Dispatches… part deux

(Wherein our intrepid hero travels from the northern wastes of Canada to the rebel separatist’s stronghold, and thence the happiest place on earth)

Following my previous missive, a close associate, whose name – evocative of eastern rivers and nations – shall remain undisclosed, suggested that rather than distributing the tales of my adventures through the mail electronic, I ought, instead, to create a blog. The effrontery! The sheer obscenity of such a suggestion! To advise that I might file away my writings in some dark corner of the internet, to be easily overlooked by you all. And worse still, to convert me into a blogger. Scandal! Scandal I say! Rest assured, you’ll not rid yourselves of me so easily. The mere idea that I might hide my brilliant creations, when I stand before you at the very peak of my brilliance, at the very zenith of my exponentially growing magnificence, which each day advances to further heights, attaining greater zenithiousity as I march further north into the fields of my own spectacularity! Obscenity of the highest degree. Do not imagine that I sit here, wearing away my elegant fingers at the cruel keys of the cycloptican computer, bringing my frail self to the edge of exhaustion, the very limit that my poor mortal self can handle, merely for the satisfying clicking sound of the keyboard. Nay, and not for the edification of my most glorious ego, either. No dear friends, I do it all for you. I break myself upon the rocks of grammar and the sharp edges of plot development for your amusement. – And let us not forget the harsh mistress of character development. And do not think I do not know how few of you have viewed my images, and thus – by extension – perused (much less I dare expect, absorb) my artful prose. Truly, you would deny yourselves such grandeur, only to emerge from a bookstore some months hence with some dime-store hackery produced by some flowing-haired golden boy whose adventures in Peru you found too irresistible to avoid. Yes, I know the way of you! But fear not, dear friends, for I love you, still. Such is the weakness of my heart.

Or perhaps I’ve just been to one too many poetry readings.

Canada

“No land in the globe affords a more appropriate setting for stories of adventure and exploration, whether found in fiction or drawn from real experience, than the great Wild West of North America. Not the degenerate West of the present day, vulgarised by cattle ranches and mining camps, but the free, boundless expanse of virgin forest and prairie, the home of the whooping, scalping Red Indian, the grizzly bear, and the buffalo in its innumerable herds.”

Something which I forgot to mention in the previous eMail was an incident witnessed on the bus on the first day out and about. A real, honest-to-goodness Canadian dispute. Basically, this couple didn’t get off at their stop, because… well, I don’t know. I think they believed the bus was going to stop again where it had picked them up earlier on, about 10 metres away. Anyway, the result was the lady profusely apologising for not getting off, while the bus driver was similarly repentant for not reminding them that this was their stop (though considering that they had apparently caught the bus from there earlier in the day, it should have been pretty obvious). The dispute ended with the bus driver saying “it’s nobody’s fault, sometimes things just happen”. I’m sure I am entirely failing in my attempts to capture the bizarre over-politeness of the situation. Anyway, this is apparently the standard style of Canadian disputes, which made this sight all the more surprising. Apparently, fiduciary disputes are settled in the Canadian wilderness through the ancient art of van-painting.

Day 4
Spending the first part of the day in White Rock, dealing with the many and sundry things that needed dealing with, like washing, and my accommodation in New York, I then went to have lunch with Emily, which, naturally, also involved a spot of shoe shopping, before boarding the bus to Vancouver. My plan for the day, having decided that the whole sightseeing thing’s kinda only fun for a little while, was to spend some more time in Mcleod’s, before wandering up to the art gallery for some art. Emily was heading in after work so that we could go see The Neins Circa play at the Media Club. So, long story short, come 6 o’clock, I’m being shuffled out of Mcleod’s, having spent the whole day there. Slightly saddened by the fact that I couldn’t find a book Emily had shown me there the other day, on advice for a wife (which was, I can assure you, most entirely splendid) I did, however, manage to acquire some real gems. Including The Romance of Modern Exploration, and The Art of Kissing , from whence the following magnificent passages come: “It is, therefore, necessary that the man be taller than the woman, the psychological reason for this is that he must always give the impression of being the woman’s superior, both mentally and especially physically. …And all of these are impossible when the woman is the taller of the two. For when the situation is reversed, the kiss becomes only a ludicrous banality. The physical mastery is gone, the male prerogative is gone, everything is gone but the fact that two lips are touching two other lips. Nothing can be more disappointing.”

“…the first thing he should do is arrange it so that the girl is seated against the arm of the sofa while he is seated at her side. In this way, she cannot edge away from him when he becomes serious in his attentions. …If she flinches, don’t worry. If she flinches and makes an outcry, don’t worry. If she flinches, makes an outcry and tries to get up from the sofa, don’t worry. Hold her, gently but firmly, and allay her fears with kind, reassuring words. Remember what Shakespeare said about “a woman’s no!” However, if she flinches, makes an outcry, a loud, stentorian outcry, mind you, and starts to scratch your face, then start to worry or start to get yourself out of a bad situation. Such girls are not to be trifled with… or kissed. It is such as they, in most cases, who still believe the story of the stork who brings babies as the consequence of a kiss.”

“…your next step is to flatter her in some way. All women like to be flattered. They like to be told they are beautiful even when the mirror throws the lie back into their ugly faces.”

So, tallness, eh? Well, no problems there… eh ladies? So, from Mcleod’s I go to meet Emily, and we have some sushi for dinner, as well as picking through a vintage clothing store. (It was only with the strongest of willpower that I resisted buying a Rod Stewart belt buckle) before heading to the Media Club. (Stopping off at the Vancouver public library for some thoughtful ponderances) Three bands played, the best of which was definitely the Neins, whose lead singer came on stage carrying balloons in a green two-piece straight out of the 70’s, and a panda mask. It is a safe assumption to suggest that, whilst experiencing a wide range of emotions, and some tattooing , we had a good time. Then we wandered to Andrey’s, where we were supposed to be spending the night, only to discover that he was out gallivanting, the cad. So we caught an excessively expensive taxi back to White Rock, amusing ourselves on the journey with an improvised Disney & William Shatner karaoke session courtesy of my mp3 player. Suffice it to say, it was an epic journey.

Of the remainder of adventures in Canada, I shall do my best to compress the details, particularly as there are some 5,000 words following on my adventures in the United States. Suffice it to say I decided to buy the hat, though not before discovering an (inferior?) alternative at I Love Hats, the store where I was also taunted, as usual, by the whispered promise of a derby that almost fit. I decided to get a delightfully touristy photo of “ Authentic Vancouver” for your amusement, which was taken shortly before being approached by a fellow Australian suffering from grievous calamity at the hands of the authorities. Whilst I won’t reproduce his (somewhat incoherent) narrative, suffice it to say the best part was when he said ” you can tell I’m not on drugs“, having just told me he was from Byron Bay – hah! Right! Anyway, on with the show. I found more evidence of the government’s threats against a wasteful public, and spent some time with Andrey, who I don’t think likes me very much. In fact, I got the distinct impression he was trying to bore me to death with psychic boredom-rays. I actually felt like I was being chloroformed. We attended the midnight book launch of Harry Potter, operating on the logic that, after all, it would be probably the only chance I’d ever have to go to a midnight book launch. Emily, not at all into Potteralia, did her best to amuse herself with some of the more laughable merchandises, but suffice it to say that following my moment of triumph , and my telling the cashier “Actually, I’m just here for some Dan Brown… ” we bid a hasty retreat.

More documentation of the advertisements of Canadia, observe the TELUS monkeys; who stare at you with their beady little eyes, judging you. Strange talismans, and promises of “mountain magic ” led us to what turned out, disappointingly, to be a mountaineering store. Hardly any magic at all! We returned to the puppet store, for more puppetry, including more lurking puppets, a taste of home, and of course, the noble octopode. After encountering a terrifying frog creature, I practised my seductivity on a Canadian merwoman, but found her to be a bit, well, wooden. We went to the Vancouver art museum, where in the interest of winning a wager on outrageous behaviour, I photographed Emily in front of a Picasso in a bikini (fear not, art lovers, I triple checked that the flash was off before proceeding). Suffice it to say, the wager was won. You will not, however, see photos of this, as I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate, and also, if I were to display these photos, I’m sure I would be obliged to display the images of my own public semi-nudity, which I can assure you, is not going to happen. It is useful to note, however, how little people react to someone stripping off into a bikini in the middle of a museum. Perhaps a useful lesson for the future? After an unsuccessful and lengthy search for Katsu Don, we ate a restaurant where I found my every move scrutineered by multiple portraits of the indomitable Frida Kahlo. Suffice it to say; it was unsettling. Nevertheless, I enjoyed my perogies with a zestful vigour.

We followed this up with some delicious plastic ice-cream, and I got some photos in my spiffing new hat by a gen-u-ine New York cab (such that I wouldn’t see in my entire time in New York). And had a conversation with a charming homeless man who extolled the virtues of my kind eyes (apparently, they’re pretty kind) and magnificent stature. We met up with Emily’s sister, (newly returned from South Korea) and her brother and Sonny, and went to Gastown, where I was promising them the mysterious delights of “Canvas“. – an art gallery I had found a few days earlier, where the friendly assistant had suggested that I return on Saturday, when they (supposedly) have bongo music, and what I was lead to believe was a generally bohemian atmosphere. I had hoped, naturally, to surprise the Canuckians with my discovery of an awesome bo-ho bar replete with bongos and berets. This of course, was entirely not the case. Instead, overpriced and unpleasant cocktails and deejaying were our fare during our brief stop. It was clearly some sort of yuppie trap, for yuppies. Of the photos taken, I can assure you, the joy displayed is entirely counterfeit.

Thus, on a high note, I shall end my account of travails in Canada, and begin with the epic that was my time in the rebel stronghold, The United States of America.

Dispatches from the wilds of Canadia – Day 3

Gastown
(Wherein Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are awaiting autopsy)

On the second morning, again up at a scandalous hour, I hurriedly packed and checked out of the motel, before tromping off to Emily’s house once more. After dropping off my bags, and being shown around, she showed me where to buy a day pass for the bus, and then led me to the bus stop. I would be adventuring alone today, as she had to work. I arrived in Vancouver without incident, and walked around, looking for The Marine Building, having been assured by my guidebook that it is perhaps the finest example of Art Deco in the world. Stopping at the steps of what was probably a dreadfully historic church to consult my guide book to work out where the building actually was, I was approached by a person of diminished financial endowment, desirous of spare change, (which is an all too common occurrence around here) who then proceeded to ask me where I was from, what I was doing, &c., and if I would mind if he walked with me? So, the walk to the Marine Building continued, accompanied by a discussion of his various medications, and their side affects, as well as some suggestions on purchasing day passes, or perhaps even a monthly bus pass. (I neglected to mention that I had bought a day pass, because “I need the rest for the bus” was my excuse for not giving him all my change). Finally, I reach the building, and spent a considerable deal of time photographing its Art Deco features, for which I was unabashedly enthusiastic. Indeed, I made sure to document every aspect of the building. Then I headed to Canada Center, which is a convention centre type thingy on the water that was built for expo ‘86, and which is entirely Tourist fare, but it did afford good views of the harbour and mountains . Thence I headed to historic Gastown, named for Captain John ” Gassy Jack” Deighton, so nicknamed for his tendency to “Gas” – that is, prone to loquacious and long winded monologues, and also because of his proclivity to get “Gassed” – or drunk, who built the first bar here for the workers of the nearby sawmill, around which Gastown eventually sprung. I stopped at the Inuit gallery, where I photographed a number of delightful statuettes of dancing bears, seals, dragons and birds, before walking right past Gastown’s famous steam powered clock without even noticing it. My wanderings took me to the statue of Gassy Jack, perched atop a whisky keg, before I got slightly lost, in search of the Centennial Police Museum, and ended up on East Hasting St, which was a decidedly slummy part of town. I backtracked my course, and found myself at a small Gallery called Canvas, which featured some excellent art which I was personally toured around by one of the Galleriers, and then I found myself at a second gallery, looking at art that could only be described as what would occur if Jackson Pollock had done portraits. Truly amazing stuff. Finally, I managed to make my way to the Police Museum, just 45 minutes shy of closing. I wandered through the exhibits, amused by the names of the old equipment, such as the ” drunkometer” the electro-matic radar speed meter, and the speedalizer. Then I entered the morgue, which featured the storage shelves labelled by some whimsical soul with names including Dorian Grey, Albus Dumbledore, Jack Dawson, Maude Flanders, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern . Most probably the work of the guy running the museum, who is a philosophy student. Then I went into the autopsy room itself, which was the site of the autopsy of none other than Errol Flynn himself. The story goes, (from my guide book): ” Flynn arrived in the city in October 1959 with his best acting days behind him. With him was his “personal assistant”, a 17-year-old blonde girl not known for her secretarial skills. Within two days Flynn had dropped dead in his rented West End apartment. The body was then brought to the Coroner’s Court, where the pathologist conducting the autopsy is said to have removed a piece of Flynn’s penis and placed it in formaldehyde to keep as a souvenir. The horrified chief coroner Glen McDonald, a rather more fastidious operator, is said to have pulled rank and reattached the missing piece of member to the corpse with sticky tape “. Also adorning the walls of the morgue were a collection of organs aptly described as “ a suitably macabre selection of mangled and preserved body parts.” Including a foetus labelled ” found discarded near university“, Which I immediately thought would amuse you, Sophie, which was a thought that Emily and Sonny also immediately expressed on hearing my description of it. I then went back up to see the famous steam clock, which is the only one in the world, before heading back into the heart of Vancouver.

Beach Party
(Wherein Gin is transformed from friend to foe)

I headed to McClouds, hoping to spend some more time amongst the books, but it was sadly closed, as it was actually 6 o’clock by this stage. (It stays light very long at the moment, so one finds oneself surprised to discover how late it has gotten of an evening). So, with everything closing up, I headed back to White Rock, to prepare for the bonfire on the beach that night. Arriving at the beach and finding no wood available in the immediate vicinity, Emily and I left the others to head some considerable distance up the beach to find some. Eventually finding a sufficient quantity (but not before stopping outside a pub to sing along to the strains of “The Land Down Under” that drifted through the night air to us, and riding a statue of a bear) we hauled our precious resources (I carrying what were, frankly, goddamn logs) back to the spot of our fire. After educating the Canadians in the proper way to build a fire (Sonny put the kindling on the bottom with the newspaper on top of it… seriously, what’s with that?) we sat back to enjoy its pleasing warmth, along with marshmallows and Gin and Tonics. Emily and I lit up our fine Cuban cigars that I purchased the day before, during our adventures, and the taste of which still lingers on… some other Canadians from a neighbouring fire, who were, perhaps, verging on being damn punk teens. Joined us, and I regaled them with tales of drop bears and explained that the reason our fire was so much better than theirs was that all Australians are master fire builders, as we don’t have electricity. Emily’s brother Dan showed up (being a different Dan to the one met previously) and it would appear that I somewhat over-imbibed the tonic and gin, (mostly the gin, methinks) with the result that I don’t remember much else of the evening. When Emily woke me in the morning before heading to work, I noted that I was without shirt, which I found, in the manner of all Movies and Television Shows, suspicious. I decided that I would be best served by getting more sleep, especially as the cold which I had a few weeks ago has returned, most probably because of the strain of travel. Thus I have spent today sleeping and tending to things that required tending to (such as writing this eMail). It would seem that I picked the right day for it, too, as it has rained all day. It rained a bit yesterday, as well, and Emily is convinced that it was only sunny on Monday because I caught Canada by surprise (based on her experience of when Sophie was over here, when it apparently rained the whole time). Then I went out for dinner with Sonny, before going to the Cactus Club with Sonny, Andrey, Emily, and a guy whose name I think is Daniel.

Oh, and finally, in other news, I just got my marks for this semester, and it would appear that Doctors West and Russel have decided to warn me of the risks of my shenanigans – my final mark: 51% (not bad considering I got 0 on an essay worth 50%!) This also means that my Artistic Bachelorification is finally at an end!

Dispatches from the wilds of Canadia

Greetings friends!

Most of you are no doubt entirely unaware that I am in Canada. However, do not feel neglected, dear ones, for even my parents – from whom I had to mooch the necessary resources to fuel this trip – were only informed of my desire to make a grand tour of the northern continent on Thursday (I flew out on Sunday). This was an enterprise conceived in the shadows and executed in the utmost secrecy. So, on to my adventures thus far.

[Author's Note: the following email is rather particularly lengthy, and whilst I have divided it into easily digestible chapters, it remains a not insignificant read.]

Day 1

The flight over was as uneventful as such fights generally are, though one of the stewards generously smuggled me some of the accoutrements of first class, including a bottle of wine that I had to (very regretfully) give back, as I couldn’t take it through security in Los Angeles to get on the flight to Vancouver. (Apparently, following the most recent American terrorism attempt, the risk of semillion-based attacks are at an all-time high). I made up for this, however, by buying some 100 proof Absolut and, of course, a bottle of Bombay Gin. Of course, I then discovered that Canadian customs only allows each visitor to bring 1.14 litres of spirits (Don’t ask me why it’s 1.14, I have no idea) however, the lady with whom I had been sharing a row the whole trip and I agreed that if I sheepishly played off my Australianess, I could probably get it through.

Canadian Customs
(Wherein the road to hell is paved with good intentions – and bus transfers)

So, on arrival at Vancouver airport, I pass through passport control, pick up my bag, and then file into the line for customs. I get to the front, an official takes my carefully filled out form, and I walk through to… nothing. That’s it. They just took the card, didn’t even bother looking at it. They did have signs up warning that sniffer dogs were on duty, but evidently these dogs aren’t proficient in the metric system, as they certainly didn’t smell my excess booze. So then I met my fellow traveller’s father (whose 91st birthday she was coming over for) bad my farewells, and went in search of information on how to get to White Rock (a town outside Vancouver, where Emily lives). A kindly old lady volunteer who almost certainly looked as though she belonged on the front of a box of cookies, or some cake mix, told me I cold either catch a taxi, which would set me back about $45, or the bus, which would cost $3.50. It was not ’til much later that it would occur to me just how great a distance was implied by a $45 cab fare. So, with directions on how to get to the bus stop, I began making my way. Discovering that bus transit over here requires exact change (which I most definitely didn’t have) meant a frantic run to a nearby convenience store with my very heavy bags in tow, while the other passengers shuffled aboard. Fortunately, I got back to the stop in time, and was on my way. Dropped off at the 22nd Street SkyTrain station, a guard showed me to the information phone where I was given precise directions with bus numbers and the associated etceterum necessary for my continued transit, and then he showed me how to buy a ticket. Thus I boarded the SkyTrain and was treated to a pretty impressive ride through Vancouver on the elevated railway. I was also delighted to spot a poster advertising the fact that Eddie Izzard has his own show over here. Truly, they live as gods. Anyway, long story short, a few more helpful Canadians later, I found myself in White Rock Centre, thoroughly exhausted, and rather a bit over the 3 1/2 hours of public transport I had just experienced. So, I made my way to a supermarket, hoping to find someone that could call me a taxi for the final leg of my journey, and was shown to a courtesy phone specifically installed for that purpose. Perhaps this is actually a common thing for supermarkets, but I found it amazing. I then bought some shampoo, &c. and got to experience actually checking out my own shopping – you actually scan it yourself and pay a machine and everything. I suspect that Canada is probably the only nation in which the citizens can be trusted to actually do this. Finally, I took the taxi on what turned out to be an embarrassingly short trip to the motel, where, by 7pm, I was finally checked in (having arrived in Canada at 2:30). A lengthy shower and vigorous shampooing later, and the accumulated crud of 21 hours of transit was washed away. The truly sad part of the experience, however, is that whilst all they were trying to do was be helpful, the friendly Canadians managed to cooperatively send me on what I am assured is (almost) the lengthiest possible way to get to White Rock from Vancouver.

Surprise!
(Wherein a father’s loyalty is questionable)

No longer smelling like I’ve just spent 17 hours in things starting with “Airp”, I set out to Emily’s house. I arrive at about 9:30, worried that it was really a bit impolite to be calling so late, but confused by the fact that it was still not quite dark yet, and was greeted by Emily’s dad at the door. Emily, unfortunately, had not yet arrived home from work, so I asked what time she would be leaving the next morning, and he agreed to keep my arrival a secret, and I set off back to the hotel to sleep. Such are the perils of international surprise. I have since given Emily a good ribbing over the fact that her dad is willing to share the details of her personal schedule to perfect strangers, and keep secrets from her for them.

The next morning I get up at about 7 (shocking, I know) and once more head to Emily’s house. I ring the bell, and am greeted this time by Emily, wearing an expression that I will regret not taking a picture of until the end of my days. It can only be described as complete dumbfounded confusion. After a few minutes of Emily still trying to process the fact that I’m real, we headed out to have breakfast, and then to her work, where she had to take care of a few things before skiving off to go to Vancouver with me. We then headed to white rock beach, where we observed beachy things, as well as Canadians in their natural habitat, and the mighty white rock, after which the town is named.

Vancouver
(Wherein Joe Camel informs children that smoking is cool)

In Vancouver, she took me to Mccloud’s bookstore, which is, in my opinement, everything a bookstore should be. Stacks of books rise from the floor throughout the shop, and it is filled with delightful tomes of varying antiquity. We picked through there for a while, at one point I was delighted to discover a copy of Plato’s Symposium translated by Percy Bysshe Shelly, which I promptly read out to Emily, the section where Alcibaides shows up pissed as a newt and starts hitting on everyone. From there, after stopping for some bubble tea, we went to Granville Island, which isn’t really an island as much a peninsula shaped like a mushroom. We went to the kid’s market, which is, surprise surprise, a market for kids. Of particular note was the puppet store , which was filled with the wonders of puppetry . Then we visited a hat store, where I found the first ever hat to fit my head! And as if this wasn’t enough to make me want it, it was an Indiana Jones hat! Naturally, the first thing I said when I put it on was “It belongs in a museum!” The $160 price tag discouraged me somewhat, but I may yet go back for it. Then we went to the food market, where we acquired a loaf of bread, cheese and some meats, which we then ate by the waterside, while observing the terrifyingly large seagulls. We then headed back to White Rock, where I bought a pair of trousers, deciding that jeans were not such a great idea in the heat over here (It’s really rather warm) and some socks, because for some reason when I was packing for the trip, the entirety of my sock drawer yielded only two pairs. Then we went to the Cactus Club, where I met Sonny and Ashley, (and was struck by the fact that Sonny didn’t sound at all like I expected he would, though, I had to admit, when he asked “What did you think I would sound like?” I had no idea.) And we were later joined by Dan and Dylan, who is, apparently, pretty cool. Topics of conversation included the scandalous attractiveness of the waitresses, which is perhaps a new trick over here. The bathrooms were also rather impressive, featuring not only a television, but carefully topiary’d trees and a couch, as well as foot-activated flush buttons which seemed to me to be a pretty good idea, self-replacing plastic covers for the seats, and laser taps, for which I have an undying fondness. Evidently my rouguish Australian charm was in full swing, as by the end of the night I had been offered accommodation at both Emily’s and Ashley’s houses.