C, eh. N, eh. D, eh.

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Geo: 49.2605, -123.114

My generous Seattle hosts both had to work in the morning. I was out of bed in time to see them off. After some more preparations, a shower (the last for who knew how long), a latte at an awesome coffee shop called El Diablo, and a quick trip to pick up my guitar where I forgot it the night before (how could I?), I was on the road again, to the Great White North.

I was planning on taking the ferry from Mukilteo, north of Seattle, up to Whidbey Island, but by the time I got there the ferry line was at least a mile long. No thanks. Instead I drove down to the Diamond Knot Brewery for a meal, beer, and the coolest urinal I've ever seen!

It was already afternoon, and I was in no big rush, and had already figured I'd be spending the night in Bellingham somewhere. Two different people had recommended that, if I wasn't in a hurry, to take a road called Chuckanut that hugs the western seaboard, weaving in and out of her curves and canyons. Little did I know, there was some sort of bike race scheduled for that afternoon. Every goddamn bicyclist in the state of Washington must have been on that road. Before the turns, on a 55-mph straightaway, I was cruising along at about 50, approaching three bikes on the right. Timing would have it so that an oncoming car would be passing all of us at about the exact same time. Fantastic. When I was probably less than 100 feet from passing the bicyclists, the man in back thought it would be a good time to swing two feet into the road so that he could pass the others. <Caution: cuss words ahead> Mother fucker. I locked up my brakes, chirping down the road beelining for the stupid man with a death with, horn blaring, my only other option to swing in to the opposing lane and have a head-on collision. I stopped about 15 feet short of the man, who had hopefully soiled himself. As I passed him I scowled over and yelled "WHAT THE FUCK!?!?" and then sped off, wishing that it was a dirt road with lots of gravel chunks. Looking back, I wish I would have said more, or flagged him over and gave him a piece of my mind, but it's probably good that I didn't. I couldn't quite tell the expression on his face. Fear? Anger? Confusion? Mostly he just looked a little dumbfounded and oblivious, perhaps not aware that maybe before whipping into a road you should look over your shoulder to make sure a 3000 pound vehicle isn't barreling toward you with oncoming traffic. Stupid sonofabitch. The next 30-40 minutes would be some of the most frustrating and least relaxing of my life. A narrow, winding, dark coastal road with no shoulders, and hundreds of bicyclists, most of whom appeared to be rather novices. I probably spent more than half of my time completely driving in the oncoming lane. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing wrong with bicyclists and quite enjoy riding, I just hate the stupid ones, and there were plenty. It was however, very beautiful, the few times I was able to take my eyes off the road and enjoy the surroundings.

Finally I got to Bellingham. It was nothing to write home about. Sorry, I know there are a lot of folks out there that love it, but I just wasn't feeling it. Spent the night on a dark residential road tucked into some bushes.

Next morning: on to Canada! After some final calls to financial institutions and mom (calls will be 59 cents a minute in Canada) and a stop at the post office, I was in line to cross the border. 15-minute wait, not bad, however choking on exhaust fumes the whole time. Finally my turn.

ID, please. What's your purpose? Where are you from? Where are you going? Have you been here before? What kind of work do you do? Do you have any firearms? Do you have any alcohol? Do you have more than $10,000? Are you selling any goods? Do you plan to buy goods? Do you know anyone here? Where do they live? How do you know them? What's you show size? Boxers or briefs? Bunch or fold? What is the wind-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

<Caution: much more cussing ahead>

I had never felt so guilty in my life! And since it was my first time to Canada (should have lied), they made me go to the side so my vehicle could be searched. They told me was to pull in to lane 1 or 2. So I did. After about 10 minutes of waiting, I stood outside of my truck, waiting for someone. Finally, someone came out. “What are you doing here?” “Waiting,” what does it look like? “Go inside.” Apparently, what they had not told me was to go inside after pulling in a lane. Inside, I was interrogated once again. I swear they were about to do a cavity search when I said I lived in Nevada (of course I wasn't going to tell them I lived in my truck!) but my driver's license was from Colorado. “What took you to Colorado?!” The meth and loose women, jackass, just let me in to your fucking country. Fuck, people. Welcome to Canada, here's your anal relaxant. Never seen a tighter bunch of sphincters than at that border. And it must be a job requirement that you DO NOT KNOW how to smile.

Raaahh! Finally I was on my way, Vancouver bound! Since it would cost an arm and a leg to use googlemaps on my phone, I spent a good deal of time just driving around the city, instinctively following the larger, busier streets in hopes they would take me to the main sectors of the city. Lots of very old-looking architecture, English or New England or something old, but definitely unique from anything I have ever seen in the west. Crossing a large bridge into downtown, I was surprised to see that almost all of the high-rise buildings were not for banks or communications, but residential. Dozens of them! A city of glass. All roughly the same size and color and style. Every corner of every floor had a little balcony for the occupants to enjoy stellar views of the side and the harbor and the freight ships full of smuggled heroin.

The roads eventually led me to North Vancouver. I had stopped at a coffee shop in the city to get some coffee and use the internet to look at maps, but no wifi was available. There was a Starbucks here, so I figured I would just sit outside and bum their internet for a while. An old, somewhat crazy looking man sat by himself at a table with an empty chair. “Do you mind if I sit here?” “No, go right ahead! And thank you for asking. I'm glad you sat down!” Oh boy. Every time I asked him a question to which he said yes, or if he was just agreeing with me, he would quite forcefully, almost militantly, provide a loud "Yes." I wish I could record it and attach ie so you could hear it. Not a "yeah", not a "yep" or "uh-huh", a strong, almost slap in the face "Yes." Short and sweet. And of course he would be staring right at you when he said it, almost leaning forward a little bit, like something big was about to happen.

Although I believe, for him, it was genuine, he was dressed like someone who was trying to dress like a cowboy oil tycoon. Gator boots, jeans, really cool Western undershit, vest, big ol belt buckle, cowboy hat, and a casual tie with a silver cow skull necktie slip thing (kind of like what fancy people put napkins through). “Nice boots.” “Well thank you! I get that a lot.” “That's cause they're nice boots. Alligator?” “You're the first person to get that! Cayman, actually, they only grow about two feet long. They're from Peru. You would have to pay $5,000 for these boots here, but I flew down to Peru, and I bought them for $1,500!” Oh boy. Some idle chit chat as I took out my computer and was getting online. His name is Ken. “Hey, do you think you can look something up for me online?” He handed me a slip of paper with two words: Pedagogue and Pedagogy. "I have a bet with one of my friends over the meaning of them. They're French words, and I teach French, and I think he's wrong." He went on and on as I did a little "research" (wikipedia). Turns out his friend was right. He mentioned a few more times that he teaches French.

Just a few minutes later, his friend showed up, equally as interesting and unique. Pushing 75 or 80, pants hiked up just a little bit, with a loud, boisterous voice and an accent that sounded Italian (I believe Ken said he was from Bolivia). Joe. Ken informed him of his victory, though, I had to correct a few of the details. They squabbled on like seagulls and after a few minutes stepped away to smoke some cigarettes while I kept watch on Joe's large bag of meds under the table. He was waiting to go to the free clinic, which did not open until 2. It was about 1:40. They came back, we chatted some more, and both began saying how smart I was. "I like this kid, he's really intelligent!" Joe complimented. "You know why he's smart?" asked Ken, "Because he's polite. He has manners." Joe went on, "I wish the world had more people like this! He's smart! He knows all sorts of things!" Trying to be modest, I joked "I don't know all sorts of things, I just know how to find out." I had looked something else up online for them and they seemed amazed at how I knew the answer. "Hey, I'm gonna go inside, you want a coffee?" Joe offered. No thanks, I'm ok. "No, really, what do you want?" I thanked him and said just a small black coffee was fine. "No sugar? No cream?" "Nope, just black." He returned promptly with a large cup of steaming black Starbucks coffee, which I did my best to consume, even though it tasted like salty acid.

They were both a little nuts (though I'm not exactly sane all the time), and talking with them reminded me of some of the "conversations" I would have with residents during the years I worked at the homeless shelter in Boulder. But so fun, genuine, entertaining, and full of life and cheer. Joe had to run and Ken was on his way to the clinic. "Hey, before you go, let me give you my number and we can meet here again some time." I know it was completely harmless, and sadfully (is that a word) informed him that I was only passing through for a couple days. His face melted with sadness a little bit, "Oh, ok then, well it was great talking to you, and thanks again for sitting down next to me!" "You bet, it was great talking to you, too. Nice to meet you, Ken." None of it was lies.

My computer out of battery, I headed inside for a while to do some research and blogging and whatnot. I lost track of time and when I got back to my truck there were some papers under the wiper. Crap. I picked up a little slip of paper. Over the time limit (1-hour zone), this is a warning only, no charge due. Phew! But wait, why is there another one? Crap! He gave me a warning, came back an hour later, my truck was still there, and so I got a ticket. Welcome to Canada. Blast! So now I owe the City of Vancouver 40 Canadian dollars. What's that in US, like a buck fifty? Ha! Just kidding.

I drove up the hill a ways, found a park, and played guitar for a while while watching children play and birthday bbq's ensue. Pushing 6pm by now, hungry and thinking of a beer, I decided to call my couchsurfing host for the night. Since this entry is massive already, to be continued in another entry soon. 😊

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