"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.

Returning Stateside

Returning stateside is never easy. I fly in with feelings of failure, fear and a whole mountain range of sad. 

Failure because it seems as if I'm always returning to a place I'd hoped to leave behind. A place with a few fantastic friends, but wherein nothing I love is nurtured. A place I should call home, but a place that feels disconcertingly alien to me. Where I feel disconcertingly alien.

If I'd been born and raised in a place that fit, I wonder if I would travel the way I do. 

Fear because when I return to the States, I never know when I'm going to leave. Two months. Ten months. A year. And while a year doesn't sound tremendously long to most people, it's eons in the life of a lady who's used to moving every week or so. I'm afraid of collecting keys on my key chain. Responsibilities that tie me down in a place that I know is unhealthy for me.

Sadness because it hurts to see how much life I've missed with the people I love. My littlest sister got married when I was Scotland. My friend Janet was offered a phenomenal job in Dinosaur National Park, so will be packing up her life and moving out of her charming green and yellow house. The family dogs keep getting older and fatter, my little brother keeps finding more board games at which he can win, and my father has finally moved his woodshop to a place of his own on the banks of the Colorado River.  

A dream from forever ago fulfilled. 

Each time I return Stateside, I experience similar waves of dissatisfaction, disbelief, disgust at the American Dream.

Do people NEED homes this big? Cars this inefficient? Why is it still so complicated to RECYCLE? Why do I feel nervous when I see police instead of reassured? Why are there so many fastfood joints? Why does everyone speak English? Why is the petrol so unrealistically cheap? Where's the public transportation? 

I need to get my yearly lady tests done. You know, the ones that detect cervical cancer at a stage wherein it's still easy to treat. But I can't afford to do that until I get approved for Medicaid. If I get approved for Medicaid. Which can take up to sixty days, by which time I may no longer be here.

I think the American Dream is seductive because it supports the suspension of disbelief about control. Which we all want. The idea that we have control over our fickle lives is irresistibly reassuring.

"You're homeless because you don't work hard. If you worked harder, you could fix your situation. Why should my tax money support your laziness?"

"You're sick because you eat unhealthy food and don't exercise. If you ate healthy food and got off your ass once in a while, you'd be fine. Why should my tax money support your poor health choices?"

"You're addicted to drugs because you're weak. If you wanted to break your addiction, you could. Why should my tax money support your weak moral character?"

"You're in prison because you're an evil person who doesn't deserve to be a part of society. Who should be punished. Why should my tax money support a restorative instead of punitive system?

We don't want to believe that anything can happen to anyone. We don't want to believe that the homeless fellow on the street could have ended up there because he lost his health due to a genetic disease, lost his job because he lost his health and lost his home because he lost his job.

Because that could be our story. My story. Your story.

It's so much safer, more comforting to say, "you're on the street because you're lazy."

We make everything a choice here. And we choose to not support people who "make choices" we don't agree with. Like the vet who "chose" to become addicted to heroin to cope with his PTSD. And is now facing a jail sentence instead of therapy to learn new coping skills. 

The US probably has the highest concentration of "practicing" Christians of any country I've visited. And it's the country where people jump the quickest to blame each other instead of moving to take care of each other. 

That's fun. 

I spent three days in Grand Junction. Connected with friends. Had a birthday party with significantly less cheese than in Lille, but also minus one mildly creepy Frenchman. Hopped in the car and drove eight hours with my mother and younger sister to Idaho. Where we stayed at an airb&b and were offered freshly grilled hamburgers and chicken.


America.

We also visited Shoshone Falls.

No matter how much the politics/religion of this country doesn't fit me, I'll never say it's not worth visiting. 
 

Not when there's nature like this. 
 

We spent a few days in Oregon with my relatives. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Grandparents. Then loaded back into my mother's Toyota and drove to Washington. Where we boarded a ferry bound for Orcas Island.

I've only been in the US for... one week? And I've already been in four different states and an ISLAND. 

This is my life. 

My cousin's wedding was gorgeous. Three days of food, festivities, family. Three days of unbelievable sunshine in a place renowned for its crappy weather. 

I feel like I could be on Vis Island right now... but without the old stone buildings and with quite a few more white picket fences and bald eagles.

My Aunt Julie dropped me off in Seattle on her way back to her home near Portland.

Two weeks. In one place. With the same people (and non-people -- Emily and Doug's house is bursting with dogs and cats). A moment of respite from the frenetic nature of my hobo life. 

Boy flew over to visit. Bringing himself, his broken umbrella and his soccer ball named Pacha.

The two weeks flew by. A flurry of good food, friends, rain, and camping trips (with more rain).

I could watch Ivan run all day. ALL DAY.

No matter how many beautiful people I meet in the States, I can't imagine it ever feeling like home. The values of this society make me feel fundamentally unsafe. Whenever I return, I immediately begin counting down the days until Ellie and I will be on the road again. I spend much more time on websites like theclymb and steep&cheap, looking for gear deals. I browse secretflying.com. I get caught perusing workway and house sitting websites. I do everything I can to convince myself that I won't be here long. To let myself know I have a way out.

Doug and Boy dropped me at the bus station on the 22nd of June. And I said goodbye with mixed feelings.

I'm already eager to leave the States, but I'm not ready to move again. I needed more than two weeks of being unpacked. I needed enough time to experiment with cooking, to learn a couple songs on my new ukulele, to pester someone into practicing acro yoga with me. 

But this is it for now. This is me. And now I'm going to Vancouver. Where I will stay for a mere four days, and then fly to Montreal. Where I might discover a place that could become a home for me. Fingers crossed.