Buckle Up

 

Last week my chiropractor asked me if I was planning any trips to Vancouver now that BC is thisssss close to achieving herd immunity. I said no way; even before COVID, I was done with Vancouver. These days, I think Victoria is too crowded! Besides, as I get older, the hassle of travel outweighs the benefits of being there.

The doctor didn’t disagree—but he’s also booked a golfing trip to Arizona next March. He’ll get there in three days, driving a “doable” (so he says) 900 kms a day, and will enjoy the trip more on the road than being squished into a fully loaded airplane for a few hours.

“Hey,” I said brightly, “in two or three years, if you’ve got two hundred thousand dollars, you can book a seat on Virgin Galactic’s sub-orbital flight from YVR to Phoenix and get there before you leave!”

He paused in rearranging my vertebrae. “What’s that?”

I explained about the FAA approving Richard Branson’s company to begin commercial operations in the next few years. “They flew the prototype last weekend,” I said. “Now they just have to build the actual space plane.”

My chiro was amazed, not just about the concept, but that I actually knew about it.

To be fair, I only know about it because Ter was already glued to CNN when I got up last Sunday morning. The test flight was airborne—with Sir Richard aboard—and I missed the part when they reached zero gravity, but at least I was able to watch the landing in real time. I love flying and I love going fast and I love aerodynamically designed anything, so I felt the rush of history being made when the plane landed safely.

Pretty darned cool, before you start thinking about it. I mean, billionaires floating around in the stratosphere for fun seems like a gargantuan waste of money, possibly environmentally irresponsible, and yet another example of the increasing disparity between the rich and the rest of us. At least Branson isn’t reserving seats solely for those who have more money than sense. He’s partnered with a non-profit to cover the cost for some ordinary people to take a trip beneath the stars. So there’s hope for some little kids who dream of getting there but who could never afford it on their own.

I say “beneath the stars” because it seems the intention here is to establish a sub-orbital commuting service, albeit a hella expensive one, rather than visiting space itself. One small step for a billionaire philanthropist may actually be one giant leap for inter-continental travel. So, if I had the cash, would I sign up for this once-in-a-lifetime über-experience?

No, thanks. Despite the thrill of travelling faster than the speed of sound, I doubt my body would respond well to zero gravity. Though I wonder what kind of in-flight snacks would be offered ...

Oh, I know! Fast food!

Bright Lights, Big City

Location, location, location. Is that why Vancouver is listed among the three most expensive Canadian cities in which to live? Maybe. You can’t beat the ocean on one side and mountains on the other. On a sunny day, the glittering tangle of glass and steel soaring into the cloud against the North Shore is a truly majestic sight. Awe-inspiring, even. I always feel blessed to know such a beautiful city so well, though my visits have dwindled from one or two per year to one or two per decade.

Ter and I were over for a hockey game a few weeks ago. Neither of us realized it has been almost five years since we last ventured across the strait. Normally, we stay in the west end, the oldest part of the city where the beach runs alongside the street and trendy cafes are perched on every corner. This time, however, because of my compromised compostable container, we chose a hotel within hobbling distance of the arena, which landed us pretty well in the depths of the urban jungle. We arrived late in the afternoon, close to sundown on game day.

There are pockets of the city where no matter what time of year it is, the sun will never pierce the shadow. In February, you’re guaranteed that the only sun you’ll see is on the postcards for sale at the 7-Eleven. For us, a west coast winter was in full swing. The copious and unseasonable snow had melted away, but the persistent drizzle was chilly, the wind was raw ... and everywhere I looked, I was dwarfed by skyscrapers I didn’t remember seeing before. The last time we stayed in the downtown core, Library Square was the most imposing structure in the neighbourhood. This time, it was part of the view from our hotel window, but it dominated nothing. It had been surrounded and absorbed, just like our hotel, by condo and office towers. Our room was on the fifth floor, practically spitting distance from the street, and our view was almost exclusively into the softly lit windows of the building that housed the aforementioned 7-Eleven. The suite wasn’t dark at night, given the glow of all those residential lights, but it was sure dark in the daytime.

Our visits to Vancouver used to feel homey and familiar. That sense of being welcome was sadly missing from our trip last month. The city’s sense of individuality, of unique and original personality, seemed to have been swallowed by the same indifferent towers that loom above the library. The jewel of Canada’s west coast could have been any big city that night: an anonymous and impassive host to the frenzied little parasites (us) that feed off its bounty.

Until the next morning. I stood at the window once more, gazing at the darkened glass panes across the way and over at the intersection where the morning commute was in progress. The street was in shadow, of course ... but along to the north, between the man-made monoliths posted like sentries along a parade route, was a glimpse of the mountains. A single, snow-dusted, sun-kissed peak, a National Geographic image cradled between stone and steel, identified my location far better than a Google satellite. I knew then that I was indeed in beautiful Vancouver, the jewel of Canada’s west coast.

I should have taken a picture, but I’m still not quite used to having a camera in my phone.

Oh—and the hockey game? PHI 3 – VAN 2. Power pose!!

Farewell to Kes

He’s the reason why I was a borderline Canucks fan for the past few years. Now I am free to disdain them with impunity. Ryan Kesler, now with Anaheim, did not deserve the raspberries he got from the crowd on his return to Vancouver Thursday night.

The man is a horse. He logs big ice time and never slacks off. So he wanted to get out of town after the disastrous 13/14 season. Who doesn’t think of changing jobs after a decade at the same place? Maybe he didn’t like the then-coach who the then-GM hired after firing Alain Vigneault. Neither did anyone else. Maybe he got on some of his teammate’s nerves. Alpha males will do that. Or maybe he got discouraged after the Game 7 loss in 2011/12, when fans in jerseys bearing his name and number were setting fire to police cars. Vancouver is a hard city in which to play any sport, but hockey is particularly dicey. Philadelphia fans are ugly, but they’ve never rioted in the streets after losing a Stanley Cup final. Vancouver fans have done it twice. They’re brutal, especially to ex-pats who depart under unfortunate circumstances.

I don’t know why Kesler wanted to leave the team, but I certainly don’t fault him for it. He was a force in the most recent glory days, playing injured in the playoffs and threatening to eclipse Henrik Sedin for conduct becoming a team captain. He scored goals. He helped others score goals. He took lumps for the team and gave as good as he got in a scrap. He was a star for them … and the fans boo when he stands on the opposite side of the red line. There’s gratitude for you.

I wish him well in Anaheim. No regrets here, boy. Well, maybe I have one.

He’d have been a dandy Flyer.

Saltspring Swag

I went with a mission: to find matching earrings for my chakra pendant. Mission accomplished—twice! I also found a silk scarf to accent my new faux leather (you don’t dare wear real leather to Saltspring Island) jacket. Looks like burgundy figures in my winter wardrobe palette this year.

With nothing much else to attract us in the little town of Ganges, Ter and I shopped. The earrings were my prime directive and neither of us was confident enough to stray off the beaten path on our first visit. It was a lot like driving the Saanich Peninsula or north of the Malahat. Silly me. If you squish Vancouver Island and all the Gulf Islands together, you’ll get one big rainforest island. The native flora doesn’t change from rock to rock. Only the fauna does, and the vibe we got from the locals was pleasant enough but I live in a tourist town. I know what the natives think when a stranger shows up in September, and we were most definitely strangers.

The ferry trip was fun; pausing for breakfast was delicious (doesn’t look it, but my toast was GF!); poking around the shops was fruitful, though I wish I’d pulled out the Canon at Black Sheep Books, a shop plucked straight out of Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter stories. Didn’t buy anything, but there is no better place to hang out anywhere than a vintage book store.

Best of all, on returning home, we agreed that Vancouver is too big, Ganges is too small, and that makes Victoria juuuuuust right!

For now.

The trip in pictures:

Ter and Tig in lane 31

the boat we're on

the boat we're usually on

the boat I'd have liked to be on

a perfect day to be on any boat

the wee kirk on the water

pulling in to Fulford Harbour

brekkie at ...

the Tree House proprietor

a tight fit through the front door

the view gets no better than this

Medallion Men

Canada 3, Sweden 0

0400 PST. Ter and I are up and in position with tea and teddy bears. I’m waiting for the anthems, but the game starts without them. Oh, duh, thinks I, this is the Olympics. They play the anthem after the game. Which one will it be? Canada’s or Sweden’s?

By now the whole world—whether or not they care—knows it was Canada’s. Jonathan Toews scored in the first period. Sid Crosby plucked the puck and scored unassisted in the second. Chris Kunitz sealed it, also unassisted, in the third. Final score 3-0. BC’s Carey Price got the shutout. I’m glad I got up to watch it live, especially since Ter is hilarious when she’s dopey and during one of Price’s few roaming moments, she loosed a stream of gibberish that sounded like Chinese though she said was more likely native to the fourth dimension. We were happy. The boys played like, well, pros. They stuck to their plan, didn’t give an inch, and pounced on the other team’s gaffes. They played like that through the whole tournament, and while this was the only one of two games I watched from start to finish, I got a look at their style against Latvia and the US, and they stayed solid against stubborn opposition. It was a better team than we had in 2010. Who knew?

I guess they did, and they’re the ones who truly mattered.

So, the party’s over. I felt a similar sadness when the 2010 Games were done. As with Christmas, you spend so much time and energy prepping for the event, get tired enough to wish it was over halfway through, then feel slightly let down when it ends. It made sense to feel that way in 2010—not only were we the host country, but I live across the strait from the host city. The party atmosphere leaked over the water to brighten the dreariest month in Victoria’s calendar. While they were on, like it or not, everyone was in to the 2010 Olympics. When they were over and the world went home, the locals stood around looking alternately lost, relieved, and satisfied. We’re probably still paying the bills (Montreal finally finished paying for 1976 last year), but at least Vancouver escaped the dubious honour of being the most expensive Olympics to date. Sochi put on a grand show, but 50 billion dollars’ worth? That’s a lot of rubles. And they didn’t win the gold they wanted. I’d be sorrier about that one except that it went to our guys instead. The spirit of the Games is one thing. Hockey is a definite other.

I will remember more of Sochi than Canada winning all the gold in hockey, though. My 2014 champion is the Latvian goalie who nearly killed himself to hold our boys at bay—57 shots and the second goal only went in because his coach didn’t call a time out to let him breathe. Being mesmerized by Yuna Kim and dazzled by Carolina Kostner in the ladies’ free skate. Laughing with Ter over the baggy pants on the halfpipers. Wondering what the heck happened to les freres Hamelin in speed skating. Sharing pins and needles with my co-workers while the Canadian women fought back in the hockey final against the States. My heart beating with the clock on the bobsleigh run. Tearing up for Teemu Selanne after the Finns won hockey bronze. Watching Virtue and Moir perform to Rihanna’s “Stay” in the exhibition skate. Feeling immense pride in every athlete who sported the maple leaf in every event, win, place or show. I don’t know why they do it; I’m just grateful that they do.

And I’m glad I was able to see so much of it. Thank you, world.

Go, Canada.