Had an early train to Vancouver, which proved more eventful than we might have liked at 7.40 in the morning. An inept Amtrak employee named Jessica nearly got in the way of us and Canada (she just couldn’t work the ticket printing machine), but my charming of the train conductors and CB’s cool head in a crisis enabled us to jump on the train sans tickets, only delaying its departure time by a few minutes.
Once in Vancouver, I was relieved to discover that at our absurdly cheap $9/night accommodation (booked by CB as a way of negating the expense of our Seattle sponger) was not just a cardboard box hastily erected over some sleeping bags, but a real, bona-fide, fully-bricked building. Stepping into the massive, creaky house, we soon realised that the man in charge had the faintest whiff of body odour about him. (I had the distinct sense that this odour would only ferment as the hours went on).
Handwritten notes adorned the walls, such as: THERE ARE FRIENDLY PEOPLE IN THIS HOSTEL. DO NOT HAVE SEXX IN THE ROOMS. HAVE SEXX IN THE SEXX ROOM (…the ‘Sexx Room’ being where I inadvertently showered the next day). Non-plussed, we went upstairs to our dorm, where we discovered stained sheets and pillows, and a sharp metal edge that had the potential to gash thigh on CB’s bed frame.
We decided to make a quick escape, so we headed out for some food. After fantasising all day about the luxurious fish lunch we were going to devour as our first treat in Vancouver, we eventually settled on a 6-inch Subway in a downtown food court.
Once we had deftly mastered the public transport system, we hopped on the bus to Stanley Park, where I slept for a couple of hours and CB ‘covertly’ filmed a poor middle-aged Japanese lady doing some exercise in the form of a very bizarre penguin walk. (I’ve seen the footage, and I’d love to say my friend got away with her candid camera antics, but alas the camera doesn’t lie. Poor woman, being publicly picked on by a jumped-up young Brit.). A few hours later I woke up full of beans, so cajoled CB into some light sport events: a sprint around various objects such as a tree and some benches (which CB most certainly won but also most certainly cheated on), the high jump and triple jump. I may not have the cleanest of sporting techniques, but my passion is without question. I lost every time.
MB and arse take a snooze in Stanley Park
In the evening, we ended up on Davie St, which is the gay area of Vancouver. Had a cocktail and some lovely tasting beer in the first bar we frequented; being the geeks we are, we also enjoyed a light game or two of the board game Yahtzee. Afterwards, we headed for an (you guessed it) all-you-can-eat buffet, this time in the form of an Indian. It was OK, I guess.
Heavy with food and ale, we sloped back to the hostel, realising how whiffy our dorm was upon entering. Think the most smelly feet in the world, but on a man with forty legs. Horrific. Rested in a haze of stink, with mattress coils perilously close to escaping from their dirty bed haven and penetrating our vulnerable English flesh.
As a significant portion of our north American adventure had been framed within the urban landscape, we opted to take advantage of the beautiful Vancouver countryside and spent the next morning at Capilano Suspension Bridge in North Vancouver. Due to a childhood fear of bridges (it was only relatively recently that I succeeded in mastering the 7m high footbridge in my hometown – a fear I have only known to constrain one other adult, my grandmother’s mentally troubled friend Sylvia), I was somewhat nervous, but soon became almost cocky in my behaviour, even daring to take one hand off the side to take a picture of CB. On the other side of the bridge, there was a wonderful forest area where we had lots of fun, concluding our time there by dutifully collecting all of the stamps in our Capilano passports in order to be rewarded with a certificate endorsing us as brave souls who had conquered the bridge.
Tourists tackle the Capilano Suspension Bridge in Vancouver
Thus buoyed up with a smug sense of courage (why, I don’t know – another ‘grown-up’ I witnessed having her passport stamped had a fishy smell of embarrassment about her), we took the bus up to our next physical challenge, Grouse Mountain, where you have to take a cable car up to the mountain and its activities. As there was bad visibility, we decided to try our luck the next day. Instead, as it’s my mother’s namesake, we dedicated the late afternoon to Lynn Valley: home of Lynn Suspension Bridge, West Lynn and East Lynn.
Having spotted a warning sign on the bus there, I had a passing fear of being attacked a massive bear. This thankfully abated once I had become engrossed in the very blunt ‘Welcome’ boards at Lynn Valley, which detailed the vast array of ways you could hypothetically drown whilst enjoying your visit there.
We soon developed a rabid hunger, thus made our way back to the bus stop. Back on Davie St, we went to a quaint little Mongolian place which allowed you to be the master of your own grubbular destiny (picking your own raw ingredients and sauces, and then handing it the chef at the front of the house, who barbequed it in a matter of seconds.) I concede this wasn’t as easy as it sounds, but CB exceeded herself in terms of sheer ambition; by the end of the night, her three valiant attempts at creating the perfect dish could be witnessed on the table, uniquely created by her fair hand yet sadly abandoned in front of her swollen belly. And once again, the MB Love Bus ™ carried on rattling through North America; this time picking up the BBQ chef, who insisted on slobbering all over my hand as I left the restaurant – probably violating at least two public health codes on the way.
We went for a drink afterwards, where I received an insight courtesy of CB about The OC (I’m always about ten years behind such cultural events – hence one of my ‘new reads’ on the trip being Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone). The rest of the night was pleasantly uneventful, save for the nutter sharing a dorm with us who woke us up a number of times in the middle of the night, theatrically sitting bolt upright in bed and shouting “Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!”. In the morning, I glanced over at her, thinking it strange that she was sleeping with her glasses on. CB later informed me that she wasn’t asleep at all, but staring at us whilst affecting a sleep position. We shall return to this oddity-ball later…
After this disconcerting experience, I headed to the shower. Whilst showering, my body was rocked by a large opera explosion which seemed to be occurring directly outside of the shower room. As I carried on scrubbing away (that cheesy feet smell! It was preposterous), I overheard a man speaking to a girl, who must have been brushing her teeth next to the soggy bucket filled with water the colour of an old man’s death. It sounded like he was sombrely explaining the reason for the music, but what with all the bad air molecules whooshing around, it was difficult to eavesdrop and catch his drift.
On the way back to the dorm I noticed a dusty, yet very present sound system that had been erected all over the rather large hostel, and it was this which was pounding out the opera. It later dawned on us that the music had been playing in homage to Pavarotti, who had passed away that morning, but to us, it served to add another string to the hostel’s owner rather eccentric bow. We made a hasty exit due to the weirdo girl in the dorm (who was still in her pseudo-slumber), and went to the café next door for some lovely egg soldiers. Headed to Grouse Mountain, where I had a rather sweaty ascent in the cable car up the mountain, but it proved not as vertigo-inducing as I had feared.
Once at the top, we headed straight to the lumberjack show, which was a heavily rehearsed sketch involving two lumberjacks fighting for the audience’s affection through a series of staged competitions. Boy, it was wooden. CB loved it. I spent the sketch cowering, scared I was going to be picked on as the recipient of the present for the young-un’ in the audience. (They gave the aforementioned present to a six-month-old child. What an ego I am!)
Admiring the view atop Grouse Mountain
After sitting and admiring the beautiful views (resting just in front of some freshly laid bear poo), we went for a calorie-pit-stop of Coke and pizza. As we pigged out in the café, CB got ridiculously star-struck when she spotted the lumberjack actors behind us, even going so far to put her sunglasses on to have a ‘discreet’ stare. She looked like a right wolly, I tell you. That girl does not do subtle…
Because it was our last night n’ all, we got quite drunk in an Irish bar (where an annoying British man gave us 50p), then had a meal on Davie St, before drinking whiskey and coke in a bar near the hostel. Back in the room, I soon had reason to press charges of common assault against aforementioned arch-nemesis nutter-girl, who screeched “WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?” in my face as I was trying to quietly close the door. As CB wet herself on her bed, I spent an anguished few seconds attempting to placate the girl by reassuring her that I was indeed a legitimate human being.
As I was very hungover and sleepy upon waking, I left the checking out stuff for CB to do, whilst I spent some productive time gazing at the newspaper article-addled wall. Suddenly, I noticed a piece which explained that our smelly Pavarotti admirer hostel owner was also a renowned reggae fan – who in the ‘80s had gone to the Caribbean to record a dub version of the Italian national anthem. Wonders never cease!
For breakfast we went to a Chinese-cum-breakfast joint called Smile where, for old times sake, we enjoyed a final North American breakfast of cheese omlette, hash browns and toast. After a touch of shopping and one last food fling (sushi), we headed the Vancouver Airport, where (barring a very smelly man sat behind us), we had a dream flight home. We even wangled a free meal. Lovely stuff.
