Volume 6: Pete in Canada Part 2. Beaver Las Canada. 1 Continent, 2 Blokes, Infinite Weird Sh*t
Day 3 – Vancouver
Today Vancouver greeted us with a spectacular day, with not a cloud in the sky. Brad, in his earlier reconnaissance work in Vancouver before I’d got there had walked to Stanley Park and suggested we hire some bikes and tour one of North America’s largest urban parks. It sounded like a great idea, and an even better idea when I discovered there was a Beaver Lake there. As we’d billed our Canadian tour as the “Beaver Las Canada Tour” (a delightful play on words using the national animal and the fact it rhymed with the word “Viva”, with the “las” being stolen from the “Viva Las Vegas” song) I figured this would be the chance to get the ideal picture for the front of my scrapbook.
It was a nice ride, shared by many people with the same idea that day, as we completed a loop around the park. The ride took us under the Lions Gate Bridge, a suspension bridge that I’m sure would’ve been as famous as the Golden Gate Bridge but for the fact it was green meaning it camouflaged in with the neighbouring mountains so you could barely see it so no one ever noticed it in pictures of Vancouver. After having lunch somewhere around either Third Beach or Second Beach (if you’re ever in Stanley Park riding a bike and want to play a trick on someone who suggests you need a rest, reply back “let’s take a break when we get to First Beach” because there isn’t one), we decided to seek out Beaver Lake and the potential photo opportunities. That was a mission that proved just as hard as a librarian finding a pub in a major city. The fact that it was easier to find the Lost Lagoon then it was to find Beaver Lake through the maze of tracks made me seriously consider writing a letter to the local government suggesting they renamed each lake. Anyway, before I could put pen to paper for that letter we eventually found Beaver Lake. We took some stupid pictures of each other hugging the Beaver Lake sign, which left us too pleased with ourselves to ignore the fact the lake appeared to have no Beaver, just a couple of Racoons on the bike track leading to the lake.
After about 4 hours on the bike, my arse and the rest of my body held a conference and put forward the idea of returning the bikes. The motion was passed with an overwhelming a 100 per cent approval rating, so Brad and I returned our bikes and headed back into town for some tucker and a beer. We decided to have a few beers and get something to eat at the bar named “The Beaver”, the bar that formed part of the rival hostel across the street from our hostel. The Beaver also had its own beer named “Beaver Brew”, but unfortunately the tap wasn’t working so I never had the privilege of tasting my first beaver on tour. The Beaver also served VB, a sign that many uneducated Australian beer drinkers frequented this part of the world. After trying to sort out some confusion after dinner about whether we received the correct change after paying for dinner, Brad and I decided the perfect way to cap off this day was to buy some “I got lic’d in The Beaver” t-shirts sold at the bar. We were told to visit the front desk of the hostel to purchase this incredibly clever t-shirt, where we were greeted by some tall 4-eyed massive side burn freak. I would see glaciers later on in the tour that moved faster than the service this tall freak was now giving us. Firstly he served some people just checking in. Fine, took excessively long time, but fine, still happy. Next he began to serve us. Having the attention span of a gold fish, he then inexplicitly went and served some chicks. After that, figuring out we were still there (but given his attention span probably thought he was serving someone new), the big doofus finally dragged his lazy arse into a back room to find a black t-shirt. Taking as much time as it takes an Olympic athlete to complete a marathon, the tall streak of pelican sh*t finally emerged, had some discussions with a number of people, most likely a genealogical discussion listing everyone in their family tree dating back to 1452 judging by the length of those discussions, to say they didn’t have any black t-shirts in stock. Having just spent the majority of my time on tour for the net result of nothing, I was now glad that Brad and I had “creatively” filled out the feedback sheet while we waited for this side burned bozo to complete his epic journey to the store room.
After that debacle we went back to our hostel room where we bumped into 2 Swiss blokes (whose names would be the first of many I’d forget on this tour) who had read the Australian version of “How to win friends and influence people” and promptly offered us a beer from their esky. We had a few beers with them at the Royal before having an early night finishing around 12:30am.
Day 4 – Vancouver to Montreal
Today we were heading off to Montreal, and to the Province of Quebec. Before the tour Quebec was the region of Canada I was most looking forward to as I figured that would be the biggest culture shock, and a chance for me to butcher a language other than English.
Today’s choice of airline was WestJet, one of Canada’s budget airlines, and thankfully any other airline but Air Canada. We were greeted at the WestJet check in area by a simply stunning woman. Oh, how I wished our conversation went past the simple pleasantries of “Hello/G’day” and “Have a nice day”, before stretching into her speaking to me in French in something that would have made little sense to me but all the while would have sounded hot. Unfortunately, our conversation only got as intimate as her asking me if I’d stored anything flammable in my carry on luggage before wishing me a good flight and pointing me towards the luggage conveyer belt. The check in process at WestJet was a unique process for me. All other airlines I’d been with you gave your check in luggage to the person giving you your boarding pass. At WestJet, you got your boarding pass (became enchanted by the check in chick) and headed to a single conveyor belt and queued with the punters to put your luggage on yourself.As Brad and I waited at the boarding gate we noticed an elderly couple were travelling with their dog. I’d never been on a flight before where a live animal had been let in the cabin with the people. I didn’t really have a problem with it, provided the dog didn’t start smoking.
Once on the plane, Brad and I were forced to sit in aisle seats opposite each other. Brad had been fortunate enough to be seated next to an exceptionally attractive Canadian woman and did his best to charm her for much of the flight. What was initially a comfortable flight as I was entertained by the many channels on the live satellite TV now being beamed to the small screen in front of me soon became somewhat uncomfortable when I flicked across to CNN to see a plane in flames. As the plane that was in flames was on the ground I knew it wasn’t ours, but that was still little comfort. Sure, it was funny in the movie “Flying High” when they introduced the in-flight movie and then showed a series of massive plane crashes on the screen, but that was funny because it wasn’t me on that flight. This was real, and given the recent approach of terrorism of hitting concurrent targets the feeling wasn’t all that pleasant. I felt a lot more comfortable when it was revealed it wasn’t a terrorist attack that caused the plane to be on fire. Turns out the Air France flight had over shot the runway on landing at Pearson Airport in Toronto, no doubt caused by the pilot opening his visor and being distracted by a spider leading to him forgetting to apply the brakes as he tried to shoo the spider away. When the story of the plane on fire became such a huge story that it was being shown on 6 TV channels, and being seen by everyone on the flight, the captain felt inclined to come over the PA to reassure the passengers on board that our precious flight would not be delayed by the incident in Toronto. Great; for all we knew 200 people were being burnt to death, but more importantly our flight wasn’t going to be delayed. I saw the news later in the hotel and fortunately all on board escaped alive, somehow evacuating 200 screaming people inside 2 minutes.
Once off plane, and easily acquiring our tickets for the Aerobus to get us to our accommodation, the search than began to find the Aerobus pickup point. After about 20 minutes we finally asked the woman who sold us the Aerobus tickets and she told us the pickup point was all of about 2 metres from where we purchased the tickets. The Aerobus arrived about 10 minutes later and was driven by a young Frenchmen. He was quite laid back and a little taken aback by some middle aged Asian bloke who burst into asking if this bus would take him to his hotel without saying hello. At least 3 times the Asian bloke asked, and on each occasion the bus driver fired back with “Hi, how are you doing?”. Eventually the Asian bloke said Hello and the bus driver answered his question and put his luggage on board. Brad and I noticing this conversation made sure we opened the conversation with a “G’day, how ya goin’ mate?”. The bus driver appreciated it and explained all he wanted in life was for people to slow down and take time out of their busy lives to say hello.
Turns out the Aerobus takes you into the centre of Montreal and to the Station Centrale de l’ Autobus, and it’s from there you get your connecting bus to your accommodation. Given Brad and I had little geographical knowledge of Montreal, it didn’t fill us with great confidence when we mentioned to the drivers at the Central bus station we were staying at the “Prestige Hotel” only to watch them look at each other with blank stares waiting for at least one of them to announce to the world he knew where it was. When Brad pointed out to the circle of helpful, yet confused, drivers that it was at 12,500 Rue Sherbrooke West a French chorus of “Oh no, no, no. You don’t want to stay there” broke out amongst the drivers. This left us deflated as we’d tried to book at least 3 hostels in Montreal while in Vancouver only to be told they were full. We’d finally got cheap accommodation only to find it was so far out of the city a small aircraft would probably be need to transport us there. As we’d left no credit card details for the lovely, but distant, Hotel Prestige, we decided to take the advice of the bus drivers and seek somewhere closer, namely a cheap hotel that one of the bus drivers knew in the city. He told us it would only be $55 a night, so we now changed our plans and headed for the “Casa Bella”, at 264 Sherbrooke West. Something the bus driver failed to mention to us as we checked into the Casa Bella was that it was $55 a night plus tax, so it actually was $65 for the first night and $60 for the second night. The “plus tax” would be something that would bite us in the arse for much of the tour, namely the left butt cheek, while the right butt cheek was attacked by “plus gratuity”. I now didn’t care, it was in the evening, I was buggered and just happy to have accommodation near all the action.
As for the Casa Bella, it reminded me of a joke:
What’s the difference between a dog and a fox?
About 8 or 9 pints
Yes it was a Casa. Bella? Maybe after about 8 or 9 pints. Brad and I each had to have separate rooms namely because fitting 2 people in the 1 room would have meant the door wouldn’t have closed, that’s how small the rooms were. There was a communal shower on each floor, an odd room in which the shower was bigger than the “dry section” of the room. As for the toilet, that was also communal with a temperamental lock. For me, one of my odd personality traits is a fear of being locked in the toilet, so this caused me much personal distress (don’t laugh. My European Contiki tour manager told of a story where a bloke was locked in a toilet in a French nightclub. No one even noticed and he was still locked in there after they closed the place, and by closed I mean went out of business and resold on to a different owner).
Finally settled in Montreal, Brad and I walked into the city centre to get something to eat and find a bar. Brad’s mother had given him a small Virgin Mary medallion to carry for good luck on tour, so I can only thank her for guiding us into Peel’s Pub. It was a place we’d spend many hours in, a place that seemed to attract anyone who’s been to Montreal to it judging by the countless number of people we met in other Provinces who’d smile and mention they’d been there too. What made Peel’s so great was the constant drink specials, and the more than ample breasted bar staff. As we were Australian we were something of a novelty act, so they were more than happy to talk to us. One member of the bar staff came up to us all excited saying her cousin had married the lead guitarist from the Aussie rock band Grinspoon. I was left thinking “and that would make you…still a barmaid”, I just wasn’t as impressed as her. The beers’ were $15 for a 60-ounce jug, made all the more cheaper when no one bothered to charge us for our 3rd one. Maybe it was because it was Karaoke night and they’d all been blown away by our rendition of “Like a virgin”, something we’d done as a dare by the chick whose cousin married the lead guitarist of Aussie rock band Grinspoon, making her…still a barmaid.
Happy with a good, and cheap first night in Montreal, Brad and I headed back to the hotel sometime after 1am. Brad had initially started walking in the wrong direction. When I pointed this out to him he questioned my judgement, at which time I cited the Amsterdam precedence at which time we promptly turned around and headed in the correct direction and back to Casa Bella.
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