1. Home - Back in Canada
It's always odd getting home. It takes a while to readjust. At my first hostel in Vancouver I'm checked in by a very polite young man who speaks fluent English but with a heavy accent. When he asks where I'm from I reply, 'Canada.' This has been a sufficient answer for over four months. There is a pause after which I continue on, say I'm from Ontario, and add that I've been out of the country for a while. Then I ask, almost wistfully, if the tap water is safe to drink. 'Yes,' he answers, and there's another pause. 'You really have been away a while,' he notes, turning the tap on and off, 'Yes. In Canada the tap water's good to drink.'
And I remember arriving in Toronto a couple years ago, at 2 am, jet lagged and overtired, managing to find the local bus stop down in the deserted cement bowels of the airport, where there actually was a bus, but then being almost completely overwhelmed with the thought of trying to figure out how to ask, with sign language, if that particular bus had a route that went anywhere near Young Street or if I'd have to wait for another bus or transfer or what. And as I stood, stalled in the bus door, mentally exausted, the bus driver leaned over and asked if he could help me to which I blurted out with obvious astonishment, 'You speak English!' Well of course he did. But you forget these things. Coming home takes some readjustment.
2. Whistler.
I have a couple of weeks free before I fly east and no plans to speak of so I try to book a cheap cruise up to Alaska but there are no cheap cruises at this time. I consider taking the ferry north, but it's expensive too, doesn't stop for long in anywhere, and avoids all glaciers like the plague. I think about renting a car and driving south down highway 1 but I hate driving. Maybe I could stay in Vancouver, see all of the city? In the end I decide to go to Whistler, I have a friend who goes to Tremblant each summer and seems to like it, so why not?
It turns out to be a fantastic option. Whistler is amazing. Sort of like Disneyworld. I could have stayed a month. I could have stayed forever.
In Cappadocia, Turkey, someone thought of using the tuff landscape as an excuse for hot air ballooning and then managed to both implement and market this incredibly successfully pulling in thousands of tourists, hundreds of thousands of tourist dollars. Whistler has, similarly, brilliantly, taken the ski hill and tweaked it, repurposed it for six months of the year into the best place in the world to go down hill mountain biking. The chair lifts and gondolas originally designed for skiers and boarders in the winter now wisk bikers by the thousands uphill in summer. Dozens of downhill runs with hairpin turns, bumps, jumps, and grarly roots, rocks and other terrifying obstacles have been laid out and are interesting enough to draw twentysomethings from around the world and keep them riding month after month. There are classes for wee kids whose helmets seem larger than their bodies, for teens who are extending their aerial tricks, and even for old ladies. The sheer magnitude and success of the business is a marvel.
And, just to be clear, though it's the downhill mountain biking that's the backbone of the summer resort, there are countless other things to do at Whistler in July. Several lifts at the top of both mountains are still running for skiers and boarders, the peak to peak gondola designed and built for the 2010 olympics is an attraction in itself, high alpine trails have been ploughed through the snow for hikers, the next crop of Olympians swoop down steep plastic jumps in full ski gear, and life jackets, doing double back flips into swimming pools, or navigate the luge track on carts with wheels, there are high adrenaline attractions like zip-lining and whitewater rafting to tempt tourists, there's kayaking, canoeing, SUPing and sailing... gazillions of miles of paved and gravel bike paths and walking trails looking like spider webs on the maps of the valkey connect lakes and lookouts and lunch spots, there are golf courses, tennis courts, themed guided walks, farmers markets, craft fairs, literary and artistic retreats, and, every time you turn around, another music festival, huge business convention, or ironman type competition...
From the peaks, bare rock and glaciers, down through alpine meadows lush with flowers, and then the silent wooded hills full of towering ancient hemlock and cedar, to the melt waters rushing and tumbling along in rocky streams and rivers at the bottom... it is all, did I mention this, amazing.
I could move there. Right now. Well if I won the lottery and could afford housing, that is. Young international workers, here to live the dream biking or skiing, and working serving tables to make ends meet, find the accomodation scene a nightmare. Ads in the local rag offer not only exorbedently expensive rooms in shared apartments but also shared bedrooms and even shared beds! What? Really? Shared beds? In North America?
But at the resort all the other details right: hiking trails are well laid out, maps are everywhere, bins of free hiking poles sit at each trailhead; the downhill bike trails are carefully ordered in very specific progression of difficulty, each one set up with the hardest bit first so if you can't manage that you know the trail is still too tricky for you; and scores of retirees have been co-opted into working as all manner of volunteer guides who cheerfully accompany anyone on any activity... Yup, amazing.
So I ride the gondolas, hike the trails, even take a bike course for a few days ... and dream of stopping time.
3. Friends
Before leaving Vancouver I get together with a couple of friends. I spend 5 days with Sheila, who was my bridesmaid, and, more importantly, has, for the past several lifetimes, helped me navigate my way around the thousands of molehills that have too often risen up mountainous in front of me. And I go out for supper with Astri, who was my best friend in grade 1, and who I've not seen for over 30 years though she is mentioned - though not by name - in my very first blog entry ever almost 5 years ago! And I am surprised how easy, happy, fun these interactions are, almost as if I'm (finally) starting to feel more comfortable in my own skin (despite the fact my life plan is further than ever from taking shape).
4. Home (by which I mean the Ottawa Valley)
And, then, as always, suddenly, surprizingly, too soon, I find myself on the way to the airport and on my last flight back home.
I'm ready to see my kids, overdue to see them, I've chatted online with them often, of course, talked to them from time to time even, but it's not enough. I need to touch them, hug them, sit face to face (not facetime), hear of their triumphs and troubles. I need to know that they are continuing to move forward through their own lives, thriving not merely surviving, I need to see, in person, that they are happy and healthy, and to be reassured once again that they are successful adults and that they don't need me nearly as much as I need them.
I'm ready to sit with Shelley on her deck, with Suzanne on her dock, to drop in and give Catherine a hug, go for a walk with Ellen and her dog, thank Nicole for doing last minute chores for me after I left in February... I'm ready to sit at my favourite table in Tim Hortons with Rick and Terry, to visit Steve, to wander the streets of both Deep River and Arnprior and bump into random aquaintences and feel like I belong.
I'm ready to go home.
For a week.
And then I'll be ready to go off again.
Unfortunately, of course, I have another semester of work to complete before my next vacation, and more molehills in my private life that are looming larger by the minute...
But I've had an amazing 5 months, zero regrets, and I know that February 1st, 2018, I'll be off on a plane again going somewhere.
5. Suzanne's Cottage - Which feels like home
After a brief stop in Ottawa to see my oldest son and a few days in Deep to see the younger two I make my way to my friend Suzanne's cottage. Set on a hill amongst red pine and cedar overlooking a lake, it is a quintessentially Canadian slice of paradise. There are two decks, a dock and a raft, a sailboat, a paddleboat and a canoe, a main cottage, a wee cabin and a gazebo with a hot tub, the kitchen and bathrooms are small but the great room is spacious with wall to wall windows overlooking the water. We sit and chat, read, do crossword puzzles, swim, walk the dog, and go out boating... Sometimes we wander into town to go to the farmers market or have an ice cream. Sometimes we visit with other cottagers. Suzanne and her husband go to play golf if the weather is right and the mood strikes. I stay behind, happy to curl up in one of the many comfortable chairs and read another chapter. The pace of life is simple. There's phone service here, and wifi even, but it's the sort of place where there might not be, and where they don't define your life or really intrude on it. We play cards after supper, hear loons calling, and the days slide easily into one another. Suzanne cooks fabulous meals, blueberry pancakes for breakfast and locally sourced BBQ sausages for supper, Dave keeps us updated on US political scandals, and their kids, who are adults now of course, are just happy and relaxed. According to the guest book this is my eighth annual visit. It seems unlikely. I used to come for only one night but soon I might choose to stay forever. They might have to take legal action to have me evicted. Or maybe I should find my own place on the water...
It's always odd getting home. It takes a while to readjust. At my first hostel in Vancouver I'm checked in by a very polite young man who speaks fluent English but with a heavy accent. When he asks where I'm from I reply, 'Canada.' This has been a sufficient answer for over four months. There is a pause after which I continue on, say I'm from Ontario, and add that I've been out of the country for a while. Then I ask, almost wistfully, if the tap water is safe to drink. 'Yes,' he answers, and there's another pause. 'You really have been away a while,' he notes, turning the tap on and off, 'Yes. In Canada the tap water's good to drink.'
And I remember arriving in Toronto a couple years ago, at 2 am, jet lagged and overtired, managing to find the local bus stop down in the deserted cement bowels of the airport, where there actually was a bus, but then being almost completely overwhelmed with the thought of trying to figure out how to ask, with sign language, if that particular bus had a route that went anywhere near Young Street or if I'd have to wait for another bus or transfer or what. And as I stood, stalled in the bus door, mentally exausted, the bus driver leaned over and asked if he could help me to which I blurted out with obvious astonishment, 'You speak English!' Well of course he did. But you forget these things. Coming home takes some readjustment.
2. Whistler.
I have a couple of weeks free before I fly east and no plans to speak of so I try to book a cheap cruise up to Alaska but there are no cheap cruises at this time. I consider taking the ferry north, but it's expensive too, doesn't stop for long in anywhere, and avoids all glaciers like the plague. I think about renting a car and driving south down highway 1 but I hate driving. Maybe I could stay in Vancouver, see all of the city? In the end I decide to go to Whistler, I have a friend who goes to Tremblant each summer and seems to like it, so why not?
It turns out to be a fantastic option. Whistler is amazing. Sort of like Disneyworld. I could have stayed a month. I could have stayed forever.
In Cappadocia, Turkey, someone thought of using the tuff landscape as an excuse for hot air ballooning and then managed to both implement and market this incredibly successfully pulling in thousands of tourists, hundreds of thousands of tourist dollars. Whistler has, similarly, brilliantly, taken the ski hill and tweaked it, repurposed it for six months of the year into the best place in the world to go down hill mountain biking. The chair lifts and gondolas originally designed for skiers and boarders in the winter now wisk bikers by the thousands uphill in summer. Dozens of downhill runs with hairpin turns, bumps, jumps, and grarly roots, rocks and other terrifying obstacles have been laid out and are interesting enough to draw twentysomethings from around the world and keep them riding month after month. There are classes for wee kids whose helmets seem larger than their bodies, for teens who are extending their aerial tricks, and even for old ladies. The sheer magnitude and success of the business is a marvel.
And, just to be clear, though it's the downhill mountain biking that's the backbone of the summer resort, there are countless other things to do at Whistler in July. Several lifts at the top of both mountains are still running for skiers and boarders, the peak to peak gondola designed and built for the 2010 olympics is an attraction in itself, high alpine trails have been ploughed through the snow for hikers, the next crop of Olympians swoop down steep plastic jumps in full ski gear, and life jackets, doing double back flips into swimming pools, or navigate the luge track on carts with wheels, there are high adrenaline attractions like zip-lining and whitewater rafting to tempt tourists, there's kayaking, canoeing, SUPing and sailing... gazillions of miles of paved and gravel bike paths and walking trails looking like spider webs on the maps of the valkey connect lakes and lookouts and lunch spots, there are golf courses, tennis courts, themed guided walks, farmers markets, craft fairs, literary and artistic retreats, and, every time you turn around, another music festival, huge business convention, or ironman type competition...
From the peaks, bare rock and glaciers, down through alpine meadows lush with flowers, and then the silent wooded hills full of towering ancient hemlock and cedar, to the melt waters rushing and tumbling along in rocky streams and rivers at the bottom... it is all, did I mention this, amazing.
I could move there. Right now. Well if I won the lottery and could afford housing, that is. Young international workers, here to live the dream biking or skiing, and working serving tables to make ends meet, find the accomodation scene a nightmare. Ads in the local rag offer not only exorbedently expensive rooms in shared apartments but also shared bedrooms and even shared beds! What? Really? Shared beds? In North America?
But at the resort all the other details right: hiking trails are well laid out, maps are everywhere, bins of free hiking poles sit at each trailhead; the downhill bike trails are carefully ordered in very specific progression of difficulty, each one set up with the hardest bit first so if you can't manage that you know the trail is still too tricky for you; and scores of retirees have been co-opted into working as all manner of volunteer guides who cheerfully accompany anyone on any activity... Yup, amazing.
So I ride the gondolas, hike the trails, even take a bike course for a few days ... and dream of stopping time.
 |
| Mountain trails... |
 |
| ... led past beautiful views ... |
 |
| ... some almost monochromatic ... |
 |
| ... up to the snowy peaks. |
3. Friends
Before leaving Vancouver I get together with a couple of friends. I spend 5 days with Sheila, who was my bridesmaid, and, more importantly, has, for the past several lifetimes, helped me navigate my way around the thousands of molehills that have too often risen up mountainous in front of me. And I go out for supper with Astri, who was my best friend in grade 1, and who I've not seen for over 30 years though she is mentioned - though not by name - in my very first blog entry ever almost 5 years ago! And I am surprised how easy, happy, fun these interactions are, almost as if I'm (finally) starting to feel more comfortable in my own skin (despite the fact my life plan is further than ever from taking shape).
 |
| Sheila and I being tourists together. |
4. Home (by which I mean the Ottawa Valley)
And, then, as always, suddenly, surprizingly, too soon, I find myself on the way to the airport and on my last flight back home.
I'm ready to see my kids, overdue to see them, I've chatted online with them often, of course, talked to them from time to time even, but it's not enough. I need to touch them, hug them, sit face to face (not facetime), hear of their triumphs and troubles. I need to know that they are continuing to move forward through their own lives, thriving not merely surviving, I need to see, in person, that they are happy and healthy, and to be reassured once again that they are successful adults and that they don't need me nearly as much as I need them.
I'm ready to sit with Shelley on her deck, with Suzanne on her dock, to drop in and give Catherine a hug, go for a walk with Ellen and her dog, thank Nicole for doing last minute chores for me after I left in February... I'm ready to sit at my favourite table in Tim Hortons with Rick and Terry, to visit Steve, to wander the streets of both Deep River and Arnprior and bump into random aquaintences and feel like I belong.
I'm ready to go home.
For a week.
And then I'll be ready to go off again.
Unfortunately, of course, I have another semester of work to complete before my next vacation, and more molehills in my private life that are looming larger by the minute...
But I've had an amazing 5 months, zero regrets, and I know that February 1st, 2018, I'll be off on a plane again going somewhere.
5. Suzanne's Cottage - Which feels like home
After a brief stop in Ottawa to see my oldest son and a few days in Deep to see the younger two I make my way to my friend Suzanne's cottage. Set on a hill amongst red pine and cedar overlooking a lake, it is a quintessentially Canadian slice of paradise. There are two decks, a dock and a raft, a sailboat, a paddleboat and a canoe, a main cottage, a wee cabin and a gazebo with a hot tub, the kitchen and bathrooms are small but the great room is spacious with wall to wall windows overlooking the water. We sit and chat, read, do crossword puzzles, swim, walk the dog, and go out boating... Sometimes we wander into town to go to the farmers market or have an ice cream. Sometimes we visit with other cottagers. Suzanne and her husband go to play golf if the weather is right and the mood strikes. I stay behind, happy to curl up in one of the many comfortable chairs and read another chapter. The pace of life is simple. There's phone service here, and wifi even, but it's the sort of place where there might not be, and where they don't define your life or really intrude on it. We play cards after supper, hear loons calling, and the days slide easily into one another. Suzanne cooks fabulous meals, blueberry pancakes for breakfast and locally sourced BBQ sausages for supper, Dave keeps us updated on US political scandals, and their kids, who are adults now of course, are just happy and relaxed. According to the guest book this is my eighth annual visit. It seems unlikely. I used to come for only one night but soon I might choose to stay forever. They might have to take legal action to have me evicted. Or maybe I should find my own place on the water...
