"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.