Volume 6: Pete in Canada Final Ep. Beaver Las Canada. 1 Continent, 2 Blokes, Infinite Weird Sh*t
Day 50 – Victoria
I had a light bulb moment this morning. When I got home I was going to invent an alarm clock that when it went off it just repeated phrases from an annoying whinging POM. Nothing encourages you to want to leave a room, and therefore by extension your bed, more than having to listen to a whinging Englishmen. The same tosser who’d struggled to find the 2 pounds to see a hockey game was at it again. My only fear from creating such a product as the whinging POM alarm clock was the possible rise in early morning murders that such a device might create. I knew I wanted to take to that whinging POM’s head with a hockey stick.
In the last few days I’d done some important calculations. My current plan to return to Australia would see me get home after the AFL grand final. Never one to miss events of cultural significance, I decided to change my flights back home to ensure I would be back in Australia to be part of this great annual event. I think the email below I sent just a few days after this epic struggle captures the moment best:
Party people,
This will most likely be my last email on Canadian soil (yes, I can hear the sound of people rejoicing all round the world as they now will have one less email to put in their deleted items folder). I thought I should dedicate this email to the national air carrier, Air Canada, whom I now affectionately refer to as CRAP (Canada's Rubbish Airline Proprietor) Air. CRAP Air, apparently North America's best airline as voted by 12 million people (probably the same people that voted George W. back in for a 2nd term), a "fact" I was reminded of some 1,205 times while they kept me on hold for 30 minutes as I tried to complete the task of changing my flight home. Apparently that rates on the difficulty scale just under splitting an atom while trying to negotiate peace in the middle east after just receiving an ice cream headache from drinking your slushie down to fast. I decided to document the process, as it is so complicated, so that future generations may be able to complete this demanding task:
Step 1: Call CRAP Air
Step 2: Stay on hold for 10 minutes
Step 3: Get disconnected
Step 4: Call CRAP Air
Step 5: Stay on hold for 10 minutes
Step 6: Get flight from Vancouver to Sydney changed. Wait for consultant to tell you he can't change your connecting flight to Melbourne because it's with Qantas
Step 7: Call Qantas. Wait for consultant to tell you your flight is CRAP Air ticketed so they're the only one's who can change the connecting flight
Step 8: Call CRAP Air
Step 9: Stay on hold for 10 minutes (at about this time a Japanese man and Swiss woman will sit behind you and talk so loudly that both of their respective countries can hear them)
Step 10: Wait for consultant to say "I wonder why you where originally told to call Qantas?"
Step 11: Reply "Incompetence sweetheart"
Step 12: Wait for consultant to book connecting flight for 2 days after you land
Step 13: Remind consultant you are willing to wait a few hours in airport, but waiting 2 days is a bit too long of a time to wait
Step 14: Wait for consultant to concur, and book your connecting flight for the same day
As you can see a lengthy process. Other great service received from CRAP Air included having the onboard entertainment system crashing about 4 hours into the flight (I suppose better that than the plane) on the entire right side of the plane (yes, I was on the right side, which ironically turned out to be the wrong side for enjoying the movie "Romancing the Stone". Old skool). Then in New York being greeted by some "How the f#$k did my life get this bad?" attendant at luggage check in has made my dealings with North America's best airline a tremendous experience.
Anyways, as my plans have changed I'm gonna be in Melbourne for Grand Final day, so if anyone’s got any parties planned, call me or shoot me a text message on Thursday or Friday and I shall partake.
Beaver Las Canada
Pete
After finally completing that task that made Jesus’ turning water into wine a simple task, we moved our car to the local shopping centres car park. This would cost us money (in theory, see tomorrows entry) but this car park was secured at night so the few bucks to ensure the windows remained in tact and all wheels remained on the car was a good investment. The parking attendant was a very affable middle aged Canadian bloke who shared his thoughts on the local drinking holes, much like Aristotle with his students and his less valuable philosophical knowledge.
The old wise parking attendant was a fan of “Big Bad Johns” and his glowing endorsement that included the phrases “dive bar” and “they get a lot of down on their luck cases in there” made this bar a must do whenever you’re in Victoria (at least that’s how I pictured how this bar would be written up if the old wise parking attendant was responsible for the Victoria section in the Lonely Planet Guide).The old wise parking attendant made a lot of sense, but after last night we had to give the last few remaining brain cells some reason to exist so we walked around town and the harbour appreciating the architecture, with the Legislative building leading the way. To encourage the brain cells that they were still a valuable contributor and that their life need not be destined to die from excessive alcohol consumption, we took in even more educational experiences. This quest for knowledge was to take place at the Pacific Undersea Garden and their “Underwater show”. Unfortunately, that show was co-ordinated by someone who must’ve been more hung over than us and who was as qualified as a marine biologist as I was in classical dance (the robot doesn’t count as classical dance does it?). In short, the show consisted of some bloke in a wetsuit doing his best to annoy the sleepiest fish I’ve ever seen. A female announcer would name a fish, the bloke in the wetsuit would swim across and pick it up. I’m not a marine biologist (spent far too much time studying classical dance) but these fish were so docile it’s as if they’d lost all interest in living. The show was so lame that now my only interest was in seeing how a fish would go about hanging itself.
After seeing the show the only thing I took out of it was remembering the great taste of fish, so at the conclusion of the show Brad and I went to a pub called the Elephant and Castle and had fish and chips. After lunch, we put the old wise parking attendants learning’s into practice by going to Big Bad John’s. We walked in, released we were the only ones without tattoos and that the only thing we shared in common with the patrons was that we all seemed to have penis’ (yes, even the women). That’s not enough to keep me in your pub, so we hot footed it out of there and went to the Sticky wicket. We had 3 jugs there and watched the Calgary versus Hamilton Canadian football game. Over those 3 jugs I think I learnt more than I did at the Pacific Undersea Gardens. I learned of how a young man can overcome adversity, as the quarterback who’d thrown only 3 complete passes with 4 interceptions in the first half would go 8 for 8 on completions in the second half to lead his team to victory.
After the football game we had dinner and then went back to the hostel. At 11pm we decided to go out again. “Legends” and “Big Bad John’s”: you’d swear they were the only 2 bars in Victoria as the lines stretched 150 deep. I was pretty partied out, so by the time we got to the Sticky Wicket I was ready to leave. We lasted a solid 45 minutes before going back to the Hostel and to sleep.
Day 51 – Victoria to Vancouver
Today the Australian nation would celebrate an occasion just slightly more significant than the nations bicentennial; Peter Hart beating Brad Harvey’s record for most consecutive days with at least 1 alcoholic beverage whilst on Canadian soil. As tour life is all about learning, it was after 50 days of drinking that I learned that your…short term…thingy…you know the thing helps you remember stuff…it tends to go. I was really struggling to remember the previous days events which I think is illustrated by the last 10 entries in this diary which are stories about nothing.
As the old wise parking attendant had intimated the day before that he may “not be open” before 10am and therefore couldn’t charge us for parking because he was “not open” we picked up the car before 10am. True to his word, the old wise parking attendant refused to accept any money and said “Sorry I’m not open so I can’t charge you”. It’s blokes like this who put the image of their country ahead of making any money for their employer that make nations truly great. The only bad experience we’d had with a Canadian was in Kamloops when that drunken loser accused Australians of having small testicles, but the old wise parking attendant was the true reflection on the Canadian citizen.
For breakfast there was the so self proclaimed “World Famous Triple O’s”. Funny, because in the 16 or so countries I’d been to I hadn’t heard one person say “You gotta eat at Triple O’s!”. In fact, in Australia if you mention Triple O the first thing someone will ask you is “Oh my god! I hope no one was hurt” because they’ll think you’ve dialled for an emergency. One can only imagine the conversation by a Victorian Canadian when talking to a Victorian Australian when in Australia after dialling triple 0:
Victorian Australian emergency operator: Hello you’ve dialled triple O. What is the nature of your emergency? Do you need a fire truck, ambulance or police?
Victorian Canadian: Neither. I need a chef. I need a large stack of pancakes. It’s an emergency! I’m really hungry!
After breakfast we were soon on our way on the ferry back to Vancouver. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon on the top deck, made all the better by the whales swimming nearby giving me a warm and fuzzy feeling that I’d saved $90 by not doing a whale tour on Vancouver Island.
50 days of straight drinking, trashes your short term memory yet somehow helps you to remember things at the last possible moment. We were about 1 block away from dropping off the rental car when I realised we had to refuel the car. We’d almost done the drop off perfectly. We’d checked our luggage into the hostel meaning we didn’t need to carry it, said some fond farewells to some camping gear before sending it to its new home in a dumpster. Now just 1 block away we released we needed fuel. If the car wasn’t refuelled the rental company would charge us at a rate that indicated the car had a 1,000 litre tank so now we began a frustrating drive to find a petrol station. This added another half hour of fun with the car and a chance to admire just how big that crack had got in the windscreen.
Fuelled up, we dropped off the rental car and were greeted by an Asian budget employee who’d lived in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton about a decade ago. I’m sure I let out the traditional “Oh what a small world” while thinking “Bugger me, I hope our insurance covers that crack in the windscreen”. In the only piece of consistent information the Budget rental company had given us it turned out the comprehensive insurance was actually comprehensive and covered the small chasm now in the middle of the windscreen which was now big enough to be confused as something a glacier might have carved out in the Rockies. In keeping with the misinformation that was a hallmark of the Budget rental company, we weren’t charged when we dropped off the car. According to this Budget employee his 10 minutes of training told him and then us that we would have been charged back in Calgary. That hadn’t happened, but then again Assman in Budget Calgary had tried to convince us that we had a legally binding contract as soon as he hit print on the computer and that those sections on the paper marked “signature” where perfectly superfluous. Without being charged in either Calgary or Vancouver we’d thought we’d just pulled off the greatest heist in rental company history. Unfortunately, when Brad checked his credit card account the next month there was a charge from Budget.
As the Budget drop off place was on the edge of Chinatown, it gave us a chance to walk through Gastown and check out the “Steam Clock” which while giving the illusion of clock that runs on a steam engine, is actually powered via more modern electrical means. I’d also done some reading up on Gastown in my Lonely Planet guide and they suggested a beautification process of Gastown had begun in the 1970s which encouraged just one thought; f#$k me this must have been a dump 30 years ago if this is the best that 30 years of beautification does. “Beautification”; I was just wondering if that was a euphemism for dropping a bomb on a place. Sort of like “collateral damage” when the US army kills innocent civilians. Gastown still contained many dodgy characters which I’m sure with another 30 years of beautification would see them gone.
We eventually made our way back to the Hostel and the Royal, where we had 2 jugs of beer and the official meal of the tour; chicken wings. We decided to take a nap after dinner and wake up at 10pm to go out. I set my alarm for 10pm but it wasn’t until about 10am the next day I released I’d slept through it.
Day 52 – Vancouver
Today was a rare free day from each other. Brad went to check employment opportunities while I went and did some souvenir shopping for the family back home. Naturally, still loving beaver, even if I’d seen very little of it in either the national parks or night clubs, I was keen to ensure they made up some of the souvenirs as they were the national animal of Canada. At the first store they were $16, at the next store $12, before I found a winner at the next store with them at $6…plus tax. Always with the plus tax! When we’d refuelled the car I couldn’t help but notice that included a Federal Tax, Provincial Tax and a GST, some level of government had to be double dipping there. I finished my shopping at the Roots store and purchased a couple of jackets that I knew would give me a few laughs back home. One nations name for a clothing line is another nations name for sexual intercourse. It’s these little cultural differences that make touring so much fun.
Some time in the early afternoon Brad and I met up again at the Hostel. After giving my ear an absolute bashing for weeks about Melissa and the great debate about whether to stay in Whistler or go back to Montreal Brad had finally made a decision. While I had been out sniggering at the names of local clothing company’s, he had booked a flight to Montreal. We were both quite excited by that news, him because of the opportunity to hook up with a hot French chick, me because I knew I’d finally heard the last of the debate.
With that great life altering decision made there was nothing much left to do but go check out the IMAX down by the waterfront. For some reason Brad insisted I sit on the aisle as he was expecting a call from Melissa. The stupidity of that reasoning only became apparent 5 minutes into the movie when his phone rang and he had to jump over me to leave the theatre. Then just to prove just how dumb an idea it was he stumbled over me again after coming back in the theatre. Then as a further insult to the people who’d made this IMAX movie to encourage learning he stepped over me again to answer his phone for a 2nd time. By now I wasn’t learning much about the great white shark as intended by the director of this movie, but was instead learning how long my patience could wait until I released the fists of fury and launched Brad over the hand rail. Thankfully, I learned I’m a peaceful man and no blood was shed, except for on the screen but I’d missed most of that as Brad hurdled me periodically on his way to and from the exit.
After the movie we headed to the Steamworks Brewery, the circle of life that was the Beaver Las Canada tour was complete. It was here I had my first beer on Canadian soil, it was here I’d have one of my last. Okay, by last I mean one of my last 20 beers as Brad and I finished off the last of the beers in the Esky with some ocker chick from Geelong we’d just met at the hostel before kicking on as part of pub crawl organised by the hostel. It consisted of just the 6 of us, including an Indian (Indian Indian, not American Indian) who spoke about as much English as a Melbourne taxi driver. Our leader on this pub crawl was a fine Canadian lass named Melissa whom I’m sure I captivated with my incredible wit (well at least at the first 2 pubs). Brad seemed convinced he’d done a better job informing me “I think she’s got a thing for me”. Having heard that all through Europe only for him to notch a duck egg I wasn’t overly convinced (although he did have 2 chicks in cat fight over him on the last night Amsterdam so who knows). He’s evidence was that she’d given him her email address, only something I’d managed to extract from her 30 minutes earlier. It was a Motley Crue that was on this pub crawl (Motley Crue as in a mixture of different people, not the band) which made for an interesting night. We stopped in at some bar called “Eait”, the “Mexican” whose big draw card was the free nuts before finishing at the Royal. The Royal was absolutely dead as our Motley Crue that sounded like the start to a joke that goes “An Australian, an American, and an Indian walk into a bar…” arrived. By now we were quite hammered and I was quite disappointed by the lack of talent in the bar which mixed with alcohol made me a little depressed. Brad kept on insisting on slapping me on the back and telling me to buck up. That only served to piss me off even more so I told him in some colourful language that I didn’t want to talk to him because he didn’t have tits.
Bored at 2:30am, I snuck out of the pub after pretending to go to the toilet. I checked my email, sent one back to my boss telling him I’d see him next week and headed back to the room for my last nights sleep on Canadian soil.
Day 53 – Vancouver to Melbourne via Honolulu and Sydney
Today was a sombre day. I was going home after almost 8 weeks on the road, and Brad was heading off to the unknown in Montreal. We chilled on the waterfront still recovering from last night. Brad had hurled, while my body parts were all high fiving each other knowing they would finally get a rest from alcohol. I could still remember way back in Ottawa how we’d agreed to have an alcohol free day and how that was capsized in a jug of beer after being asked out by a Brazilian woman. Now almost 40 days later that alcohol free day never did eventuate. Well, not until today where I thought it would be a symbolic gesture to not drink to indicate the end of the Beaver Las Canada tour.
It was some time after noon that I boarded the Airporter bus out the front of the Comfort Inn across the street from the hostel. I gave Brad a man hug and wished him well for his new adventure in Montreal. As I was flying out via Honolulu, and the Canadian and US governments had an agreement which meant I could clear US customs in Vancouver, it meant I would be going through the customs of a government determined to keep its freedom. So keen to keep their freedom they were happy to invade other countries in this “war on terror” which I could see was being as successful as the “war on drugs”. Once at customs I was happy to see the “War on terrorism” had seen customs keep an ever present eye on danger. How do you stay ever vigilant against this constant threat of attack? You crank call one of your fellow customs co-workers. As I was the only one clearing customs the other 6 gates found themselves, without any eminent threat from terrorism, with lots of free time on their hands. As I approached the customs gate the customs official phone rang. She knew it was a crank call so asked me to answer it. I’m always up for some fun so was more than happy to answer the phone. What follows is the conversation:
Me: G’day how you going?
Customs co-worker crank caller: Um…er…this call is not for you
Me: Oh, I’m her receptionist. I answer all of her calls. I’ll put you through
We all had a laugh, knowing we’d had a little win against terrorism by having a laugh.
As clearing customs was no issue, even if I had have had some explosives strapped to my guts, it was through to the Air Canada lounge for a few hours before boarding the flight. Once on the flight I couldn’t help but notice that this flight crew was possibly the oldest still in operation. Some of these flight stewardesses could list their first job as working on the Wright brothers’ first flight. The woman sitting next to me on this flight was an obese German woman who most likely was related to Augustus Gloop and I’m sure she’d fallen into a number of chocolate rivers in her time. She was so large I didn’t even attempt to use the toilet on the first 5 hours of the flight to Honolulu as I feared trying to get past her would cause havoc for the pilots by redistributing that much weight while still airborne. That and anything that would cause that bloody annoying crying baby to wake up were actions ruled out on this flight. How do babies somehow make a noise at a pitch just under what a dog can hear?
Once landed in Honolulu I let out one of those pees that makes you make an audible “Oh yeah” before waiting at the gate for an hour. That time was spent being entertained/confused/scared by some old bloke walking back and forth from wall to wall. Once he reached the wall we would hip and shoulder it almost as if he was saying to the wall “do you wanna fight?”. He didn’t mutter any crazy ramblings so I put it down to him just wanting to avoid DVT by ensuring his circulation was flowing. Let’s hope this bloke isn’t practising breaking down the pilot’s door.
Back on the plane for the final leg to Sydney my bladder was distracted for 2 of the 10 hours by the movie “Monster in Law”. This movie was on the plane on my way across meaning it had been screening on the plane for 2 months, probably about 1 month and 3 weeks longer than it would’ve lasted at the theatres. Absolute rubbish that was billed as Jane Fonda’s big comeback. Stay in retirement sweetheart if you’re going to make junk like this. If that movie hadn’t put all the men to sleep on this flight, then the second part of this chick flick double would’ve. “Sisterhood of the travelling pants”; my god it’s not often you’d be happy for your plane to ditch in the Pacific but I wasn’t overly fussed if this was going to be the in-flight entertainment. There were only 8 radio stations which had absolutely no sense of grouping which played random music. There was something to indicate one was a children’s radio station by playing the “C is for Cookie” song from the Cookie Monster, but apart from that the rest of the stations were an iPod in shuffle mode.
Thankfully, I slept through most of the flight so it wasn’t long before I had arrived in Sydney. The sweet sound of everyone speaking with an Australian accent is a nice welcome home. Once I gathered my luggage some ocker customs chick greeted me with “G’day, anything to declare”. Of course the first thought was “Yes, I like to declare Air Canada is crap”. Then after that thought “Yes, I’d like to declare independence for America” so I could say I was there at the American declaration of independence. Instead I went with the lame “No” and she believed me and sent me onto my connecting flight to Melbourne.
On the short Qantas flight they actually had arranged their radio stations into some sort of order. On my earlier flight from Melbourne to Sydney the comedy channel had been running a competition to give it a new name. On this flight to Melbourne it was revealed the new name was the “Smile high club”, something so clever that only 50 people had submitted it.
Finally in Melbourne, there is that one thing from keeping you from a shower and a sleep in your own bed after 20 hours in transition; luggage collection. The more you travel, the greater the odds are an Airline will lose your luggage. I figured I must be close to having my number come up, after all the universe had made my number come for jury duty a few years earlier. The anticipation of waiting for your luggage is worse than Christmas. In what had been a lucky 8 weeks, the luck lasted just 1 more day and my luggage arrived on the carrousel.
The Beaver Las Canada tour was now officially complete.
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