I left Whistler in the same mood I arrived, giddy with excitement to be on the road and hopeful about the place I was going to wake up in. As I arrived in Whistler with one cousin, Paul, I was leaving with another, David. Believe it or not, David Rossi, which some of you may find amusing.
On my last day in Whistler Paul, David, myself and David’s partner Trudy went for breakfast. It was a glorious feast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes, I had to eat fast because I was on a tight schedule, before moving on I had a trip up a mountain in a Hanging Basket of Death to accomplish. I believe they refer to it as the Whistler Gondola. But don’t be fooled, it is a box hanging by a wire getting dragged up a mountain. But what a mountain it is. I stopped at the top long enough to take a piss and a picture before bundling back into one of these death traps and heading back down.
I met David and Trudy back at the breakfast place and we mounted up and shipped out. We were headed back to Vancouver. As we hit the outer edge of Whistler I was happy to see an old friend had come out to see me off, my pal The Bear. There he was, like when I met him on the first day, chilling deep. This time on the hill at the side of the road. I can’t be sure but I think he smirked as if to say “where’s your basket you pansy?” But maybe I was just being overly paranoid about my reputation among the bears.
Before long, after a stop at my new favourite doughnut supplier Tim Horton’s, we had arrived back in Vancouver, at the home of Trudy. After picking up some tools from the garage so David could work on his new sail boat, we hitched said big bastarding boat to the truck, said goodbye to Trudy and hit the road, via another Tim Horton’s and their fabulous honey crulers.
The road to Kelowna was as beautiful as the road to Whistler, we chatted the whole way about everything and anything. Mainly, I suppose, women and music. Both of us keeping one eye on the boat via the wing mirror just to make sure it was still there. It was, and eventually, when we got to Kelowna we got it parked in the drive way, no thanks to a badly parked Volvo. I hate Volvos and their drivers. But it is wise no to open your mouth too much, this town is run by Hells Angels. I gathered my belongings, walked up what I thought were the steps into David’s house and in through what I thought was David’s front door. Neither were the case, I had walked straight into some ladies living room at 2 in the morning, where she was lying on the couch watching TV. I backed out, mumbling apologetically, missed the first step and made close friends with the last three. A fine start to my stay in Kelowna.
I regained my composure and walked into David’s house where he showed me around and pointed me in the direction of my bed. And what a bed it is. A sofa bed, but a comfy example of one. I have only been in two beds since arriving on the continent over one month ago, and I paid over the odds for both of them. But at the time I was coming off the back of a 35 hour train journey and decided to treat myself.
Canada continues to deliver on a grand scale. Kelowna is devastatingly beautiful. In a much different way to Whistler. It is hot as hell, and the ratio of women to men is stacked highly in the way I would have hoped. I found out on my first day that hockey, moose, mounties and Garth Richardson are not the only famous Canadian staples, Kelowna is Canadian Wine Country. I’m here to tell you Canadian Wine exists and it is fucking fantastic. My cousin Samantha took me to a winery, where the guy at the tasting bar gave us more than we paid for, or should have consumed in the blazing afternoon heat. It tastes as good as it feels.
Drunk in the sun is a better drunk that I’m used to, coming from that depressing, perpetually cold little Island we call home. Everything is better in the sun. I realised at some point in the last month that I find it hard to be my usual angry self. Something that comes so naturally to me back home is noticeable by it’s absence since arriving in California back in April. I am putting it down to the sun and lack of any real worries other than falling in love with every single pretty girl I see and not going broke too soon. The sun adds a layer to your reality, and that layer is perfectly complimented by booze and/or weed. All tied together it enhances the act of wandering aimlessly, which I have been doing since late April.
Long trips beat short holidays so much that the two shouldn’t ever be compared. But fuck it, I’m going to compare them. I am as fortunate as I am ill fated to never amount to a hill of beans in the traditional sense of entering into a career that would consume my life without thought for my mental wellbeing , my hopes or my desires. I am lucky in many ways. I have a job with my parents business, which to many seems a joke or a cop out, but those people miss the point. I will never make a penny for anyone on this planet so long as my parents strive to build their business, that has always been the case, and only those in family ran businesses really understand that. Family first before anything, especially considering how hard my parents work. Thanks to that job and ethos I can afford the luxury of taking long trips rather than short holidays. I hate short holidays. You see nothing, you learn nothing and you leave them behind you with pictures on your facebook page, a shady magnet on your fridge and not much else.
My mother may not like to hear this from her son, but I am a bum and, hopefully, I always will be. But there are consequences, even for bums. But they pale into insignificance at the mere thought of them while you are looking at the beauty of the world outside your bubble. This trip has already drained my savings (I have but a fist full of Dollars left), and when I decide that I can’t possibly go any further on this trip and return home, I know there will be hell waiting for me. But as always, it is what it is. Res Ipsa Loquitor, as the Good Doctor would say, Let The Good Times Roll.
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