Chapter 1: British Columbia

By the numbers:  4 days.  $101 on food.  $103 on refreshments.  $102 on transportation.  $121 on lodging.  $38 for admission tickets. 15 glasses of beer.  

Although we were international (one only needs to reminisce on the drill sergeant disguised as a customs agent at the airport as a reminder of this fact), there were no shortage of clues to just how close to the United States we remained.  Teenagers were still disrespectful to adults.  Fresh bud could be smelled on any walk greater than three minutes.  People knew we were not from the area – perhaps our sporadic fixation to city maps and Canon T3i’s strapped to our shoulders gave that away.  And, of course, Starbucks and McDonalds overpopulated the cities.  Though unfortunately for them, the allure of their occasional Victorian-influenced architecture still failed to make the overpriced Venti roasts and cardboard hamburgers any more appealing to my palate.  Despite this, once we forgot that we were thirty miles from the border and remembered that we were 1,500 miles from home, we were really able to immerse ourselves in the culture of southwest British Columbia.

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry

The initial twelve hour commute from Phoenix to Victoria consisted of an airplane, a stretch bus, a cruise-like ferry (complete with coffee shops, a lounge with a $12 cover, a seafood buffet, six decks, and a children’s playplace), a double-decker bus, and seven blocks of walking.  Or wandering.  The nearly four hour commute from Victoria to Vancouver included the same two buses and ferry, but add the SkyTrain (light rail/subway/elevated train) to the mix, despite only 58 miles separating the two cities.  And interwoven throughout were the two-footed and two-wheeled adventures that spanned over 16 miles in Victoria, highlighting Beacon Hill Park, the low tides of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Oak Bay, the quaint Uplands neighborhoods, and the historic Craigdarroch Castle.  Similarly, our $12 bike rental in Vancouver allowed the four hour discovery of a forest within a city that is Stanley Park.  Even without renting bicycles, I could have been content with the SeaWalk, the several mile foot path that begins near the Waterfront SkyTrain station and coincides with the Vancouver harbor.  Where else will you have to talk over departing floatplanes, see an island dedicated to a Chevron station, and walk around Canadian Geese who have little concern that their tanning beds are human pathways?  However, as this trail slowly transforms from shoulder bumping through the steel boundaries of hotels and condo high rises into backlit walls of green and brown, only the echo of the crunching leaves from our bicycle wheels, occasional passing pedestrian, and screams of journeying wind exist.  And it was then when I reaffirmed that the essence of travelling is not always contained within the destination itself, but the means to it and the continuous journey and exploration after arrival.

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry

I must mention that the waterfront bar scene in Vancouver was one SkyTrain station from our hostel.  After disembarking the train on our last night, we had a choice in which direction to go:  East or West.  We inadvertently went South.  Three quarters of a mile right back to our initial station.  Despite this, I still say, “screw the maps.”  It was a pleasant walk.

Remember how I said in my first post that travelling is not just about what you can see, but what you can hear, smell, taste, and feel?  Here is what I mean.

In twenty-three years, nowhere in Arizona have I found any of the following:  The sweet bitterness of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier, Frangelico, and whipped cream infused coffee.  The rejuvenating fragrance of crisp, unpolluted ocean air, hinting of salt, seaweed and displaced shellfish.  The tantalizing flavor of chili-lime seafood linguini and crab bisque.  The buzz of Granville Island brews.  The mystery of new (and forever gone) Scandinavian, German, and Australian friends.  The mesmerizing Victorian architecture.  The freedom of two-wheeling up the coast.  The secrecy of white sand beaches.  The chilling bite of bay breezes.  The serenity of early morning fog, blanketing a harmonious forest of Douglas Firs, Red Cedars, and Western Hemlocks.  The freedom of irresponsibility and spontaneity.  The lonely squawk of a hungry seagull.  The nostalgic fragrance of 19th century wooden castle staircases.  The honesty of marijuana deprived beggars.  The intriguing twist of Elton John with an Irish accent.  The invitation of ferry horns and nighttime bagpipes.  The refreshment of rain-soaked garments.  The disconcerting sway of a pedestrian suspension bridge. 

Photo taken by:  Jeff Curry 

To conclude:  Go to Canada.  But don’t just see it.  Live it (not to be confused with livid).  With every sense you can.  Disregard the map and use the credit card.  Every time I handed it over, it came with slight hesitance.  I have a sly feeling, though, that not once looking back will I ever regret it.