"Pay it Forward" -- Squamish, Whistler, Canada

One of the first people I'd contacted in Vancouver about surfing was a middle-aged lady named Ariela. I was desperate to stay with her because this, THIS, is one of the first paragraphs on her profile:

"I love adventure travel and exploring, especially by trekking and hiking. I've summitted Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa (19,340 feet), trekked the Inca Trail to Maccu Pichu in Peru, trekked to Base Camp Everest and the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, and trekked to the 15,000 foot summit of Ras Dashen in the Semien Mountains of Ethiopia. In 2013, I quit my job and spent time backpacking through parts of Africa, Nepal and South East Asia. It was an amazing adventure, but the best of it all was the people I met along the way."

Yup. These are the people I want to be meeting. 

Unfortunately for me, these are the people everyone wants to be meeting. Her response to my lengthy couch request was the following:

"Hi Aimee, you sound awesome but currently you're FIFTH in line for this time period so, all I can say is maybe -- if you find another host that says a definite yes, then take it! If the other couchsurfing requests don't work out, or they get other hosts, then I'm more than happy to host you. If I can't host, then I'm happy to show you around if it works out. All the best, Ariela"

So I happily took the "yes" from Charles H. Tupper and told Ariela I'd love to meet up with her during the weekend of my visit to Vancouver.

And before then? I will conquer Stanley Park. Yes. 

Stanley Park is a thousand acres of forest surrounded by Vancouver Harbor and English Bay. So would require much energy for conquering.

And I have to walk ten kilometers from South Vancouver before I even GET to Stanely park. Oofta, I thought as I contemplated my dilapidated Chacos. This'll be good for me. I mean, I want to freaking walk across Spain this fall. I should be able to walk a few kilometers today without complaining.

So fueled on coffee, non-weasel piss tea and a few dried figs, I set off on the day's jaunt.  

I expected the weather north of Seattle to be, well, colder than Seattle. 

But I'm sweating. And mightily uncomfortable. 

That's what preconceptions will do to you, Bourget. Make you a sweaty, mighty uncomfortable person. Just because Montreal can hit negative 40 degrees Celsius in the winter does not mean that Vancouver won't be unpleasantly toasty in the summer.

Part of me hates that I've traveled so much in Europe. If I'd only traveled in the US, this city would be amazing. But after spending weeks and months in Prague, Istanbul, Vienna, Barcelona, London, Bordeaux... 

Skyscrapers are just boring. Where's the character? The chipped paint? The exposed wooden beams? The old streetlights? 


I'm well on my way to being a pretentious hobo. The worst kind of hobo. 

Oh well.  

At least I can enjoy the parks. 

I shared the park with bikers, rollerbladers, walkers, tandem bikers (some more successful than others), skateboarders and the random plane landing nearby.

Vancouver's version of Denmark's, "the Little Mermaid"

What I did not expect to find in Canada. This.

...

Charles H. Tupper took pity on me and my blistered feet and drove to pick me up on the outskirts of Stanley Park. For which I was immensely grateful, because although I consider myself a walking lady, I had already traversed over twenty kilometers and another ten did not sound appealing.

So we ate green beans, rice and pork, drank tea and watched a film together. While I tried to woo the Siamese kitties into cuddling with me, to no avail.

Baskets will always win. My lap ain't got nothing on that basket.

The next morning, I set off bright and early to meet Ariela at her home for our adventure to Squamish and Whistler. Charles H. Tupper had given me excellent directions regarding public transportation, but I eschewed them all and decided to walk the ten kilometers instead.

Like I do.

For someone who believes so firmly in the virtues of public transportation, it seems odd that I avoid it like the plague. 

 Ariela organizes hikes for a women's hiking club in town, and had invited me and her own surfer to join in on the excursion.

I looked at Ariela's cute red convertible with trepidation.

If the wind in Ireland could make my sinusitis so much worse, what will a few hours of riding backseat in a convertible do to me? 

Fuck. 

Well... it's too late to back out now. 

After an hour and a half of driving through the crisp morning air, we arrived at our destination.

And my sinuses are destroyed, I moaned as the familiar burning/pressure settled into my eyes, ears, throat and nose. Why is my body such a disaster?

Four Lakes Trail was a lovely, gentle hike through the forest near Squamish.

Full of pristine trickling streams --

cougars --

 

 and bears. 

Well... at least that preconception about Canada seems to be true... awesome?

This is always where I'll feel most alive, I breathed the fresh mountain air, ignoring my screaming sinuses and sinking into that feeling of "home". That rare, remarkable feeling I sometimes get when I feel like I fit. Could be with a person, could be with place, could be with a job.

I fit here. 

Relieved and, well, somewhat disappointed by the lack of cougar/bear attacks, I reluctantly slid back into Ariela's red convertible and we headed north to Whistler. A ski resort which rivals Aspen in its noxious level of ritzy.

We shared a pitcher of beer, ordered some nachos and watched downhill bikers careen down the mountain.

I feel like my life is extreme. And then I watch people like that. 

And I feel so... mundane. 
 

We meandered around Whistler for a few more minutes before starting the long journey back to Vancouver.

Well, long in Slovenian terms. Probably like a quick trip to the shop in Canadian terms.

And since it was, well, such a quick trip home, we made several stops.

At the Olympic ski jumps -- 

Yup. My life is mundane. Utterly mundane. 

-- on the side of the road to observe a rather furry pedestrian --

-- to take in a couple of truly spectacular views --

-- to hike to a thunderous waterfall --

-- and stop for a final beer at one of Vancouver's many microbreweries before Ariela kindly dropped me off at the home of Charles H. Tupper and his two Siamese kitties.

"Just promise me to pay it forward," she said as I disembarked the little red convertible for the last time.

"Sure thing," I smiled. "Thanks for the adventure."

I get the whole concept of paying it forward. But I still hate it. Ariela's "pay it forward" turned that gift of a ride home into a transaction. I now owe the universe. Besides, I've got a veritable MOUNTAIN of "paying it forward" to do by now that I'm already feeling overwhelmed. Holy bananas. Don't know how I'll ever get caught up on that. 

When I give, I don't like the feelings of obligation or "debt paying". Then it doesn't feel like giving anymore. I want to give just to give. And that's it. End of story. Finished.

"No Weasel Piss Served Here!" -- Vancouver, Canada

I'm starting this post from Queen Elizabeth Park in Vancouver, Canada. My plum colored sarong is spread out on the grass under the shade of a magnificent tree (my carpenter father could say which kind, but I'm hopeless).  A fountain goes on and off in front of me, bubbling columns of water slowly rising to a loud, blustering peak and then abruptly melting into the pool. Tourists snap photos of themselves in front of the fountain, flashing toothy grins, duck lips, seductively cocked heads, peace signs and gazing soulfully into the distance.

Sometimes I feel kind of bad that I have so few photos of myself while traveling. 

Then I watch throngs of people willingly contorting their faces like this... 

And I suddenly don't feel so bad.  

When I travel with a buddy who wants to take pictures of me, I'll have pictures of me. And when I don't, I won't.  

Wind rustles through the leaves of the tree my father could name, and I sit with a gorgeous picnic Charles prepared for me and relish the tingly sensation of the breeze against my bare arms.

I love Charles. He's the kind of chap who says "ciggies" instead of cigarettes, "nappies" instead of napkins, and "HOLY SHITBALLS!" instead of, you know, shit. He has two adorable Siamese cats, loads of interesting stories, and patience enough to listen to mine. The kettle on the stove is perpetually hot (and the seventeen+ kettles hanging out above the stove are all ready to go, should the need arise for 17+ kettles), and my host is always offering me a "cuppa".

"No weasel piss served here!" Charles said when he handed me my first cup of strong, steaming non-weasel piss.

His home is full. Of books, DVDs, cat figurines, paintings and a giant cat wheel. Where his chubby kitties could run, if they so chose.

They do not choose. But I often see them napping in the wheel, which seems rather ironic.

Charles H Tupper met me at the bus station when I arrived in Vancouver on the afternoon of the 22nd of June. He gave me a proper hug and then drove us to Granville Island Public Market.

Where he bought me cheese. And I decided that I liked him very much indeed.

Charles H. Tupper drove me back to his full home, introduced me to his portly kitties and showed me to my room. Where he had prepared my bed complete with towels and bars of chocolate on the pillow.

Who IS this guy? 

We picnicked on his porch and chatted until this old lady decided to crawl under the covers and call it a day.

I wasn't ready to move again. But I'm glad I ended up with someone who seems so keen about making me feel at home. 

Vancouver is a mosaic of different cultures. Charles H. Tupper lives in the Indian area, but I somehow stumbled into a Japanese cafe the morning after I arrived. Because regardless of how excellent the non-weasel piss of Charles H. Tupper is, Girl still needed her coffee.

"One small latte?" I asked the small Japanese woman behind the counter and then retreated to a table in the corner of the tiny cafe.

I whiled away the morning, taking astronomically small sips of my cappuccino and catching up on my blog from France.

I love writing. I never feel fully... awake... alive... aware... until I've written. I don't even know if I understand how I feel about something or someone until I've had a good journaling session. But lately, writing has just seemed like such a burden. It's become more stressful than stress-relieving. 

I think I'll take a bit of a break after I catch up with France. 

The afternoon was spent wandering through gardens and parks.

The evening was spent with Charles H. Tupper. Telling stories, watching films, petting kitties and drinking non-weasel piss.