Nick and I sit down to some beers at a pub half a block from the apartment. We know each other from Ottawa and Nick is staying here with his girlfriend (who is doing her Masters) while work is slow. After all, as long as he has his computer, it doesn't matter where he's writing grants, he tells me.
He rants a bit about Vancouver: that despite how expensive it is to live in the city and the large amounts of poverty, it never fails that mid-afternoon, people are out jogging, shopping, pushing strollers.
"What is going on? Doesn't anyone have to work?! Have you noticed that most of the shops on this street are closed one day mid-week? What kind of business doesn't open on a Wednesday?!"
(My cousin joked the next day as we wandered passed multiple closed shops -- Tuesday -- that they needed time to go to yoga.)
As we talk, Nick occasionally breaks into a bit of seated dancing. He tosses his scarf over his shoulder.
"Nice scarf"
"Yeah, it's so I don't get a sore throat."
A little more dancing.
And with affected accent, "I look ar-teest." Slight smirk. "I don't have a problem with it."
More dancing.
***
I've been making good use of Google Maps. I especially appreciate the additional option of walking and transit directions. But it's kind of creepy. For instance, on my first night in Vancouver, Google said it would be an hour & 20 minute walk to Barb's. I walk at a decent pace, so I told her I'd be there in a little over an hour. She buzzes me up an hour & 20 minutes later on the dot.
Google was consistently accurate, even with transit, even when I missed the transfer, or got distracted by a shop or band posters on poles (which happened a lot and is a whole other post).
I speculated to Nick that maybe Google was familiar enough with me and my habits through searches and gmail to know exactly the speed at which I walked (not completely improbable).
Nick's theory was that it all came down to a complex series of algorithms, with one guy factoring in all the details, that everyone will stop somewhere along the way -- whether coffee shop, toy store, or poster-reading -- and averages it all out to essentially distill human beings to zeros and ones. Which we decide is more disturbing than Google stalking our every move.
***
After we leave the pub, we pass a shiny red car in a parking lot.
Nick: "Bet if I touch this car, the alarm will go off."
I keep walking.
Nick stops beside the car, pauses, touches it, and runs a few steps to catch up to me.
Nothing happens.
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Hub of the Maritimes
Sunday afternoon, I meet Phil and Chris -- friends from home -- for lunch at the market on Grandville Island. We're joined by Chris's girlfriend and her brother and, as so often happens when hometown pals meet up elsewhere, the conversation turns to miscellaneous trivia about the old burg.
One of the guys brings out this tidbit: Moncton, New Brunswick had recently been ranked as the world's 7th smartest city by an international publication, though he couldn't recall which one [I know what you're thinking: highly suspicious. Bear with me.] The three of us speculate briefly on how that is at all possible and then change the topic to more inclusive themes of current events.
At some point, the subject turns to metal salvage and Phil asks if we had heard about the two brothers from Moncton. Apparently, while attempting to steal copper wire (which fetches a fair price) out of an electrical box, one of the guys gets electrocuted, his brother standing behind him. One week after witnessing his brother's death, the guy returns to finish the job, only to suffer the same fate. [The details were fuzzy as this was clearly a third-hand retelling, so if anyone from home can offer clarification, I will edit the post. For the sake of accuracy, right?]
Giddy about the full-circle our conversation had come, we continued onto the garbage dump on the riverbank in the middle of the city that was only closed in the late 80s/early 90s, covered with a little soil and made into baseball diamonds and "nature" trails.
Which in turn brought us to the Causeway and the damming of a world-famous tidal river in a time when developers definitely would have known better.
And so on.
Even Devin Retsin, Legendary King of the Bangers and Champion of the Bottle Exchange, got some billing. Of course, with that walk, that hair, that epic reputation, how could he not?
Moncton, New Brunswick: 7th smartest city, indeed.
One of the guys brings out this tidbit: Moncton, New Brunswick had recently been ranked as the world's 7th smartest city by an international publication, though he couldn't recall which one [I know what you're thinking: highly suspicious. Bear with me.] The three of us speculate briefly on how that is at all possible and then change the topic to more inclusive themes of current events.
At some point, the subject turns to metal salvage and Phil asks if we had heard about the two brothers from Moncton. Apparently, while attempting to steal copper wire (which fetches a fair price) out of an electrical box, one of the guys gets electrocuted, his brother standing behind him. One week after witnessing his brother's death, the guy returns to finish the job, only to suffer the same fate. [The details were fuzzy as this was clearly a third-hand retelling, so if anyone from home can offer clarification, I will edit the post. For the sake of accuracy, right?]
Giddy about the full-circle our conversation had come, we continued onto the garbage dump on the riverbank in the middle of the city that was only closed in the late 80s/early 90s, covered with a little soil and made into baseball diamonds and "nature" trails.
Which in turn brought us to the Causeway and the damming of a world-famous tidal river in a time when developers definitely would have known better.
And so on.
Even Devin Retsin, Legendary King of the Bangers and Champion of the Bottle Exchange, got some billing. Of course, with that walk, that hair, that epic reputation, how could he not?
Moncton, New Brunswick: 7th smartest city, indeed.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Saturday, pt.2: The Warehouse
Much later, I met Samm after work and we went to an underground fundraising party organized by his friend Aaron at a warehouse space near east Hastings. [Evidently, there are lots of these spaces in the area, and the next night I ended up at a party a few blocks over.] The event was to raise money to help a transgendered friend of Aaron's who'd undergone a botched surgery. A worthy cause, I offered to help out, which had the added benefit of giving me something to do since I hardly knew anyone.
I manned the bake sale table for maybe 2 hours and felt a little guilty about all the thanks I got. After all, everyone had to pass the table as they went in and out, and even if they weren't stopping to ogle the florescent-frosted cupcakes (c'mon! everything on the table is only a dollar!), most people chatted me up on the way through.
By about 2:30am, Earl (one of the organizers) told me to leave my post and go dance already, and wouldn't take no for an answer.
So I did.
I manned the bake sale table for maybe 2 hours and felt a little guilty about all the thanks I got. After all, everyone had to pass the table as they went in and out, and even if they weren't stopping to ogle the florescent-frosted cupcakes (c'mon! everything on the table is only a dollar!), most people chatted me up on the way through.
By about 2:30am, Earl (one of the organizers) told me to leave my post and go dance already, and wouldn't take no for an answer.
So I did.
Saturday, pt.1: High Tea
** Note: There will be pictures added to this post, hopefully soon. I'm embarrassingly Mac-challenged and I be needing me either some assistance or the sweet, sweet familiarity of the ol' PC.
Barb invited me for high tea at The Secret Garden Tea Shop. Our appointment(!) was for 4pm. I had hoped to get all dressed up -- hat, gloves, and so on (not that I have anything remotely of that nature with me) -- but Barb insisted it was not necessary. I headed to her place directly from the ferry and arrived somewhat bedraggled, Victoria not being a necessarily convenient commute to Vancouver via public transit.
Barb opened the door wearing a Jackie O inspired black dress with white trim, matching pearl earrings and necklace, an adorable little knit hat, and face fully made-up.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"What? Oh, this. I have tickets to the theatre tonight and wasn't sure how much time I'd have after tea..."
"Yeah, yeah."
***
Picture a hand-embroidered lace doily as a room and you'll have a good image of the tea shop. Everything was dainty, ruffled, pastel, potpourri-infused perfection. I felt as though I should have bathed in lavender and rose petals in preparation. It was, however, somewhat like dragging a farm dog to the groomers: I wasn't fooling anyone. And then I started giggling -- how uncouth.
But no one seemed to mind. The tea arrived with a delightful assortment of miniature comestibles, presented on a 3-tiered tray: tiny sandwiches on the bottom; mini scones and banana bread in the middle (with jam and cream); and glossy, bite-sized desserts on the top. The ultimate tea party. I was a blissed-out 7 year-old.
Barb invited me for high tea at The Secret Garden Tea Shop. Our appointment(!) was for 4pm. I had hoped to get all dressed up -- hat, gloves, and so on (not that I have anything remotely of that nature with me) -- but Barb insisted it was not necessary. I headed to her place directly from the ferry and arrived somewhat bedraggled, Victoria not being a necessarily convenient commute to Vancouver via public transit.
Barb opened the door wearing a Jackie O inspired black dress with white trim, matching pearl earrings and necklace, an adorable little knit hat, and face fully made-up.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"What? Oh, this. I have tickets to the theatre tonight and wasn't sure how much time I'd have after tea..."
"Yeah, yeah."
***
Picture a hand-embroidered lace doily as a room and you'll have a good image of the tea shop. Everything was dainty, ruffled, pastel, potpourri-infused perfection. I felt as though I should have bathed in lavender and rose petals in preparation. It was, however, somewhat like dragging a farm dog to the groomers: I wasn't fooling anyone. And then I started giggling -- how uncouth.
But no one seemed to mind. The tea arrived with a delightful assortment of miniature comestibles, presented on a 3-tiered tray: tiny sandwiches on the bottom; mini scones and banana bread in the middle (with jam and cream); and glossy, bite-sized desserts on the top. The ultimate tea party. I was a blissed-out 7 year-old.
Victoria
Friday morning and we wake up to a glorious, clear blue day. I’m staying with Krystal (a work friend from Ottawa) and her boyfriend. They are recent transplants to Victoria, having taken two months of the fall to drive across the better part of the country.
The previous day, Krystal met me at the bus stop and took me on a concise tour of the downtown. We had a delicious meal and locally brewed beer at ___ Inn [the name eludes me], played a game and drank tea out of real china (whole set off Used Victoria =$10!), then met some people at a bar, including Alanna – also, formerly of Ottawa, but a Victoria native – and her boyfriend, who was dj-ing that night.
Now, with the entire, beautiful day before us, Krystal and I set off for a seaside walk. We see a huge otter – my new favorite animal – and an enormous, bright orange starfish.
But what began as a “good walk” gradually morphed into something of more substantial proportions. Excluding brief stops for a BC-mandatory coffee, at Krystal’s work, and the grocery and liquor marts, we walked steadily from the time we left the house before noon until we returned around 5:30pm.
I don’t think my guide intended for it to become such a journey, a thought that only started to occur to me later in the day. Krystal began to casually throw in that she was still unfamiliar with all the streets in Victoria, still trying to get her bearings in the new city. We were still meandering about at this point.
Starting around 4pm, she would stop, pause for a moment, and then exclaim, “Hmm… oh, I know where we are!” Frequently. To the point where the surprised tone so obviously present in her reactions did not inspire confidence that we would make it back to the apartment. Ever.
But we did. And right into the building’s hot tub we went. Then into the pool. And then back into the hot tub.
The result: minimal battle damage. (The 4th toe on my left foot was more blister than anything else – yes Mom, it’s healing fine and no, it’s not because I had on inappropriate footwear. Even though I did, that’s not what caused the blister.)
Later on, a handful of people came over and the evening was spent enjoying homemade pizza, more delicious BC beer, Rock Band, and good company.
The previous day, Krystal met me at the bus stop and took me on a concise tour of the downtown. We had a delicious meal and locally brewed beer at ___ Inn [the name eludes me], played a game and drank tea out of real china (whole set off Used Victoria =$10!), then met some people at a bar, including Alanna – also, formerly of Ottawa, but a Victoria native – and her boyfriend, who was dj-ing that night.
Now, with the entire, beautiful day before us, Krystal and I set off for a seaside walk. We see a huge otter – my new favorite animal – and an enormous, bright orange starfish.
But what began as a “good walk” gradually morphed into something of more substantial proportions. Excluding brief stops for a BC-mandatory coffee, at Krystal’s work, and the grocery and liquor marts, we walked steadily from the time we left the house before noon until we returned around 5:30pm.
I don’t think my guide intended for it to become such a journey, a thought that only started to occur to me later in the day. Krystal began to casually throw in that she was still unfamiliar with all the streets in Victoria, still trying to get her bearings in the new city. We were still meandering about at this point.
Starting around 4pm, she would stop, pause for a moment, and then exclaim, “Hmm… oh, I know where we are!” Frequently. To the point where the surprised tone so obviously present in her reactions did not inspire confidence that we would make it back to the apartment. Ever.
But we did. And right into the building’s hot tub we went. Then into the pool. And then back into the hot tub.
The result: minimal battle damage. (The 4th toe on my left foot was more blister than anything else – yes Mom, it’s healing fine and no, it’s not because I had on inappropriate footwear. Even though I did, that’s not what caused the blister.)
Later on, a handful of people came over and the evening was spent enjoying homemade pizza, more delicious BC beer, Rock Band, and good company.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
To the Ferry
Left the apartment at 11am with ample time to catch the 1pm ferry to Vancouver Island. Google maps had kindly charted my course and I had even made note of an alternative route, just in case.
The #3 bus was pulling up to the recently-turned-red traffic light, so I dashed across the intersection and into The Hasty Mart on the corner to get change. Much to my chagrin, the clerk possessed none of the desired attribute implicit in the store's name.
"Are you able to change this? It's for bus fare."
He glances over his shoulder to confirm the aforementioned bus's presence. "Well, um… ah… I think…"
"Because I can buy something."
"No, no… it's fine. My… till is low."
"It's no problem, really. I'm just trying to catch that bus."
He ever so delicately takes out a five.
A ten.
Two toonies.
And finally, four quarters.
Zero hastiness.
The bus pulls away as he hands me the change. Onto the alternate route.
It was ultimately fortunate that I missed the #3 in question, as I was on the wrong side of the street. So on the next bus, to avoid further delay, I ask the driver to confirm my intended transfer and the side of the street I wanted to catch it on, all of which was nearly too much for him to tolerate. Despite having all the appearance of someone "not from 'round here" -- from over paying for regular fare to not realizing transit to the ferry would pass through 3 zones -- he interpreted my lack of orientation as a complete dearth of mental capacity. He slumped forward, glared, and with maximum exasperation, "That way, that way! Away from downtown. You want to go toward the ferry! Away from the mountains."
Maybe everyone was from out of town that morning and he'd answered the same question 20 times so far. For my part, the exchange sent me in the right direction and elicited sympathy from everyone on the front half of the bus.
The rest of the journey to Victoria was long, grey and, despite auspicious beginnings, completely uneventful.
The #3 bus was pulling up to the recently-turned-red traffic light, so I dashed across the intersection and into The Hasty Mart on the corner to get change. Much to my chagrin, the clerk possessed none of the desired attribute implicit in the store's name.
"Are you able to change this? It's for bus fare."
He glances over his shoulder to confirm the aforementioned bus's presence. "Well, um… ah… I think…"
"Because I can buy something."
"No, no… it's fine. My… till is low."
"It's no problem, really. I'm just trying to catch that bus."
He ever so delicately takes out a five.
A ten.
Two toonies.
And finally, four quarters.
Zero hastiness.
The bus pulls away as he hands me the change. Onto the alternate route.
It was ultimately fortunate that I missed the #3 in question, as I was on the wrong side of the street. So on the next bus, to avoid further delay, I ask the driver to confirm my intended transfer and the side of the street I wanted to catch it on, all of which was nearly too much for him to tolerate. Despite having all the appearance of someone "not from 'round here" -- from over paying for regular fare to not realizing transit to the ferry would pass through 3 zones -- he interpreted my lack of orientation as a complete dearth of mental capacity. He slumped forward, glared, and with maximum exasperation, "That way, that way! Away from downtown. You want to go toward the ferry! Away from the mountains."
Maybe everyone was from out of town that morning and he'd answered the same question 20 times so far. For my part, the exchange sent me in the right direction and elicited sympathy from everyone on the front half of the bus.
The rest of the journey to Victoria was long, grey and, despite auspicious beginnings, completely uneventful.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
India vs N.America
Pablo had buckets of stories from his travels, but my favorite is the one he prefaced as exemplifying the difference between India and North America and centers around his family’s neighbor in Bombay.
He’s an older gentleman and Pablo found it peculiar that he – like many people in India, apparently – watched The Discovery Channel non-stop.
One day, the neighbor began telling Pablo about a recent trip to a mountain town that is a popular pilgrimage destination for tourists. The town is plagued by monkeys, especially around the gondola at the base of the mountain. Locals know to clutch the coconuts they carry to their chests otherwise they'll be snatched by the brazen monkeys. The neighbor watched as the monkeys made off with several prizes before he walked over and bonked one of them on the head with a stick. Every last monkey scampered away and weren’t seen for the rest of the day.
The neighbor said he knew that if he hit the alpha male on the head, all the monkeys would leave.
He knew this, he said, from watching The Discovery Channel.
Suddenly, it became clear to Pablo: “So unlike here where people watch The Discovery Channel for educational entertainment, in India, everyone watches it to learn survival skills.”
He’s an older gentleman and Pablo found it peculiar that he – like many people in India, apparently – watched The Discovery Channel non-stop.
One day, the neighbor began telling Pablo about a recent trip to a mountain town that is a popular pilgrimage destination for tourists. The town is plagued by monkeys, especially around the gondola at the base of the mountain. Locals know to clutch the coconuts they carry to their chests otherwise they'll be snatched by the brazen monkeys. The neighbor watched as the monkeys made off with several prizes before he walked over and bonked one of them on the head with a stick. Every last monkey scampered away and weren’t seen for the rest of the day.
The neighbor said he knew that if he hit the alpha male on the head, all the monkeys would leave.
He knew this, he said, from watching The Discovery Channel.
Suddenly, it became clear to Pablo: “So unlike here where people watch The Discovery Channel for educational entertainment, in India, everyone watches it to learn survival skills.”
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