Volume 6: Pete in Canada Part 1. Beaver Las Canada. 1 Continent, 2 Blokes, Infinite Weird Sh*t
Day 1 – Melbourne to Vancouver via Sydney and Honolulu
This adventure was to be to Canada, a country that caught my attention after hearing its national animal was the Beaver. I knew I’d have to love a country that had as much love for beaver as I had, and I wasn’t disappointed. I somehow managed to spend all 52 days with tour mate Brad. 52 days! That’s an exceptionally long time to spend with 1 person, a period of time that I’d think I’d struggle to spend even if my company was an ample breasted playboy playmate. Thankfully, the Canadian people were incredibly inviting so we didn’t have to spend all our time talking to each other. That said, it was a memorable 52 days (well, mostly memorable until around the 30th consecutive day of drinking when my short term memory started to suffer) in which I would come to love the world’s second largest country.
My first experience with Air Canada was to set the tone for what would become a frosty relationship. As Air Canada didn’t fly directly from Melbourne I was forced to fly into Sydney and then onto Canada from there. The seating area outside the gate assigned to my Air Canada flight was so small that I thought I was going to be flying on some cheap airline that allowed chickens, livestock and other associated barnyard animals on board. I was happy to discover that wasn’t the case when I boarded the plane, but that delight was soon ruined as I was 1 of many people who discovered the headphone jacks supplied by the airline didn’t fit the hole properly in the chair. The headphones handed out had 2 jacks, whilst the chairs had 1 hole, so Air Canada had to supply an adaptor for the headphones. That jack on the adaptor had a circumference of about 5 millimetres, unfortunately the hole in the chair was around 7 millimetres, which doesn’t sound like much, but the fit was as natural as that experienced by a Chihuahua making love to a Great Dane. Sure, if you jiggled the jack enough you could find a sweet spot where the headphones actually worked, but at finding that exact spot (think needle, think hay stack) you freeze your entire body for fear of losing that magic spot. The flight attendants then resorted to handing out tape so you could secure your headphones in that magic spot.
What a fruitless exercise that turned out to be. Around 4 hours into the flight the entertainment system crashed (better that than the plane) on the right side of the plane. As I was on the right side, which ironically was now the wrong side, I was forced to attempt to try and lip-read the second half of “Million Dollar Baby”. Fortunately I had a delightful lass from Toronto sitting next to me who was quite affable so I could resort to talking to her to keep myself entertained. She expressed her disappointment at not being able to see the end of Million Dollar Baby, to which I replied “Yeah, I hear it has a big twist at the end where Darth Vader reveals he’s her father”. As an added bonus she was quite attractive, so she would be ideal for my “sex before the plane crashes” girl. That said, she did have an even more attractive friend sitting on the left side of the plane, but I figured it would be too hard to find her through the smoke filled cabin as the emergency lights only run up and down the corridor, and not across the rows to facilitate my final act on earth.
As I was now left with no entertainment, I reached forward and read the Air Canada supplied magazine, enRoute (to a poor flight). Inside was an article from some Air Canada chief saying “The Air Canada plane you’re now on is completely different to the 1 you flew on last year”. Yeah, the in-flight entertainment system worked on those planes. That would make our plane different to the plane last year, not different to the plane flown 30 years ago. Not happy with the Air Canada piece of fiction I was reading, I then turned my attention to the emergency guide. Apparently the lack of oxygen that comes with a loss of air pressure in the airplane cabin causes you to smile, and then when the plane crashes you’ll feel an overwhelming need to take a briefcase with you according to the artist’s rendition of the people appearing on the emergency guide. Overcome with boredom I then slept through the soundless “Romancing the Stone”.
After about 9 hours we landed in Honolulu, where I was forced to go through US customs despite only spending 1 hour in their country. From there it was back upstairs to the departure gate at which time I heard the following announcement: “Honolulu welcomes members of the US defence force. The USO is open between 8am to midnight, 7 days a week”. Given it was 12:20am when the announcement came on, there was going to be some people with a long wait. Given that some of those members of the US defence force could have potentially served in WWI, it was going to be a close race between the grim reaper and the opening of the USO doors.
Back on the plane it was similar to being at the Olympics, with everything announced in both English and French.
Sometime after 18 hours of leaving Melbourne I landed in Vancouver and caught the Airporter shuttle to the HI Central Hostel, which was a pleasant experience as I listened to a prepubescent brother and sister butcher some Enimen song as they listened to it on their iPod. Once at the hostel I was greeted with “We’ve got your reservation listed as you coming in on Sunday, sorry we’re full tonight”. As this was a Saturday, I surprised even myself with how calm I remained, which I put down to the fact that after 18 hours of flying you’re just happy to be anywhere but in a plane. After questioning whether I’d booked the HI Downtown Hostel instead, I calmly reached into my pocket and produced the receipt I’d printed out to prove I had a reservation at HI Central Hostel. Given she then proceeded to check me into the Hostel, I’ve got no idea where that extra bed came from, I just hoped that a pregnant “virgin” didn’t ride into town on a donkey that night and receive a “Sorry, there’s no room in the inn for you”.
After checking in, I had a shower and then headed out with Brad to see the “city” (I’d call it more of a town). It was during the walk around town I figured Vancouver must’ve been an indigenous word meaning “He who has needle in arm”. Never before have I seen so many shirtless people pushing shopping trolleys, yet not coming back from a supermarket, and never before have I been to a town where so many homeless people owned bicycles. Walking down Granville Street I was asked for change every 10 metres. To think sometime in the last 10 years Vancouver had been voted the most liveable city on earth, an award that must be well promoted in soup kitchens across Canada.
After enjoying my first beers on Canadian soil at the Steamworks Brewery, including a delightful drop named Nirvana nut brown, Brad and I continued our walk around the town. We walked through the local dives of Chinatown and Gastown. Gastown was named after an early drunken pioneer named “Gassy” Jack Deighton, so named Gassy because of his love affair with talking (which may have only been matched by his love affair with eating beans?).
After dinner we headed back to the Hostel to see what was happening there. It was there we bumped into Huey (Aussie), Chris (German), Ronnie (Austrian) who were heading down to the beach (well, if you can call a heap of dirt with patches of grass on the waterside a beach) to watch the 8th Annual lets go close to blowing off our limbs international fireworks contest. Brad and I agreed that was a good idea and headed off with them. All the roads to the beach were blocked off as some 300,000 people made their way to the beach like a swarm of locusts (devouring all alcohol in their path). The key criteria for the fireworks show was to have your fireworks go off in time with music. Tonight it was Sweden’s shot at the title; at last the marriage of loud explosions and Abba. Whilst on the beach Brad got talking to a librarian named Jaymee, who was there by herself reading a copy of Adrian Mole’s diaries as she waited for the fireworks. It was later the next day she was describing her 4 friends, also librarians, as each having “unique” personalities. She said 1 was into Dungeon and dragons, 1 had a fairy and pixie fascination throughout her house, while another was into Sci-fi. She didn’t say anything about the other 1, but I’m assuming she was also nerd.
After the fireworks we made our way back to the pub under our hostel, the Royal. After it was revealed the Librarian didn’t have any ID, we then went on a LONG, yet fruitless search, for beer and a pub with a loose attitude toward ID. I couldn’t believe it; here was a woman who could find something as obscure as the mating rituals of single celled organisms in an instant through her in-depth knowledge of the dewy decimal system, yet couldn’t find a pub that didn’t check for ID. And in Canada they didn’t just want 1 form of ID, they wanted 2. Along the long quest we resorted to asking some bloke on the street for directions to a pub, at which time some middle aged crackhead came up and said “My husband is a having a 43rd birthday, I don’t suppose you could give me some change so I could buy him a present?” At which point the bloke who was giving us directions, without blinking, fired back with “No you don’t, you smoke crack, I’ve seen you smoke crack, go away”. Needless to say, we didn’t give her any money, but I was left picturing her giving her husband some present she’d bought at a 7-11 with some loose change. Nothing says love like a packet of skittles and a can of Pepsi.
Around 1am I got really pissed off and left Brad and the Librarian to talk about the latest developments in cataloguing technology and headed back to the hostel to sleep. At least in theory that was a good idea, until I discovered that the pub below the hostel was licensed to stay open until 4am. To make sleeping even more complicated, the bunks in my room were squeezed in so tight that using the ladder to get to the top bunk was a task that even a skinny gymnast would have found difficult. To cap off the perfect night, just as I was starting to drift off to sleep at 4:30am, some drunken couple decided to have a domestic on the street in front of the Hostel. It was a passionate discussion, which I’m saw much of the province of British Columbia could hear as they shouted insults at each other. In an even more disgusting display, the drunken bloke realising his princess was about to leave him, resorted to “I LOVE YOU! I GAVE YOU MY HEART!” (a phrase that would give Brad and I great amusement for the duration of the tour as we repeated it often). I couldn’t quite make out her response, but I’m pretty sure it involved the words “off” and “fuck”, not necessary in that order.
I figure Romeo and Juliet finished their conversation around 5am, at which time I finally got to sleep.
Day 2 – Vancouver
Today we decided to catch the SeaBus across to North Vancouver and then a bus to Grouse Mountain, “The Peak of Vancouver”. On the brochure handed out when we purchased our Skyride tickets to take us to the peak it urged us “…bring a camera, a friend, or a love of nature. Because whatever you arrive with, rest assured you’ll take a lot more away”. Sort of like when you have unprotected sex with someone who has herpes. Okay, that doesn’t sum up the Grouse Mountain experience, it’s just a thought I had when I read the brochure. In fact, the Grouse Mountain experience is indeed grouse. On top of the mountain you get grouse views of the town and snow capped neighbouring mountains, all from the grouse beer garden, just after you’ve watched some grouse lumberjack entertainment. No shirtless junkies to disturb you while you drink your beer; grouse. According to the brochure you can also “See grizzly bears and grey wolves up close and personal at the Grouse Mountain Refuge for Endangered Wildlife”. Well the bear on the mountain that day wasn’t feeling too grouse as he spent all his time hidden away, most presumably with a sore head, as I’m led to believe by the expression. Also part of the feast of grouse entertainment on the mountain was a bird show named “Birds in Motion”, or as the Perigean Falcon interpreted, “Birds in Motion to do whatever they please” as he took off and was out of sight for about 10 minutes much to the chagrin of the chick giving the show.
Happy with a pleasant afternoon on the mountain we headed back to the SeaBus terminal where we met up with Jaymee. After the events of the previous night where I’d walked much of the province to find a beer, this wasn’t something that excited me, but being the Top Bloke I am, I took one for the team as Brad figured he was a chance. She was possibly one of the most uninteresting people I’d met, with topics of conversation that were much like a Seinfeld episode (show about nothing) but without the humour. After I quipped something about her having 2 forms of ID, she pulled out her license and then banged on in amazement about the shiny bits on it that flickered in the light. Not surprisingly, I, as someone born in the 20th century, didn’t find this technological development all that impressive and I longed for the 2 minutes of my life back I’d just lost listening to her talk about her shiny license in a manner I’m sure Neanderthal man did to his fellow cave mates about the day he discovered fire. The only thing that kept me from leaving them to themselves was the fact she invited us to dinner with the other 4 librarians at the Spaghetti factory (as the name suggests they don’t make boxes). Imagine that, dinner with 5 librarians. What are the odds of that ever happening again? Another thing ticked off my list of things to do before I die.
To get to the Spaghetti factory we had to catch the SkyTrain (if you can call being 15 feet above the ground the sky. Also a stupid train system that was a giant loop with no intersecting train lines, meaning you had to go half way around the loop to get to a station on the other side of town). Due to a malfunction or something we had to switch trains. Well, this was something that didn’t impress some fat bloke who then proceeded to unload a verbal barrage on a SkyTrain official. Having not completed venting his anger, the fat bastard than unloaded a verbal tongue lashing on some poor person on the ground being attended to by paramedics. Not being completely familiar with the Vancouver geography and the locations of nearby cemeteries, I was still pretty sure this fatty bombar was off to a nearby cemetery to let the permanent residents know just how weak they were by dying.
Unfortunately dinner with 5 librarians is as boring as, well, dinner with 5 librarians. It was tough to get a conversation happening, with the torment of restraining myself from saying (and possibly insulting) “So, do you ladies have your CDs in dewy-decimal order?” an absolute killer. Sure, they were a friendly bunch, but one got the feeling the only excitement that came in their lives was when their dwarf killed a dragon with an enchanted axe as they played dungeons and dragons on the internet with someone they thankfully never had to meet in person (it’s a known fact that the part of the brain responsible for social interaction is underdeveloped in librarians, a fact you can find in any library). What was even more tormenting was the closeness of a beer garden next door at McScruffy’s. I just knew alcohol could make these chicks all the more interesting, but alas, it was something that was not to be as the librarians all left straight after paying the bill. Thankfully for the province of British Columbia they all went home on separate trains to avoid a tragedy like the loss of skill set similar to that of the Manchester United plane crash in the 50’s.
Jaymee followed Brad and I back to the hostel where we had a few beers at the Royal. The place wasn’t really jumping so we took the budget approach to getting drunk on tour by mixing some Bundy and coke that Brad had purchased at duty free. The Bundy bear started to work his magic and all of a sudden the librarian was starting to warm to Brads affection. After polishing off our drinks we decided to hit the town. As I was short of cash I needed to use an ATM. I foolishly asked the librarian for the location of the nearest ATM, a subject matter that she knew as well as the location of the towns’ pubs. Anyway, after a 10-block walk I finally got cashed up and was ready to finally party with the locals. Brad, also being a Top Bloke and realising I was taking one for the team, gave the decision of the nights entertainment venues to me. As the Royal was underneath the hostel I figured the chance of staggering home successfully would be greatly enhanced if we went there, so we did. By now the place was pumping and the dance floor was happening. This made me a happy man. What made me an even more happy man is when the DJ announced sometime around 1am the sweet words of “The wet t-shirt contest will begin shortly”. In a controversial finish, the $200 prize money was split 4 ways, between the 3 chicks who’d been kissing each other, and some excessively inebriated hot blonde (my favourite).
Sometime around 4am I headed back to the room to sleep. Apparently there were problems with the plumbing in the bathroom, so Brad took the librarian in there as he must have figured she must’ve read something about plumbing. I tell you what; it must’ve been a big problem with the plumbing because I’d fallen asleep before he returned to the room.
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