant on Davie. On my last day, I hopped on the bus and asked the driver if he’d heard of it – he said he had, that his brother had gone and enjoyed himself greatly. We passed by Japadogs, another highly recommended place from Raina, and I told the driver I wanted off. He said, “For what? That place?” Yes, I told him. He said it was overrated, bland, not worth the money. I told him I’d stay on then. Sorry Raina! I’ll try a Japadog next time! As for Kadoya: totally awesome. Huge portions, “exotic” vegetarian options (I didn’t try it, but the wakame roll looked tasty!), good service, and best of all, reasonable price.
Here’s another lesson learned that is common knowledge to everyone but me: when buying fresh fruits or vegetables, remember that they rot. That’s it. I forgot that food goes bad, especially without a cooler or a bag of ice handy. I bought a big bag of food for my trip so as to avoid the $20 dollar dinners and the $15 dollar breakfast and lunches. I bought apples, baby carrots, oranges, corn-on-the-cob, avocado, cashews and granola. All but the last two were a bad idea. My beloved produce was starting to smell, but I didn’t want to NOT eat it since I’d paid so much cash-money. So I held my breath and ate that corn, and really, it didn’t taste THAT bad, and I was full afterwards, so I’d say it was a job well done.
Until I looked in the toilet bowl today after the MOST burningest shit of my life. Why was my poo, yellow and liquid, like orange juice with pulp? Why I ask, did I feel like I lost a few chunks of my lower intestines? Why was I in the little unisex cubicle that is the Via Rail Economy Class washroom for almost half-an-hour? Why? Probably because yours truly was eatin’ some rotten food. So fine. I’ll spend the money and splurge on a stupid four-course meal that will probably be delicious. Fine! If only I hadn’t purchased that cute little pink vintage one-piece bathing suit from Burca’s in Vancouver, we wouldn’t be in this shithole of a mess!
Here are some more words on the Economy experience. As I’ve mentioned, I’m out of money so the prospect of paying extra to upgrade is out of the question. My mom suggested that instead of asking the ticket sellers at the station – who have no freedom when it comes to price – that I ask the service attendants on the train, because they’re more likely to be lenient about money. Well, the train had been booming out of Vancouver for about twenty minutes when a man and woman walked up to the service manager and asked for an upgrade. I listened keenly. “You’re lookin’ at at least 3-and-a-half,” the employee told him. “What, really?” the man asked. “Yup, can’t change it, unfortunately.” Three and a half being $350 extra to sleep in a bed, meals included. They decided they’d sleep in their chair for the night. Me too. I don’t mind it so much. I’ve slept about six hours a night, with a few hour-long naps during the day. I’ve carved out a home at my seat.
During my first couple hours on the train I reflected on the stuff I’d brought with me in my bag. Easily the most underused piece of material in my arsenal was a big green blanket I brought just in case I should sleep outside or stay in a place without covers. I didn’t bring it out once during my trip. As I sat there thinking about this, people started walking up to the service manager (I sit across from him so I hear all the juicy complaints), asking if they’d be handing out blankets soon. In time past, an employee would walk along the aisle and offer a passenger a complimentary blanket, pillow, eye-cover, and ear plugs. “Blankets are seven dollars,” he responded, “as of last week.” And suddenly, this formerly useless blanket served a purpose. It’s been keeping me warm ever since. (Don’t we all love happy endings? Especially the ones where everyone suffers but the really cute protagonist?)
The social scene in Economy is bland. Without the hustle and bustle of the dining car, passengers are left to their own devices to start conversations, and that’s tough. I’ve talked to a couple people, but without seeing them at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it’s just not the same. I’m hoping some real live-wired board in Winnipeg and make this train ride exciting because so far, it’s been zzzzzz.
I’m in Winnipeg now for the three-hour-long break. Gonna find some real food! See you in Toronto, my lovelies!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Off the record, on the record
Hey guys! Have something to say about what you've read here? A question pertaining to the finer points of surfing, the couch or ocean varieties? Think I'm a goof and want to let me know in a humorous and entertaining fashion? Comment, because I'd love to hear from you! Don't be like my dad and wait for someone to comment first. Be a ground breaker, an earth shaker, a real life saver and write a note on my blog. I will love you forever!
Two nights ago Jen and I fixed the previous comment glitch so worry no more, formerly failed commenters. Your chance to be heard is neigh!
With love always,
Andrea
* * * * *
It was on Thursday that Jeanette sent me down to Victoria to stay with her sons, Jessie and Cam, at their party house in a suburb called Langford. Nick, their cousin, lives there too, along with Andrew, an unrelated but totally beloved roommate. They each have a dog, and Nick has two named Bailey and Angel. It's a lot of boys and a lot of dogs.
When Jessie introduced me to his housemates and to the many people who passed through that night, he'd say, "This is Andrea. She's writing a blog." Couch surfing was secondary. Andrea's writing a blog, that's why she's here. So what's your blog about? You gonna write about us? Can I say something off the record? Don't put this on your blog. Blog blog blog. I'm going to write about those boys and make them famous.
The night was fun. The drink of choice is Lucky Lager, and cigarettes are smoked in long chains. We sat on an elevated front yard deck around a big patio table. I sat and listened to stories about people they knew, people they hated, people they punched, people they fucked, people I'd never meet. I like those kinds of stories because I have to use my imagination to piece together personalities based on what is being said. It's nice to flex my creative muscles now and then.
I think it's safe to say that vegetarians are a minority on Vancouver Island. I was greeted at the house with, "We just shot a bear in the bush last week and now he's in the freezer! You want some?" I dropped the V-word and they looked at me like I was some kinda strange breed of human. Bear did sound interesting though. As the night progressed I was getting more and more curious and more and more drunk, and had they been sober enough to cook up a bear arm, I would have probably taken a bite. When would I eat fresh bear? When? They don't breed that shit on farms, man! A couple of guys went into the forest with the sole intention of proving their manhood by shooting a wild bear. They gutted it themselves and there it was in the freezer. Hell yes I'll sacrifice my morals for bragging rites. Who the hell eats bear?! No one in Ontario, that's for sure.
The next day I woke up in a bed - not because of some drunken night of sloppy west coast passion, but because Jessie offered to sleep on the couch while I stayed at the Casa de Man. I spent the day writing (have you SEEN how long that last post is? It took HOURS!) and then went outside for a walk. I had no idea where I was but I wanted food so I followed two teenage boys down the Galloping Goose Trail. If there's anyone who knows the way to food, it's a pair of pimply fourteen-year-old boys. From there I found your average suburban outdoor mall, ripe with a Shopper's Drug Mart, Best Buy, Blockbuster, Boston Pizza, and luckily for me, a Cob's Bread where I bought myself a bland spinach and feta croissant. It was all butter and no feta, with limp and soggy green stuff making the rare appearance. So I went to a Superstore - which I've seen plenty of on the other coast but never in the middle - to buy myself some apples.
I walked in and felt lost. It was like Costco but with lower shelves, glossier floors, and an admirable attempt at supermarket interior design. There were signs going every which way for sales and PC Points and TOMORROW IS SENIORS DAY GET 10% OFF while the apples were no where to be seen. I walked over to an older woman at a table stationed at the shampoo aisle with a big bowl of BBQ chips and two competing brands of ketchup. Testers: easily the best part about going to any big-ass supermarket. I'll take free food when I can get it, even if part of the deal is thinking about whether I'd prefer this ketchup over that ketchup. The taste-test didn't even make sense. Lick ketchup off this chip, then lick ketchup off the same strongly-flavoured chip and tell me which one you like better. I'm not even tasting ketchup lady, I'm tasting barbeque chicken! At any rate, I said I liked "this" ketchup better and it turned out to be the wrong answer. "Oh," she said. "You actually chose the Heinz over our PC Brand ketchup which has 50% less sodium but all the same ingredients. I guess you like salt." Yes, I guess I do.
While we were sharing this moment in brand-name heaven, I decided to ask her if the Galloping Goose Trail led to Victoria and how long it would take me to get there. "You wanna get to Victoria? No... that's at least 16k dear, you're in for a walk. You really wanna walk there?" I told her maybe not all the way, but just as something to do. Then she told me that was all fine and good but to stay off the Galloping Goose come night time. Rapes and murders were common at night, and last week they found the body of a missing fourteen-year-old girl burnt to a crisp. They prey on young girls like me in the Galloping Goose, she said. Okay, I told her, I won't go on the trail at night, but she kept going. There's flashers too, perverts are common because they can get away with it, there's no supervision. Okay. Lots of wild animals too, but look out for the rapists. Kay, but where are the apples? Girls get murdered on that trail, girls that look like you! OKAY BYE THANKS.
I found the apples and got some strawberries while I was at it because they were a dollar a pound. Why, I do not know, but I jumped on that bandwagon fast. I figured maybe the boys would like a treat. I went back to the trail with an apple in my hand and walked for about half-an-hour until I realized I might have gone the wrong way. I looked at a map and concluded that yes, I had gone the wrong way, and turned back immediately. Having dumbly not read any street signs on my way to the path, I relied solely on familiar visual clues to tell me where I was. That was a bad idea. I walked right by my exit point for another half-an-hour until I knew for sure that I hadn't seen what I was seeing before. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed this big beautiful lake or this field full of alpaca if I passed it before... so I turned back again, and finally made it home.
Nick was there. "I brought you guys some strawberries," I said. "Aww sweet, I fucking LOVE strawberries!" he responded, and that made me happy. Later I was lounging about Jessie's room upstairs doing hoodrat things on the internet when Nick asked from downstairs if I was bored. He was going to the skate park and wanted to know if I wanted a ride to hang out there or to explore downtown Victoria. I was doubledogdown for seeing this city that I plan on living in some day, so I promptly took him up on that offer.
I stepped into his beat up, low-riding, two-door, little red car. The windshield was mostly shattered on the passenger's side. We made a pitstop at a bar where I'd meet his mother, his brother, and his best friend. They all knew me before I got there since I'd stayed with his aunt Jenette in Nanaimo. His mom asked me to go get a glass for myself at the bar and have some of their pitcher of beer. I said "ummm," and a few minutes later she said she'd just go and grab me a glass herself. She poured me a beer, but with "a brief stop at the bar to see my mom and then we'll go" in mind, I pounded it back fast. "She's a fast drinker for a girl from Ontario!" she said, and promptly poured me another. Well, shit. I pounded that one back, too.
I walked with Cory and Nick to the skate park then went on my own merry way in search of a good Value Village that was apparently in the area. I got lost again but at the very least I saw Chinatown, which is the oldest Chinatown in Canada, don'tchaknow. I sat on a bench and Nick happened to be driving by, so after dropping his parents off somewheres he picked me up. Jordon asked me if I wanted to party with them - the guys, not his parents - and I said yes, and he said really, and I said yes, so we arranged that yes, I would do some partying with them. We went back to Langford where I grabbed my contact solution with its case and my back pack, followed up by putting on my gramma's famous white flower dress. I was ready to go clubbing.
I met the dudes and dudette at the Jordan and Cory residence and felt I was in good company. Some of that familiar beer drinking and cigarette smoking took place on a backyard patio over introductions and more talk of this blog I was writing. After that, we hopped into taxis and headed toward a karaoke bar called Sopranos.
The bar was big, complete with a stage, a mic and a DJ in the back. There was a dance floor too that was occasionally crowded with tipsy and drunken dancers, myself and the guys included. I had one pint and stopped there, but the others didn't. The normally bromancing BFFers, Nick and Cory, ended up fighting in the parking lot. Cory kicked him in the hip and Nick responded by punching him in the face. People were commenting, some walking by and taunting, but no effort was made to break them up. Let the fight run it's course. Someone said, "Hey look, those two are making out" and pointed to a pick-up truck to my right. I watched the kissing couple for a while instead of watching two friends fight. I watched the woman's head disappear from beyond the dashboard, her bleach-blonde hair occasionally bopping into view. The man sat in the passenger seat looking mildly amused. I was laughing, but the peepshow got boring and I turned my attention back to the brawl on the pavement. They were still down there, wrapped lovingly like UFC fighters in each others limbs saying, "Let go of me. Let go of me!" Jordon and I got into a taxi, and Nick and Cory slowly followed.
Midway through the ride Cory decided he didn't like the taxi driver so he opened his door to get out. The car was still moving. Many "whoa whoa whoa WHOA WHOA whoa Cory"s later and the taxi was stopped, Cory running out of the car and Nick following close behind. Before he stepped out to get his BFF, Nick graciously paid the driver $14 which covered the rest of our journey. When we started moving again I noticed he'd also dropped some change onto the seat. "Give it to me," the driver said. "No," I responded, "it's not yours." "If anyone should have it," Jordan said, "it should be me. My brother dropped it. Family first." I gave him the change. The mood was tense but still semi-lighthearted. Jordan was sitting in the front seat and him and the driver had some words. He asked to be let out. The meter was at $13.25. "You owe me money!" the driver said. "I saw him pay $14.00! We don't owe you anything!" I said. "What would you know? It's dark in here," spoken with a dismissive laugh. I never in all my taxi-taking years have dealt with such a shiester! As we stepped out of the car Jordan grabbed a handful of gravel from the road and tossed it over his shoulder onto the car's back windshield. We continued walking away as the driver stepped out to investigate the damage, yelling we were lucky that the window wasn't broken.
I slept in close quarters on a futon with Nick, while Cory and Jordan passed out on a couch behind us. I shared my pillow with Cory's feet but that was okay because they didn't smell and my head doesn't take up much space. He was still in rough shape in the morning, and the entire day really, the probable victim of alcohol poisoning. We lounged around for a long time before deciding to dine at the always upscale Denny's franchise. I ate a veggie burger and hush brown cubes - my first meal ever at Denny's and my first real meal in two days. The day before I had that apple, and that croissant, and also five strawberries. The rest was beer. Filling, filling, beer. Not bear. Beer.
Although I greatly enjoyed their company, I didn't want to overstay my welcome. I decided to take the ferry back to Vancouver that evening, the only problem being that I could not get a hold of the couple I planned to stay with for my last couple of days in the city. I got to the ferry around 7:30 where I found out that the next departure was at 9:00, meaning I'd arrive in Vancouver at 10:30. From the Tsawwassen ferry terminal it would take me another hour-and-a-half to get to my destination, a basement apartment on Dundas Street. I stood there for about a minute before calling Jen to see if I could spend the night. I didn't want to be in Vancouver at midnight without a place to stay, inevitably having to pay for a hotel room. I'm accustomed to the couch surfing lifestyle now, I don't PAY for accommodation, not with money anyway. I pay by exchanging hugs, telling stories, helping create meals... so back on the bus I went, back to Jen and her beautiful home and beautiful garden, beautiful cooking and beautiful her. It was a wise decision.
I realized later the next day that I'd left my beloved steel-toe Dox in Jessie's room, a loss that inspired a slightly manic panic attack. I've left something behind at almost every place I've been, unintentionally. I left my conductor's hat at Jenette's, my shampoo at Jen's, and now my boots at Jessie's. Durr. I eventually got a hold of him and after a failed attempt to go pick it up with Jen, he said he'd mail them to me. Yay! Great success. My boots will get to travel a bit more without me.
So I arrived in Vancouver last night, taking the 9:00 PM ferry from Victoria. I got into downtown at midnight, taking the #16 bus to East Hastings. Oh, crap... East Hastings, I thought. The one place to avoid at night! East Hastings is fine during the day when the junkies are shootin' up under the supervision of the police department, but at night! Midnight on a Sunday night! They were like zombies shaking their limbs about, going through BRAIIIIINS-withdrawals. It was awful. I hated being on that bus for that stretch of Hastings. Luckily Leah and Adrien live a bit away from the super sketchmo area that is the crackhead village and I arrived safe and sound. I was shown my room and went to bed.
Now it's the second last day of my stay in Vancouver! I hop back onto the train tomorrow and will arrive in T-Dot on June 26th. I reckon I'll stick around a week or two, get myself settled, then head back on the tracks again for the next installment in my summer of xCanadax goodness: the Maritimes! Woo!
Two nights ago Jen and I fixed the previous comment glitch so worry no more, formerly failed commenters. Your chance to be heard is neigh!
With love always,
Andrea
* * * * *
It was on Thursday that Jeanette sent me down to Victoria to stay with her sons, Jessie and Cam, at their party house in a suburb called Langford. Nick, their cousin, lives there too, along with Andrew, an unrelated but totally beloved roommate. They each have a dog, and Nick has two named Bailey and Angel. It's a lot of boys and a lot of dogs.
When Jessie introduced me to his housemates and to the many people who passed through that night, he'd say, "This is Andrea. She's writing a blog." Couch surfing was secondary. Andrea's writing a blog, that's why she's here. So what's your blog about? You gonna write about us? Can I say something off the record? Don't put this on your blog. Blog blog blog. I'm going to write about those boys and make them famous.
The night was fun. The drink of choice is Lucky Lager, and cigarettes are smoked in long chains. We sat on an elevated front yard deck around a big patio table. I sat and listened to stories about people they knew, people they hated, people they punched, people they fucked, people I'd never meet. I like those kinds of stories because I have to use my imagination to piece together personalities based on what is being said. It's nice to flex my creative muscles now and then.
I think it's safe to say that vegetarians are a minority on Vancouver Island. I was greeted at the house with, "We just shot a bear in the bush last week and now he's in the freezer! You want some?" I dropped the V-word and they looked at me like I was some kinda strange breed of human. Bear did sound interesting though. As the night progressed I was getting more and more curious and more and more drunk, and had they been sober enough to cook up a bear arm, I would have probably taken a bite. When would I eat fresh bear? When? They don't breed that shit on farms, man! A couple of guys went into the forest with the sole intention of proving their manhood by shooting a wild bear. They gutted it themselves and there it was in the freezer. Hell yes I'll sacrifice my morals for bragging rites. Who the hell eats bear?! No one in Ontario, that's for sure.
The next day I woke up in a bed - not because of some drunken night of sloppy west coast passion, but because Jessie offered to sleep on the couch while I stayed at the Casa de Man. I spent the day writing (have you SEEN how long that last post is? It took HOURS!) and then went outside for a walk. I had no idea where I was but I wanted food so I followed two teenage boys down the Galloping Goose Trail. If there's anyone who knows the way to food, it's a pair of pimply fourteen-year-old boys. From there I found your average suburban outdoor mall, ripe with a Shopper's Drug Mart, Best Buy, Blockbuster, Boston Pizza, and luckily for me, a Cob's Bread where I bought myself a bland spinach and feta croissant. It was all butter and no feta, with limp and soggy green stuff making the rare appearance. So I went to a Superstore - which I've seen plenty of on the other coast but never in the middle - to buy myself some apples.
I walked in and felt lost. It was like Costco but with lower shelves, glossier floors, and an admirable attempt at supermarket interior design. There were signs going every which way for sales and PC Points and TOMORROW IS SENIORS DAY GET 10% OFF while the apples were no where to be seen. I walked over to an older woman at a table stationed at the shampoo aisle with a big bowl of BBQ chips and two competing brands of ketchup. Testers: easily the best part about going to any big-ass supermarket. I'll take free food when I can get it, even if part of the deal is thinking about whether I'd prefer this ketchup over that ketchup. The taste-test didn't even make sense. Lick ketchup off this chip, then lick ketchup off the same strongly-flavoured chip and tell me which one you like better. I'm not even tasting ketchup lady, I'm tasting barbeque chicken! At any rate, I said I liked "this" ketchup better and it turned out to be the wrong answer. "Oh," she said. "You actually chose the Heinz over our PC Brand ketchup which has 50% less sodium but all the same ingredients. I guess you like salt." Yes, I guess I do.
While we were sharing this moment in brand-name heaven, I decided to ask her if the Galloping Goose Trail led to Victoria and how long it would take me to get there. "You wanna get to Victoria? No... that's at least 16k dear, you're in for a walk. You really wanna walk there?" I told her maybe not all the way, but just as something to do. Then she told me that was all fine and good but to stay off the Galloping Goose come night time. Rapes and murders were common at night, and last week they found the body of a missing fourteen-year-old girl burnt to a crisp. They prey on young girls like me in the Galloping Goose, she said. Okay, I told her, I won't go on the trail at night, but she kept going. There's flashers too, perverts are common because they can get away with it, there's no supervision. Okay. Lots of wild animals too, but look out for the rapists. Kay, but where are the apples? Girls get murdered on that trail, girls that look like you! OKAY BYE THANKS.
I found the apples and got some strawberries while I was at it because they were a dollar a pound. Why, I do not know, but I jumped on that bandwagon fast. I figured maybe the boys would like a treat. I went back to the trail with an apple in my hand and walked for about half-an-hour until I realized I might have gone the wrong way. I looked at a map and concluded that yes, I had gone the wrong way, and turned back immediately. Having dumbly not read any street signs on my way to the path, I relied solely on familiar visual clues to tell me where I was. That was a bad idea. I walked right by my exit point for another half-an-hour until I knew for sure that I hadn't seen what I was seeing before. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed this big beautiful lake or this field full of alpaca if I passed it before... so I turned back again, and finally made it home.
Nick was there. "I brought you guys some strawberries," I said. "Aww sweet, I fucking LOVE strawberries!" he responded, and that made me happy. Later I was lounging about Jessie's room upstairs doing hoodrat things on the internet when Nick asked from downstairs if I was bored. He was going to the skate park and wanted to know if I wanted a ride to hang out there or to explore downtown Victoria. I was doubledogdown for seeing this city that I plan on living in some day, so I promptly took him up on that offer.
I stepped into his beat up, low-riding, two-door, little red car. The windshield was mostly shattered on the passenger's side. We made a pitstop at a bar where I'd meet his mother, his brother, and his best friend. They all knew me before I got there since I'd stayed with his aunt Jenette in Nanaimo. His mom asked me to go get a glass for myself at the bar and have some of their pitcher of beer. I said "ummm," and a few minutes later she said she'd just go and grab me a glass herself. She poured me a beer, but with "a brief stop at the bar to see my mom and then we'll go" in mind, I pounded it back fast. "She's a fast drinker for a girl from Ontario!" she said, and promptly poured me another. Well, shit. I pounded that one back, too.
I walked with Cory and Nick to the skate park then went on my own merry way in search of a good Value Village that was apparently in the area. I got lost again but at the very least I saw Chinatown, which is the oldest Chinatown in Canada, don'tchaknow. I sat on a bench and Nick happened to be driving by, so after dropping his parents off somewheres he picked me up. Jordon asked me if I wanted to party with them - the guys, not his parents - and I said yes, and he said really, and I said yes, so we arranged that yes, I would do some partying with them. We went back to Langford where I grabbed my contact solution with its case and my back pack, followed up by putting on my gramma's famous white flower dress. I was ready to go clubbing.
I met the dudes and dudette at the Jordan and Cory residence and felt I was in good company. Some of that familiar beer drinking and cigarette smoking took place on a backyard patio over introductions and more talk of this blog I was writing. After that, we hopped into taxis and headed toward a karaoke bar called Sopranos.
The bar was big, complete with a stage, a mic and a DJ in the back. There was a dance floor too that was occasionally crowded with tipsy and drunken dancers, myself and the guys included. I had one pint and stopped there, but the others didn't. The normally bromancing BFFers, Nick and Cory, ended up fighting in the parking lot. Cory kicked him in the hip and Nick responded by punching him in the face. People were commenting, some walking by and taunting, but no effort was made to break them up. Let the fight run it's course. Someone said, "Hey look, those two are making out" and pointed to a pick-up truck to my right. I watched the kissing couple for a while instead of watching two friends fight. I watched the woman's head disappear from beyond the dashboard, her bleach-blonde hair occasionally bopping into view. The man sat in the passenger seat looking mildly amused. I was laughing, but the peepshow got boring and I turned my attention back to the brawl on the pavement. They were still down there, wrapped lovingly like UFC fighters in each others limbs saying, "Let go of me. Let go of me!" Jordon and I got into a taxi, and Nick and Cory slowly followed.
Midway through the ride Cory decided he didn't like the taxi driver so he opened his door to get out. The car was still moving. Many "whoa whoa whoa WHOA WHOA whoa Cory"s later and the taxi was stopped, Cory running out of the car and Nick following close behind. Before he stepped out to get his BFF, Nick graciously paid the driver $14 which covered the rest of our journey. When we started moving again I noticed he'd also dropped some change onto the seat. "Give it to me," the driver said. "No," I responded, "it's not yours." "If anyone should have it," Jordan said, "it should be me. My brother dropped it. Family first." I gave him the change. The mood was tense but still semi-lighthearted. Jordan was sitting in the front seat and him and the driver had some words. He asked to be let out. The meter was at $13.25. "You owe me money!" the driver said. "I saw him pay $14.00! We don't owe you anything!" I said. "What would you know? It's dark in here," spoken with a dismissive laugh. I never in all my taxi-taking years have dealt with such a shiester! As we stepped out of the car Jordan grabbed a handful of gravel from the road and tossed it over his shoulder onto the car's back windshield. We continued walking away as the driver stepped out to investigate the damage, yelling we were lucky that the window wasn't broken.
I slept in close quarters on a futon with Nick, while Cory and Jordan passed out on a couch behind us. I shared my pillow with Cory's feet but that was okay because they didn't smell and my head doesn't take up much space. He was still in rough shape in the morning, and the entire day really, the probable victim of alcohol poisoning. We lounged around for a long time before deciding to dine at the always upscale Denny's franchise. I ate a veggie burger and hush brown cubes - my first meal ever at Denny's and my first real meal in two days. The day before I had that apple, and that croissant, and also five strawberries. The rest was beer. Filling, filling, beer. Not bear. Beer.
Although I greatly enjoyed their company, I didn't want to overstay my welcome. I decided to take the ferry back to Vancouver that evening, the only problem being that I could not get a hold of the couple I planned to stay with for my last couple of days in the city. I got to the ferry around 7:30 where I found out that the next departure was at 9:00, meaning I'd arrive in Vancouver at 10:30. From the Tsawwassen ferry terminal it would take me another hour-and-a-half to get to my destination, a basement apartment on Dundas Street. I stood there for about a minute before calling Jen to see if I could spend the night. I didn't want to be in Vancouver at midnight without a place to stay, inevitably having to pay for a hotel room. I'm accustomed to the couch surfing lifestyle now, I don't PAY for accommodation, not with money anyway. I pay by exchanging hugs, telling stories, helping create meals... so back on the bus I went, back to Jen and her beautiful home and beautiful garden, beautiful cooking and beautiful her. It was a wise decision.
I realized later the next day that I'd left my beloved steel-toe Dox in Jessie's room, a loss that inspired a slightly manic panic attack. I've left something behind at almost every place I've been, unintentionally. I left my conductor's hat at Jenette's, my shampoo at Jen's, and now my boots at Jessie's. Durr. I eventually got a hold of him and after a failed attempt to go pick it up with Jen, he said he'd mail them to me. Yay! Great success. My boots will get to travel a bit more without me.
So I arrived in Vancouver last night, taking the 9:00 PM ferry from Victoria. I got into downtown at midnight, taking the #16 bus to East Hastings. Oh, crap... East Hastings, I thought. The one place to avoid at night! East Hastings is fine during the day when the junkies are shootin' up under the supervision of the police department, but at night! Midnight on a Sunday night! They were like zombies shaking their limbs about, going through BRAIIIIINS-withdrawals. It was awful. I hated being on that bus for that stretch of Hastings. Luckily Leah and Adrien live a bit away from the super sketchmo area that is the crackhead village and I arrived safe and sound. I was shown my room and went to bed.
Now it's the second last day of my stay in Vancouver! I hop back onto the train tomorrow and will arrive in T-Dot on June 26th. I reckon I'll stick around a week or two, get myself settled, then head back on the tracks again for the next installment in my summer of xCanadax goodness: the Maritimes! Woo!
Friday, June 18, 2010
Island adventures
Port Renfrew
On Sunday, Jen and I made the two-and-a-half hour car ride to Barnacle Beach, located north-west of Victoria on the western coast of Vancouver Island. We parked the car and made our way to the Juan de Fuco trail, one of the many that line this coast of the island, and tried to find a path to the beach. After nearly forty minutes of hiking and assuming we must have missed a sign, we found some steps leading toward the pacific ocean.
And there it was. Milky white water rushed between two beds of rock, foaming and rising, slowly retreating. It was sexual. I got giddy like I'd never been giddy before. The only thing I could think of that compared to its magnificence was the fountain at the Eaton Center that shoots up water at unsuspecting shoppers from the ground floor to the third. Yeah. That's sad. No wonder seeing gushing water hit rocks was a religious experience.
After all the hiking and the rock finding and the sea-urchin touching and the ocean admiring, we were hungry. We drove out to a nice grassy spot down the way and dined on swiss cheese sandwiches, apples, whole tomatoes, and sliced green peppers. Jen also made a delightful lime and water drink that she stored in an empty wine bottle. I think it's a great idea for a reusable liquid receptacle. Recycle, reuse, look like a drunk in public. Aww yeah.
We took the long, scenic route back to Victoria and what I saw out my window was not just oceans and bears and three-hundred year-old trees. The Trans-Canada highway wound us up and down mountains, revealing hidden and not-so-hidden patches of deforestation. It's strange - a big lush forest with a wide chunk of nothing in between. Like a hairy man's back after one painful wax strip has ripped off three inches of hair. Or like big pubic mounds of hair RIPPED from their roots in horribly unexpected bursts. Isn't that an awful image? Deforestation is basically land-rape. Imagine (or, ladies, go back to that elementary school fight where you and that girl totally rumbled) getting your hair ripped out, without any context or forewarning - someone just comes up to you while you're maxin' and relaxin' and pulls your hair out by the handful. Then, as a severance, offers you some cheap and poorly cultivated hair-plugs to cover up the spot. Yeah, that'll do it. And the hair grows really slowly, so you look stupid. Deforestation is ugly, brutal land-rape. But that's progress, right?
When we arrived in Victoria, Jen decided to give me a tour of downtown since I hadn't seen it yet. I'm not sure why I liked it so much, but I was filled with heretical anti-Toronto feelings and the strong urge to leave my birthplace and move here. The architecture is beautiful, it's on the water, there are amazing views of the city and of the Olympic mountains, the people are super chill, there are gardens, it's a small city close to the bush. I thought about transferring schools. The University of Victoria has amazing creative writing classes, and I thought maybe I could finish my undergrad there. But considering I'm going into my forth year, I figured I might as well finish my undergrad at home this year, then do my masters out there. So anyway, that's a life plan for you - finish school then move out here and do some more.
The Road to Tofino: Wibbletree Junction and Chemainus
On Monday I said goodbye to Jen, my most gracious host, and hello to Trisha, my new friend from the ferry. We got in her big red Government of Canada: Natural Resources pick-up truck and rode toward Tofino where she'd be fixing seismographs. The government was paying for this trip. They covered transportation, gas, accommodation, AND she was getting paid for the work - 20 minutes of unscrewing the lid of a little box and changing the battery. It's not difficult work, but it shouldn't be taken lightly either - these little boxes warn the residents of Vancouver Island about impending earthquakes and tsunamis. Serious stuff, but also pretty awesome stuff.
Trisha had mentioned there was a place called Wibbletree Junction advertised on the TourismBC signs along the highway. She said she went once to see what it was - a giant tree, perhaps? a junction of preserved ancient roads? criss-crossing train tracks at a tree called Wibble? Turns out Wibbletree Junction is a thrift store. A thrift store! Trisha was surprised a thrift store could make it to the TourismBC signs, but I believed in the magic before I even saw the place.
It was a warehouse for antiques and curious items. Old parlour video games, jukeboxes, lamps and chairs and cabinets. Plates, bowls, a vase of every colour and style. They also had an extensive clothes section. That day, all garments were 99 cents. I found a 60s-70s era London Fog raincoat that I was willing to splurge on, but found out happily at the cash register about the sale. Very happily. Hallelujah happily. I like a good sale.
When we met, Trisha said something about a small town called Chemainus. Like many towns on the Island, the main industry was forestry and the main employer the pulp mill. When the mill shut down and made their economy mulch (hurrrr), the town commissioned local artists to paint 39 outdoor murals on buildings and houses highlighting the history and culture of Chemainus. A tactic that seems to have worked out pretty well for them: 300,000 people a year pass through the town of 5,000 and bear witness to one of Canada's biggest outdoor art galleries.
Ladysmith
I had a date with Ladysmith the moment I got on the Island. It's where my dad and Pamela Anderson were born, the former leaving when he was two, and returning once to visit in 1979. While he was there he took a picture of himself (before it was popular) in front of the railway station in Ladysmith, commemorating his father who worked as a logger and as a rail man. I told my dad that when I got to Ladysmith I'd take a picture of myself in front of the railway station too, thirty years later, to commemorate him.
But first we had to find the place. There's a rickety train that runs everyday from Victoria to Courtenay and back - a two-car passenger train that is engine and caboose. It moves very slowly because there are many stops and many attempted suicides. Sad, but true. The stations are small and as far as I know, don't include a ticket kiosk because you pay on the train. It's some old timey goodness. The station in Ladysmith is hidden away and boarded up, but with two makeshift parking spots nearby, people get on and off without a problem.
I went into a marina and asked two men where I could find the train station. I forgot I was wearing my conductor's hat. "So wait, you don't know where you put the train?" one of them asked. "I got drunk last night and I can't find it!" They told me it was up the hill. There were trains however, calling our names. They weren't barricaded which meant that we had free-reign over the steam engine and the boxcar. Hilarious photo sequence, begin.
For Dad.
Tofino
We arrived at our destination after a pitstop in Ucluelet where we (that is, Trisha - I only watched and held a light) fixed a seismograph, located in the crawlspace under a janitor's closet of a local high school. After that awesomeness, we found a bed and breakfast called Paddler's Inn right on the water for $89/night. It was a nice place with a comfy bed and a great view, all a humble traveler could ask for. We decided we'd buy some food at the grocery store to cook at the B&B, though it was against the official policy of no-cooking-in-our-breakfast-kitchen. They said that as long as the smells weren't too strong (the kitchen and the rooms are on the same floor), we could cook. Together we made a delicious vegetable stir-fry, with some black beans and the famous Sophandrea barley and oat combo, which involves mixing rolled oats and barley in a pot and cooking it like rice. Mmm, mmm, MMM!
The next day, after we passed out on wine and tarot cards, we signed ourselves up for surfing lessons at the Surf Sister Surf School. I was feeling a bit nervous about shreadin' mad waves at Chesterman Beach, having never done it before. A group of us met at the school, did a roll call, introduced ourselves and got friendly, then hopped back into our vehicles to head for the beach. We had been assigned wet suits based on our height and weight, so ours were waiting for us when we arrived. They take at least five minutes to squeeze a body through - the foam becomes skin. Then we were assigned to a teacher, Naomi from Wales, who showed Trisha and I the theory and practice of surfing.
Wet suits are amazing. I didn't feel the cold Pacific water at all. Without one, I would have surely been dead. I left my borrowed-from-Katie camera on the beach while I surfed so I could take a picture of us after a hard day's work. We surfed for two-and-a-half hours and I rocked that biz, standing up a couple times on my board. There's something nice about being in the water and playing with it like that, riding out the waves instead of attempting to stop them. The king of cups is a surfer, a master of the emotions, the smooth rider of emotional waves. When the lesson was over I walked back to the sand with my board in hand, invigorated and tired, excited to take a picture of this moment. Naomi tried to turn the camera on. She handed it to me - I couldn't turn it on either. Sand and salt water invaded the camera and toasted it's ass. Sorry Katie, but I think it's broken for good. Forgivinus please.
Nanaimo
Trisha dropped me off in Nanaimo and after some confusion and some goodbyes, I jumped into a car driven by Jenette, my new couch surfing host for the next two nights. She and her husband Marc live in Cedar, a town ten minutes away from Nanaimo, in a house that makes me want to jump for joy and scream THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I'VE EVER SEEN! There's one guest bedroom, a very large bathroom ("I like my bathrooms big," Jenette says) and the rest is big open space, with stairs that lead to the master bedroom, loft-styles. There's a patio overlooking the mountain landscape, and a hot tub, too. The cool thing about couch surfing is that I can stay in a nicer place than I could hope to afford. I was in heaven.
They've got that mineral water, that soft and silky shower water flowing through the pipes. Showering was nice though the water on its own smells and tastes like liquid rotten eggs. A small price to pay for soft skin (and all the other benefits). In the evening we were invited to Peter the 70 years-and-going Norweigan Navy Man's converted fishing boat, now home. The three of us went over and I was introduced to a sea of interesting characters including Jill, Tracy and Milt, all of whom were at least 40 years old. We set sail, drank beer, discussed Ladysmith, told stories, admired the scenery, passed around a joint (!!!!) and ate sushi and nachos. It was an amazing night I won't forget.
I'd planned to spend the next night in Courtenay but when I emailed my host to confirm, she responded that her sister would be staying over and that there was no room for me. Plan = thwarted. Jenette quickly offered her sons' house in Victoria, an option I deliberated on for a while. Then I decided, what the hell, I'll go stay in a house full of mostly single guys in their 20s for a night or two. What's the worst that can happen? I trust Jenette to whip them into shape if they step outta line. So back on the train I went, met by Jessie who I recognized immediately because his mother had showed me all his photos on facebook. "I know what you looked like in 2007," I told him.
Victoria
That happened yesterday, and today I sit in a comfy leather chair in Jessie's penthouse suite upstairs. He graciously offered me his room while I'm here, which is a very nice gesture. Five guys live here, I think, and they all work in construction. They're off at around 7:30 AM and back between 4:00-6:00. So here I am alone, in this big empty house, with time to finally set my experiences down in writing. It's heavenly. Oh, and yesterday we partied pretty hard. Well, I mean, not too hard, I want to be conscious enough to swat away dicks from my butt if the situation calls for it. But naw, they're really nice guys, they're not pulling stuff like that. I mean, maybe they'd try... but ain't no dicks gettin' in my butt, okay? Shit.
On Sunday, Jen and I made the two-and-a-half hour car ride to Barnacle Beach, located north-west of Victoria on the western coast of Vancouver Island. We parked the car and made our way to the Juan de Fuco trail, one of the many that line this coast of the island, and tried to find a path to the beach. After nearly forty minutes of hiking and assuming we must have missed a sign, we found some steps leading toward the pacific ocean.
And there it was. Milky white water rushed between two beds of rock, foaming and rising, slowly retreating. It was sexual. I got giddy like I'd never been giddy before. The only thing I could think of that compared to its magnificence was the fountain at the Eaton Center that shoots up water at unsuspecting shoppers from the ground floor to the third. Yeah. That's sad. No wonder seeing gushing water hit rocks was a religious experience.
After all the hiking and the rock finding and the sea-urchin touching and the ocean admiring, we were hungry. We drove out to a nice grassy spot down the way and dined on swiss cheese sandwiches, apples, whole tomatoes, and sliced green peppers. Jen also made a delightful lime and water drink that she stored in an empty wine bottle. I think it's a great idea for a reusable liquid receptacle. Recycle, reuse, look like a drunk in public. Aww yeah.
We took the long, scenic route back to Victoria and what I saw out my window was not just oceans and bears and three-hundred year-old trees. The Trans-Canada highway wound us up and down mountains, revealing hidden and not-so-hidden patches of deforestation. It's strange - a big lush forest with a wide chunk of nothing in between. Like a hairy man's back after one painful wax strip has ripped off three inches of hair. Or like big pubic mounds of hair RIPPED from their roots in horribly unexpected bursts. Isn't that an awful image? Deforestation is basically land-rape. Imagine (or, ladies, go back to that elementary school fight where you and that girl totally rumbled) getting your hair ripped out, without any context or forewarning - someone just comes up to you while you're maxin' and relaxin' and pulls your hair out by the handful. Then, as a severance, offers you some cheap and poorly cultivated hair-plugs to cover up the spot. Yeah, that'll do it. And the hair grows really slowly, so you look stupid. Deforestation is ugly, brutal land-rape. But that's progress, right?
When we arrived in Victoria, Jen decided to give me a tour of downtown since I hadn't seen it yet. I'm not sure why I liked it so much, but I was filled with heretical anti-Toronto feelings and the strong urge to leave my birthplace and move here. The architecture is beautiful, it's on the water, there are amazing views of the city and of the Olympic mountains, the people are super chill, there are gardens, it's a small city close to the bush. I thought about transferring schools. The University of Victoria has amazing creative writing classes, and I thought maybe I could finish my undergrad there. But considering I'm going into my forth year, I figured I might as well finish my undergrad at home this year, then do my masters out there. So anyway, that's a life plan for you - finish school then move out here and do some more.
The Road to Tofino: Wibbletree Junction and Chemainus
On Monday I said goodbye to Jen, my most gracious host, and hello to Trisha, my new friend from the ferry. We got in her big red Government of Canada: Natural Resources pick-up truck and rode toward Tofino where she'd be fixing seismographs. The government was paying for this trip. They covered transportation, gas, accommodation, AND she was getting paid for the work - 20 minutes of unscrewing the lid of a little box and changing the battery. It's not difficult work, but it shouldn't be taken lightly either - these little boxes warn the residents of Vancouver Island about impending earthquakes and tsunamis. Serious stuff, but also pretty awesome stuff.
Trisha had mentioned there was a place called Wibbletree Junction advertised on the TourismBC signs along the highway. She said she went once to see what it was - a giant tree, perhaps? a junction of preserved ancient roads? criss-crossing train tracks at a tree called Wibble? Turns out Wibbletree Junction is a thrift store. A thrift store! Trisha was surprised a thrift store could make it to the TourismBC signs, but I believed in the magic before I even saw the place.
It was a warehouse for antiques and curious items. Old parlour video games, jukeboxes, lamps and chairs and cabinets. Plates, bowls, a vase of every colour and style. They also had an extensive clothes section. That day, all garments were 99 cents. I found a 60s-70s era London Fog raincoat that I was willing to splurge on, but found out happily at the cash register about the sale. Very happily. Hallelujah happily. I like a good sale.
When we met, Trisha said something about a small town called Chemainus. Like many towns on the Island, the main industry was forestry and the main employer the pulp mill. When the mill shut down and made their economy mulch (hurrrr), the town commissioned local artists to paint 39 outdoor murals on buildings and houses highlighting the history and culture of Chemainus. A tactic that seems to have worked out pretty well for them: 300,000 people a year pass through the town of 5,000 and bear witness to one of Canada's biggest outdoor art galleries.
Ladysmith
I had a date with Ladysmith the moment I got on the Island. It's where my dad and Pamela Anderson were born, the former leaving when he was two, and returning once to visit in 1979. While he was there he took a picture of himself (before it was popular) in front of the railway station in Ladysmith, commemorating his father who worked as a logger and as a rail man. I told my dad that when I got to Ladysmith I'd take a picture of myself in front of the railway station too, thirty years later, to commemorate him.
But first we had to find the place. There's a rickety train that runs everyday from Victoria to Courtenay and back - a two-car passenger train that is engine and caboose. It moves very slowly because there are many stops and many attempted suicides. Sad, but true. The stations are small and as far as I know, don't include a ticket kiosk because you pay on the train. It's some old timey goodness. The station in Ladysmith is hidden away and boarded up, but with two makeshift parking spots nearby, people get on and off without a problem.
I went into a marina and asked two men where I could find the train station. I forgot I was wearing my conductor's hat. "So wait, you don't know where you put the train?" one of them asked. "I got drunk last night and I can't find it!" They told me it was up the hill. There were trains however, calling our names. They weren't barricaded which meant that we had free-reign over the steam engine and the boxcar. Hilarious photo sequence, begin.
For Dad.
Tofino
We arrived at our destination after a pitstop in Ucluelet where we (that is, Trisha - I only watched and held a light) fixed a seismograph, located in the crawlspace under a janitor's closet of a local high school. After that awesomeness, we found a bed and breakfast called Paddler's Inn right on the water for $89/night. It was a nice place with a comfy bed and a great view, all a humble traveler could ask for. We decided we'd buy some food at the grocery store to cook at the B&B, though it was against the official policy of no-cooking-in-our-breakfast-kitchen. They said that as long as the smells weren't too strong (the kitchen and the rooms are on the same floor), we could cook. Together we made a delicious vegetable stir-fry, with some black beans and the famous Sophandrea barley and oat combo, which involves mixing rolled oats and barley in a pot and cooking it like rice. Mmm, mmm, MMM!
The next day, after we passed out on wine and tarot cards, we signed ourselves up for surfing lessons at the Surf Sister Surf School. I was feeling a bit nervous about shreadin' mad waves at Chesterman Beach, having never done it before. A group of us met at the school, did a roll call, introduced ourselves and got friendly, then hopped back into our vehicles to head for the beach. We had been assigned wet suits based on our height and weight, so ours were waiting for us when we arrived. They take at least five minutes to squeeze a body through - the foam becomes skin. Then we were assigned to a teacher, Naomi from Wales, who showed Trisha and I the theory and practice of surfing.
Wet suits are amazing. I didn't feel the cold Pacific water at all. Without one, I would have surely been dead. I left my borrowed-from-Katie camera on the beach while I surfed so I could take a picture of us after a hard day's work. We surfed for two-and-a-half hours and I rocked that biz, standing up a couple times on my board. There's something nice about being in the water and playing with it like that, riding out the waves instead of attempting to stop them. The king of cups is a surfer, a master of the emotions, the smooth rider of emotional waves. When the lesson was over I walked back to the sand with my board in hand, invigorated and tired, excited to take a picture of this moment. Naomi tried to turn the camera on. She handed it to me - I couldn't turn it on either. Sand and salt water invaded the camera and toasted it's ass. Sorry Katie, but I think it's broken for good. Forgivinus please.
Nanaimo
Trisha dropped me off in Nanaimo and after some confusion and some goodbyes, I jumped into a car driven by Jenette, my new couch surfing host for the next two nights. She and her husband Marc live in Cedar, a town ten minutes away from Nanaimo, in a house that makes me want to jump for joy and scream THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I'VE EVER SEEN! There's one guest bedroom, a very large bathroom ("I like my bathrooms big," Jenette says) and the rest is big open space, with stairs that lead to the master bedroom, loft-styles. There's a patio overlooking the mountain landscape, and a hot tub, too. The cool thing about couch surfing is that I can stay in a nicer place than I could hope to afford. I was in heaven.
They've got that mineral water, that soft and silky shower water flowing through the pipes. Showering was nice though the water on its own smells and tastes like liquid rotten eggs. A small price to pay for soft skin (and all the other benefits). In the evening we were invited to Peter the 70 years-and-going Norweigan Navy Man's converted fishing boat, now home. The three of us went over and I was introduced to a sea of interesting characters including Jill, Tracy and Milt, all of whom were at least 40 years old. We set sail, drank beer, discussed Ladysmith, told stories, admired the scenery, passed around a joint (!!!!) and ate sushi and nachos. It was an amazing night I won't forget.
I'd planned to spend the next night in Courtenay but when I emailed my host to confirm, she responded that her sister would be staying over and that there was no room for me. Plan = thwarted. Jenette quickly offered her sons' house in Victoria, an option I deliberated on for a while. Then I decided, what the hell, I'll go stay in a house full of mostly single guys in their 20s for a night or two. What's the worst that can happen? I trust Jenette to whip them into shape if they step outta line. So back on the train I went, met by Jessie who I recognized immediately because his mother had showed me all his photos on facebook. "I know what you looked like in 2007," I told him.
Victoria
That happened yesterday, and today I sit in a comfy leather chair in Jessie's penthouse suite upstairs. He graciously offered me his room while I'm here, which is a very nice gesture. Five guys live here, I think, and they all work in construction. They're off at around 7:30 AM and back between 4:00-6:00. So here I am alone, in this big empty house, with time to finally set my experiences down in writing. It's heavenly. Oh, and yesterday we partied pretty hard. Well, I mean, not too hard, I want to be conscious enough to swat away dicks from my butt if the situation calls for it. But naw, they're really nice guys, they're not pulling stuff like that. I mean, maybe they'd try... but ain't no dicks gettin' in my butt, okay? Shit.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Happiness in its many disguises
The train arrived an hour early Wednesday morning to a cold and rainy Vancouver. I was nervous because I had scant information on the person I'd be staying with, and after a phone call to my mother, I made my way to a Starbucks located across the street from Pacific Central Station. I received word from Katie, the female portion of the couple I planned to stay with, that she'd be in California for the duration of my trip, and if I was weirded out with the idea of staying alone with her fiance, she'd understand. I was weirded out, but I figured I'd give meeting him a shot and let my intuition be my guide. So I hopped onto the SkyTrain.
The transit system in Vancouver is easy, efficient, extensive, and good-looking (what a catch!). It's also entirely automated. There is no collector in a toll booth, or conductor on the train. There's some master computer somewhere running the show. The fare is reasonably priced as well. A passenger pays more or less depending on how far they are going. There are three zones, ranging from $2.50 for transit downtown, to $5.00 for the suburbs and outer-lying areas. Best of all, each ticket offers its holder an unlimited amount of transit time for an hour and a half, meaning you can get on and off as you please without paying another fare. It's like having a Metropass for a hot minute without spending the $121 that mostly goes down the train (a relevant typo).
I met Keith outside of his apartment building downtown on Vancouver's West End. We went up to the 16th floor and entered the one-bedroom suite where I dropped my stuff into a corner and admired the view from the living room window. It was like beholding a three dimensional map before our eyes, which came in handy when Keith explained to me the perimeters of downtown. He had left his work to meet me and had to go back, so we left at noon and agreed to be back around 4:30. After meeting him, I decided he was nice, courteous, totally in love with his fiance, and that I would stay the night after all. It was a good decision, considering the couple are also the proud owners of the most adorable dog in the world, Magoo. When I was feeling sad, he'd crawl into my lap and make it all better.
I didn't feel like shopping or checking out Robson Street so I headed toward Stanley Park, the phone attached to my head. I sat on the sand of English Bay that murky morning, crying my eyes out. Something beautiful had ended, a cycle completed on that beach, and I found myself suddenly alone and single in a place I'd never been. A few very helpful and healing conversations later, I ventured into the forest of trees hundreds of years old, the trees that had fallen and the trees that grew on top of them, given life because of them. Four hours I wandered, reflecting on my life and how it had changed so much in two days, so abruptly. But I suppose I've always liked change.
Because Keith was home alone and Katie had the only extra key, I had to leave when he left to go to work. The next day I was up and at 'em at 7:20 AM, and by 7:35 I was out the door. I decided to walk down a residential street before hitting the main line because I like houses and am curious about west coast architecture. I liked what I saw.
It was on Robson Street that I saw three Cafe Crepes, all visible if I stood in a particular spot, crooked my neck, and squinted real hard. But why would I? Their proximity to each other was a turn off and I didn't want to go anywhere near them, so I kept my distance from the marble slats and red neon Eifle Towers. I'm sure the Toronto location is far superior anyway, if it's even a possibility. Enough about work! I'm on vacation!
At any rate, I was spending a lot of time inside other cafes jacking internet and keeping warm and dry. When I felt ready to venture out again, I needed something to eat, and a place called "Excellent Sushi" sounded promising, if not a bit overcompensating. I took a chance with some yam tempura rolls.
That price. I knew for a fact that a place that called their sushi "excellent" and offered $2.25 rolls could statistically NOT BE GOOD, and I was right. The miso soup was lackluster, and the green salad bland. But the bill? $6.00. I can't remember the last time I spent that much at a sushi restaurant. I was full and my wallet remained so. I'd say it was a fair investment.
My skin had been acting up since the train ride and especially bothered me when I looked into a cafe bathroom mirror - when did it get so red and blotchy, when did I become ugly? I knew what I wanted. I walked towards the apartment and happened upon a salon called Juju that offered skin consultations. I looked in... interesting looking people cutting hair, amused looking people sitting in chairs... I opened the door and entered.
I talked to a beautiful young blonde woman about my skin in a small back room used for facials (NOT those kind. I know it's the gayborhood, but geez). I learned more in that sitting than I had during any other conversations with an aesthetician. I'm interested in natural remedies, stuff that is gentle, stuff that works. This woman explained to me that the honey and ground-oat cleanser I'd been using was probably too abraisive because the oats were not perfectly circular like our pores are, so they irritate the skin instead of cleansing it. I asked her to give me a facial and she graciously squeezed me and my zits into her schedule. The experience was heavenly - my face was less red than when I came in (the sign of a good facial) and I didn't want to crawl into a ball and hide in the corner when I saw my reflection. Another sign that it's been a good facial.
I asked her if I could also get my hair cut. The post-break-up haircut. Classic. "I'd like it cut short, really short," I told the stylist. She promptly answered "No," and we came to a compromise of shoulder-length proportions. She later invited me to the Furniture Warehouse for drinks with her friends if I was interested (yes, it's bar, not the western division of United Furniture Warehouse Doo-Doo!). Even the owner, upon hearing that I was only passing through, invited me to a club in Chinatown, and gave me his number for good measure. I thought, these people are nice people. I like this place.
I stayed another night at Keith's place planning to leave for Vancouver Island the next day. I had some business to take care of at the local clinic which opened at 9:00, so after struggling in the first place to find the place, I tapped a woman on the shoulder and asked her its location. She kindly told me it was a block 'that way' which meant I had already passed it. I backtracked and spotted it, walking to the beach to write out postcards and pass the morning dawn away. A man with a white beard, a fisher hat, and a button that read "Ask Me!" was packing his bag a few benches away when he said, "Writing your memoires already?" "Better start now," I told him. We then discussed the sights and sounds of Vancouver. I told him I hadn't gone shopping yet, so he offered me the usual list of malls and stores that are basically the same in every "developed" city and town around the world. I told him I was interested in thrift stores. "Well, there's a good one over at Denman Mall a couple blocks from here. It's run by seniors, and the stuff is nice, if a little bit expensive. I think it's worth it though." I had a feeling I could trust the aesthetic taste of a west coast madam so I made it my mission to go. He also told me that Captain Jean-Luc Picard lived at one point in the condominum with the tree on its roof, and that it was placed there in commemoration of the old trees cut down for the sake of development. This one's for you Heather - I heard you love a tree on a roof.
I recieved my prescription at the Shopper's Drug Mart across the street, conveniently attached to the aforementioned Denman Mall. After I found the store I sat on a bench close-by and took the first dose of my medication. A woman tapped me on the shoulder. "Did you find the clinic alright?" the sweet lady from the morning asked. "Yes! Thank you!" I said, surprised. "When you're finished, come into my store over here, I manage it." None other than the thrift store itself did she manage - and I knew it was meant to be.
My haul: a big yellow handwoven sweater, a brown pleated silk skirt, a cool belt, a pair of earrings, two bags of buttons, and a book called Dr. Boston's De Luxe Official Bartender's Guide published in 1951. It is as amazing as it sounds. I figured as I brought my findings to the cash that it would likely add up to something between $35-$40 and expressed my fears that I did not have enough money to pay her in bills (as they did not take debit or credit). She said, "We usually offer discounts if you're buying more than one thing anyway," which was reassuring. One dollar here, two dollars here, another dollar - "how about fourteen dollars?" she says. Wow, okay! She even gave me a tote bag to carry it all in. She was real nice. These people are nice.
I had asked her for a recommendation of a breakfast joint nearby, and she suggested Acacia for some fillo. I didn't even know what fillo was but I trusted her and treked across the street with my big backpack and new tote bag. I ordered a spinach and feta fillo and found out that it's kind of like quiche except instead of pie crust, the egg and fillings are wrapped in pastry. Delicious.
For desert I ordered the matcha creme brule which was interesting, in addition to being tasty.
A few hours more at that cafe and I was off to find the ferry to Vancouver Island. I took the SkyTrain to Bridgeport station where I entered a double bus (with the acordian in the middle) and felt surprise and a strange reassurance upon seeing all these backpackers with their big backpacks on their laps and on the floor. They made up 75% of the bus. I felt a kinship with a group of people I hadn't before.
After the hour-long bus ride, we arrived at Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal, bought our tickets, and boarded the big-little cruise ship. This wasn't no Toronto Islands ferry. Two floors of cars lined the bottom of the boat, while gift shops, buffets, food courts, arcades, and a plethora of moderately-spaced coushy seats made up the passenger decks. Friday was the first sunny day Vancouver had seen after a long spell of cold, rainy days so I like many others decided to spend the duration of the ride outside on deck.
It was out there that I met Trisha, a lovely girl of similar age interested in science, trains, and my backpack. She planned to drive to Tofino on Monday for a work-related vacation, and I don't know who said it first - whether she asked me to come or if I begged to let me join her - but we're going to Tofino together on Monday. We exchanged numbers, and today she called me because she was going to the beach with her roommate. Would I be interested in joining them? Does a clock tick clockwise? Yes, I think so! And off we went.
I don't think I've ever sat on a beach prettier than this one in Victoria. The mountains in the background basically tip the scales of being a great beach to being an epicly awesome beach. The water was cold, yes, but Trisha and I dipped our toes in the Pacific. Cold becomes numb becomes cold again, and then you dive head first in the water to get it all over with. I can happily say that I swam in Pacific waters for the first time today, fully submerged in its frigid sea! I'm not sure why the salt suddenly in my mouth surprised me, but it did. I forgot about ocean swimming. We bore witness to some ocean rowing as well, this picture being the boats crossing the finish line:
And now I'm back at "home." I am the happy guest of Kate J's mother, the wonderful Jennifer, who has provided me with a comfortable bedroom, nutritious food, tasty wine, and great conversation. For our first dinner we made Greek salad together, corn-on-the-cob (my favourite), and toast, where I learned that in England most people prefer their toast cold and bone dry. They've even got cooling racks for their slices of toasted bread. You might be happy to hear (Ms. Katie Lee) that I indulged in some Marmite, that aquired taste of yeast extract. I am very happy here in Victoria, in this house, with this woman, amongst the trees, beaches, and bodies of water. I am happy to be on this trip, I am happy to be in a new place wherever I go.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Tales from the Rails: The Great Canadian Photo Dump
Live from the Panoramic Lounge in First-class, it's the ROCKIES!
Jasper National Park, Alberta:
The view from Jasper station in town:
Jasper was described to me by a Via attendant as a less commercialized, but equally beautiful Banff. Apparently, in order to buy land a person must be a resident for a minimum of five years. The place is run by locals, whereas Banff is allegedly run by wealthy (predominantly Chinese) business owners making big coin off its burgeoning tourist industry. I thought the place was really nice, which is to say I thought what I saw in the hour provided for me to explore was really nice. Gift shops and restaurants and a backdrop of mountains and trees. Nice.
If you ever consider taking a train trip to this part of the country, here's what I suggest you do. Do what you gotta do to get to Edmonton - fly, drive, walk, hitchhike, whatever - and take the train west from there. It's far too expensive for students or young people not of prestigious background (or not the daughter of a woman working for Via Rail for 35 years) to take the train all the way from Toronto. What I got on the train was worth approximately, wait for it, $2,806.65. Stupid, isn't it? Even my Economy seat was $1500 with return. Toronto to Winnipeg, the first half of the trip, is boring anyways. After Winnipeg, it's a mixed bag: if a flat landscape appeals to you, then good; if it sounds more boring than a bag of misshapen hammers (but it's the flaws that make them interesting...) then Edmonton and onward is probably for you. Suddenly there are deep valleys, bigger and better lakes, bear sightings, snowy mountain tops, and best of all, prairie dogs. Oh my giggly god. What is popularly known as the groundhog in Ontario is the prairie dog everywhere west of it, and they are, just, like, the greatest thing ever. We were stopped around the Manitoba-Saskatchewan boarder in the middle of grain silo territory. All of a sudden, one by one, these little gopher buddies start popping out of their holes and standing erect, arms up against their chest, their paws limp. For your enjoyment but mostly for mine, here are the STARS OF THE SHOW! Come on out you sexy dogs of the prairie!
Those salacious rodents! Seeing them was easily the highlight of my trip. Easily. Mountains, meh. Three-hundred year old trees, double meh. CUTE LITTLE ANIMALS?!? BEST. TRIP. EVER.
I've been in Vancouver for three days now so I should probably start writing about the city and conclude this malarkey about the train. The train: the slower, more expensive, and likely less comfortable (if you're in Economy) alternative to the plane. But baby, what a scene! Live music, awesome food, fantastic scenery you can't see any other way, and best of all, great conversation with people from all over. If you can do it, I highly recommend it. It's the best way to see this country. Even if you've been out west, you haven't really seen it until you've seen it from the train. See you in Vancouver!
Jasper National Park, Alberta:
The view from Jasper station in town:
Jasper was described to me by a Via attendant as a less commercialized, but equally beautiful Banff. Apparently, in order to buy land a person must be a resident for a minimum of five years. The place is run by locals, whereas Banff is allegedly run by wealthy (predominantly Chinese) business owners making big coin off its burgeoning tourist industry. I thought the place was really nice, which is to say I thought what I saw in the hour provided for me to explore was really nice. Gift shops and restaurants and a backdrop of mountains and trees. Nice.
If you ever consider taking a train trip to this part of the country, here's what I suggest you do. Do what you gotta do to get to Edmonton - fly, drive, walk, hitchhike, whatever - and take the train west from there. It's far too expensive for students or young people not of prestigious background (or not the daughter of a woman working for Via Rail for 35 years) to take the train all the way from Toronto. What I got on the train was worth approximately, wait for it, $2,806.65. Stupid, isn't it? Even my Economy seat was $1500 with return. Toronto to Winnipeg, the first half of the trip, is boring anyways. After Winnipeg, it's a mixed bag: if a flat landscape appeals to you, then good; if it sounds more boring than a bag of misshapen hammers (but it's the flaws that make them interesting...) then Edmonton and onward is probably for you. Suddenly there are deep valleys, bigger and better lakes, bear sightings, snowy mountain tops, and best of all, prairie dogs. Oh my giggly god. What is popularly known as the groundhog in Ontario is the prairie dog everywhere west of it, and they are, just, like, the greatest thing ever. We were stopped around the Manitoba-Saskatchewan boarder in the middle of grain silo territory. All of a sudden, one by one, these little gopher buddies start popping out of their holes and standing erect, arms up against their chest, their paws limp. For your enjoyment but mostly for mine, here are the STARS OF THE SHOW! Come on out you sexy dogs of the prairie!
Those salacious rodents! Seeing them was easily the highlight of my trip. Easily. Mountains, meh. Three-hundred year old trees, double meh. CUTE LITTLE ANIMALS?!? BEST. TRIP. EVER.
I've been in Vancouver for three days now so I should probably start writing about the city and conclude this malarkey about the train. The train: the slower, more expensive, and likely less comfortable (if you're in Economy) alternative to the plane. But baby, what a scene! Live music, awesome food, fantastic scenery you can't see any other way, and best of all, great conversation with people from all over. If you can do it, I highly recommend it. It's the best way to see this country. Even if you've been out west, you haven't really seen it until you've seen it from the train. See you in Vancouver!
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