I've moved my blog to WP: idefiningi.wordpress.com
Showing posts with label westcoast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label westcoast. Show all posts
September 6, 2015
stranded (adj.)
[The announcement's official - that I'm moving to the UK - so I can post this now. From September 6th]
This weekend, I learned that I've approached the "final" weeks of my time in Vancouver all wrong, or at least, in part.
I've had this idea that the next couple of months have to be filled with as much time with doing as many of my most favourite things with my most favourite people because time is ticking. I want to make as many new memories with them, in some valiant effort to solidify those relationships even more, give them more definition so that when I look back on them from miles and time zones away, they're less likely to look faded and distant. So that I don't feel stranded out there, in big ol' London, but instead, warmed by the embrace of those relationships and the moments that made them possible.
strand (v.) Figurative sense of "leave helpless," as of a ship left aground by the tide, is first recorded 1837. 1620s, "to drive aground on a shore," from noun strand.
- This year's long weekend, like all others since my decision to move, I planned on spending with those I care about most. It didn't go as planned though. Ironically, I got stranded, unable to find the evasive sign - and campsite - where my friends had set up shop for the weekend. I had no tent, and had driven for 4 hours (getting a wee bit lost having never been to Pemberton/Strawberry Point before).
- Stranded is being "left without the means to move from somewhere." Yet, ironically, being stranded this weekend has only given me more means to move away from Vancouver; it has given me more strength and confidence that it'll all work out.
 |
| Sometimes when we most think we have a chosen destination, we wind up places we never thought possible. |
- Yesterday, all signs were pointing down. I found myself driving on a very dodgy logging road, at KM 14 beyond the point where my friends had said we were camping. I knew they weren't there, as I had walked the shores looking for them and later found that I had cell service there - and knowing they didn't, meant they definitely weren't there. After some time at Strawberry Point, I got back in my car and decided to continue along the shoddy gravel pot-holed road, tires bumping hard and lifting dust behind me until I reached - and passed - the point where my cell lost service. Slowly rolling forward in my Corolla trying to avoid a flat tire, I stopped every car in sight to inquire, yelled "Ally or Andrew?" at every campsite along the shoreline, but...zilch. I eventually had to turn back, the sun sinking slowly and my faith dwindling along with it.
 |
| The smoothest patch of that logging road. |
- I made it back to Strawberry Point and the beautiful campsites there on the beach...and found an incredible group of people who had helped me out when I had first showed up on my search. Before I knew it, we were drinking around their massive bonfire, dancing to country music, talking and cooking up sausages at 4am, partying like old friends. By the next day, I was calling it "our campsite" and we were frying up potatoes in bacon fat on the grill together like we'd done it a billion summers before.
 |
| Who knew being stranded could look like this... |
 |
| Stranded? How about found. |
 |
| And just like that, even more ready for what tomorrow's tides will bring. |
- Eventually, and one day soon actually, I'll feel like
I'm sliding, lost in a new place wondering why I ever bothered to pluck
myself out of a wonderful place and relocate myself - and I'll
remember my drive home today, reminiscing on an unforgettable camping
adventure that showed me there's so much magic out there in the world to
be found, and that sometimes you have to trust the uncertain, move
toward the unfamiliar, and touch the edge of something to actually feel It.
strand (n.): Old English "shore, beach," from Proto-Germanic *strandaz (Old Norse cognate strönd "border, edge, shore.)
-~-
And as a final note, because, yes the universe works in mysterious ways...After I wrote this tonight, a good friend came over and I was telling him about how all my thinking of moving started around the time I came back from India last June. I mentioned, that perhaps, sometime, when I feel ready to venture back (or move elsewhere) after London, that I'd take myself back to India, visit the south this time, and round out the experience I had, a closure of sorts. Just as I was saying this, I felt the strands loosen from my wrist and I caught it, the worn and torn bracelet that I've had around my wrist since that temple visit in Varanasi...
 |
| A new chapter. My #IndiaThreads finally fall away after a very full and filling 14 months since a Hindu priest tied them around my wrist in Varanasi... |
July 8, 2013
ferry (n.)
While long overdue, this story must be told. Why? To remind everyone to have a little faith in each other, in magical happenings, in the spontaneous, the whimsical, the serendipitous.
The summer is upon us, dear Raincouver. Looking outside, it's hard to believe we were donning raincoats and rubber boots a few weeks ago, thinking about whether to bother putting away our winter clothes this year. It really looked like we were having yet another Junuary, and one quite possibly to be followed by a Julember, too.
But, lo and behold, the weather fairy is on our side. The sun came out for us this month, and for the last few weeks it hasn't been shy, to say the least. It's prying us out of our office chairs at lunch and bronzening our shoulders as we commute to and fro. But when the weekend nears, there's a city-wide frenzy: How to pack in as much outside as possible into our days off? Where can we enjoy this sunshine the most?
Many head straight to the beach, others head to a nearby patio to soak in the rays over a cool brewskie. Others yet, seek adventure outside the city, in a search for greenery, farmers markets, and activities not yet familiar.... For me, this year's solstice meant grabbing my best friend, eeney-meeny-miney-moe-ing our finger at the map of the Gulf Islands, and letting the travel fairy tell us where we were going for the day.
Saltspring won. Neither of us had ever been there (I can't believe this could be the case for any long-term Vancouverite, now that I've been). By noon, we were ready to disembark from Tsawassen, casually sipping on our Americanos, buzzed for the day ahead. We parked our car near the ferry terminal at $11/day (Note to travellers: This is a really great alternative to ferry lineups and expensive fees to take the car over, especially when traveling to places where you really don't need wheels, like Victoria). After a quick (free) shuttle form the parking lot, we were boarding the ship.
After about 90 minutes, we arrived on the shores of lovely Saltspring Island, a little perplexed about how we'd get around from that point forward. Thankfully, the commuter fairy was looking after us, and a little shuttle appeared at Long Harbour ready to take us over to Ganges, the little big town on the island.
After arriving in Ganges, we did the rounds and a cute restaurant caught our eye: The Tree House Cafe. We were instantly struck by the all-encompassing tree at the restaurant's centre. It seemed the cafe was growing right out of it, each little table a bud, the kitchen its anchoring roots holding the whole thing together. We instantly made our way to the front and were seated within minutes. Yam enchiladas and green curries arrived - and disappeared soon after.
Everything seemed magical about this place - like we were taken around by waves of chance, going from one point to the next. After lunch, we were told by our server that we must make our way to the renowned Saturday Market, where local artisans and bakers offered up their best. Amongst these, soap gifts were bought, as were incredibly beautiful silver pearl dangling earrings, which are hanging off my earlobes as I write this.
We were in the flow, talking to locals, asking for directions and advice. We eventually were drawn to the Mistaken Identity Winery. On the way, we turned a corner in the wrong direction - correction: a new direction (on this magical day, there was no such thing as “wrong”). Just ahead of us, a lovely bookstore appeared, perfectly placed in our line of vision.
Some hilarious titles in the “free bin” fortunately caught my attention. Had I not looked down, I wouldn't have noticed the words "Griffin and Sabine" plastered on the window - which ultimately led us to step inside. The bookstore's walls were covered by the original artwork by one of my favourite artists, Nick Bantock, who we later found out had lived on the island some years. Up the stairs, we found a quaint little blue room, dedicated to the author, with bookshelves filled with signed copies of many of his most famous works. I was in awe. The work of another fairy?
After some walking up the road to the winery in our new rubber sparkly shoes (we happened upon them in a nearby gift shop - a fairytale indeed!), we took in some relaxation between sips of wine. When we “tired” of lounging around amidst the vines, we decided to head back to the town for dinner. We indulged in some seafood accompanied by more wine in the sunshine before getting ready to catch our ferry back home at 8:45pm - the perfect denouement to our tale. Little did we know we were just hitting the peak of the arc.
After another stop at the Tree House Cafe - for Chai lattes and a phone to call up the cab (our cells had little-to-no reception) - we were on our way back to Long Harbour.
We arrived early to an empty marina. We walked down to a beach a little ways away to wait for the ferry, and once the clock struck 8:40pm, we emerged up the hill to find - an empty marina. After some strained iPhone research (due to fading bars) - we learned that the summer schedule was upon us. The next ferry wasn't leaving until 7:15 the next morning. Uh oh.
The sun setting fast behind us and the long road to Ganges ahead of us, left us in a bit of a lurch. We were in high spirits still, trying to think positive, though the 7 km road to 'civilization' taunted us. We knew deep inside that once the night set in, if we were still walking down that road, freezing our bums off cut off from the world, it'd be hard holding those smiles. An #SOS tweet and a few fuzzy phone calls later - for lodgings, advice, phone numbers, anything - yielded little. The last text that made it through to my boyfriend was something along the lines of "We're just walking on an empty road..." And Google Maps? Facebook? Ha - As if.
But just like a fairy tale, the danger would subside and we, the damsels in distress, would find our chariot. Only one car had passed us since we had started walking. So, when we saw another, we flailed our arms, clutching maps and dying iPhones in one last attempt to reach for human contact.
The car stopped. From the Mazda emerged a girl, about our age: Our saviour - with a working phone in hand (Rogers customers, don't take your cell phones to Saltspring... try Telus instead!) Yet, instead of offering to let us use her phone, she offered to spot us for the night. We were exhilarated. Jumping into her car, we just couldn't believe it. An adventure turned epic. We later learned that she had apparently seen us at the Tree House Cafe (she manages the restaurant!) and so we looked familiar.
To make this long story short, we all lived happily ever after. Our lovely new friend, Emily, and her boyfriend, Pat, served up some drinks and we talked through the night, laughing, reminiscing, sharing stories of travels and life. The night finally drew to a close outside on their lawn, with us looking up at a rare yellow moon through a telescope. Our heads hit the pillow around 2:30 am and four short hours later, the alarm rang, and half in daydream, off we were in the car again, accepting a ride from our new friends back to the ferry terminal, the catalytic setting of this great tale.
Watching the world through a mystical lens really allowed great things to happen and to keep on happening, I think. And we truly did have the fairies on our side - even when the ferry schedule wasn't. In retrospect, given our luck, we really got lucky. So thank you, world, and people and fairies of all places for restoring our faith in the magical, the unknown.
The summer is upon us, dear Raincouver. Looking outside, it's hard to believe we were donning raincoats and rubber boots a few weeks ago, thinking about whether to bother putting away our winter clothes this year. It really looked like we were having yet another Junuary, and one quite possibly to be followed by a Julember, too.
But, lo and behold, the weather fairy is on our side. The sun came out for us this month, and for the last few weeks it hasn't been shy, to say the least. It's prying us out of our office chairs at lunch and bronzening our shoulders as we commute to and fro. But when the weekend nears, there's a city-wide frenzy: How to pack in as much outside as possible into our days off? Where can we enjoy this sunshine the most?
Many head straight to the beach, others head to a nearby patio to soak in the rays over a cool brewskie. Others yet, seek adventure outside the city, in a search for greenery, farmers markets, and activities not yet familiar.... For me, this year's solstice meant grabbing my best friend, eeney-meeny-miney-moe-ing our finger at the map of the Gulf Islands, and letting the travel fairy tell us where we were going for the day.
After about 90 minutes, we arrived on the shores of lovely Saltspring Island, a little perplexed about how we'd get around from that point forward. Thankfully, the commuter fairy was looking after us, and a little shuttle appeared at Long Harbour ready to take us over to Ganges, the little big town on the island.
Everything seemed magical about this place - like we were taken around by waves of chance, going from one point to the next. After lunch, we were told by our server that we must make our way to the renowned Saturday Market, where local artisans and bakers offered up their best. Amongst these, soap gifts were bought, as were incredibly beautiful silver pearl dangling earrings, which are hanging off my earlobes as I write this.
We were in the flow, talking to locals, asking for directions and advice. We eventually were drawn to the Mistaken Identity Winery. On the way, we turned a corner in the wrong direction - correction: a new direction (on this magical day, there was no such thing as “wrong”). Just ahead of us, a lovely bookstore appeared, perfectly placed in our line of vision. Some hilarious titles in the “free bin” fortunately caught my attention. Had I not looked down, I wouldn't have noticed the words "Griffin and Sabine" plastered on the window - which ultimately led us to step inside. The bookstore's walls were covered by the original artwork by one of my favourite artists, Nick Bantock, who we later found out had lived on the island some years. Up the stairs, we found a quaint little blue room, dedicated to the author, with bookshelves filled with signed copies of many of his most famous works. I was in awe. The work of another fairy?
After some walking up the road to the winery in our new rubber sparkly shoes (we happened upon them in a nearby gift shop - a fairytale indeed!), we took in some relaxation between sips of wine. When we “tired” of lounging around amidst the vines, we decided to head back to the town for dinner. We indulged in some seafood accompanied by more wine in the sunshine before getting ready to catch our ferry back home at 8:45pm - the perfect denouement to our tale. Little did we know we were just hitting the peak of the arc. After another stop at the Tree House Cafe - for Chai lattes and a phone to call up the cab (our cells had little-to-no reception) - we were on our way back to Long Harbour.
We arrived early to an empty marina. We walked down to a beach a little ways away to wait for the ferry, and once the clock struck 8:40pm, we emerged up the hill to find - an empty marina. After some strained iPhone research (due to fading bars) - we learned that the summer schedule was upon us. The next ferry wasn't leaving until 7:15 the next morning. Uh oh.
The sun setting fast behind us and the long road to Ganges ahead of us, left us in a bit of a lurch. We were in high spirits still, trying to think positive, though the 7 km road to 'civilization' taunted us. We knew deep inside that once the night set in, if we were still walking down that road, freezing our bums off cut off from the world, it'd be hard holding those smiles. An #SOS tweet and a few fuzzy phone calls later - for lodgings, advice, phone numbers, anything - yielded little. The last text that made it through to my boyfriend was something along the lines of "We're just walking on an empty road..." And Google Maps? Facebook? Ha - As if.
But just like a fairy tale, the danger would subside and we, the damsels in distress, would find our chariot. Only one car had passed us since we had started walking. So, when we saw another, we flailed our arms, clutching maps and dying iPhones in one last attempt to reach for human contact.
The car stopped. From the Mazda emerged a girl, about our age: Our saviour - with a working phone in hand (Rogers customers, don't take your cell phones to Saltspring... try Telus instead!) Yet, instead of offering to let us use her phone, she offered to spot us for the night. We were exhilarated. Jumping into her car, we just couldn't believe it. An adventure turned epic. We later learned that she had apparently seen us at the Tree House Cafe (she manages the restaurant!) and so we looked familiar.
To make this long story short, we all lived happily ever after. Our lovely new friend, Emily, and her boyfriend, Pat, served up some drinks and we talked through the night, laughing, reminiscing, sharing stories of travels and life. The night finally drew to a close outside on their lawn, with us looking up at a rare yellow moon through a telescope. Our heads hit the pillow around 2:30 am and four short hours later, the alarm rang, and half in daydream, off we were in the car again, accepting a ride from our new friends back to the ferry terminal, the catalytic setting of this great tale.
Watching the world through a mystical lens really allowed great things to happen and to keep on happening, I think. And we truly did have the fairies on our side - even when the ferry schedule wasn't. In retrospect, given our luck, we really got lucky. So thank you, world, and people and fairies of all places for restoring our faith in the magical, the unknown.
September 11, 2011
vacation (n.)
As many of you know, I recently returned from a summer of living in Montreal (MML) while doing an internship at Reader's Digest. It almost felt like it was only a few days ago that I loaded my stuff into a taxi van, slammed the door (or rather, pushed it hard against the oppressive winds of Irene) and flew home to Vancouver.
I say "almost" because five days after landing in Vancouver, sleeping in my old bed and snapping my lips hungrily at fresh BC water (oh, how I missed you!), I was on another plane headed south via Bellingham allll the way to the place where people leave a lot of things behind - namely money, integrity, normal GI levels, and memories.
Vegas.
$ A town whose article we frequently drop because it truly is one of a kind.
$ An artificial city that looks like the Lord Almighty played a simultaneous game of Lego and Lite-Brite.
$ A place where one can't find a grocer, a clock, nor a dirty bathroom (thank god!) but always has plenty of O2, cheap alcohol, and fake sky.
$ A city that offers everything - but if you're smart, not all at once.
$ A place where it takes a long time to get anywhere or do anything (especially make decisions that don't involve pressing a single button that says "Bet" or "Lobby").
$ A place that I thought I'd never want to visit, let alone actually return to.
Sitting on the plane, I was one part excited for the extravagance, and two parts ready to gag at it. Once I got there though I was 100% impressed.
Before I knew it, I refueled poolside by working on my tan lines. It also made me realize that I forgot what desert heat felt like (my last trip to Israel was 3 summers ago). I'd actually close my eyes and have a very hard time figuring out from which direction the sun was hitting me.
I soon found the energy to stay up for the next 23hrs, shop at Miracle Mile, walk from PH to Encore, dance my butt off in a pool at XS, eat gelato at 4am, and feel fully rested after 5 hours of sleep (give or take a coffee or three). The rest of my trip pretty much followed the same pattern (but every day was different). Plus wacky meals and cocktails all around.
But, the true reason that my word today is "vacation" is that in all my amazement at the "Desert Rose", I actually don't think I had a vacation - or at least the kind I'm used to.
I stopped and smelled the roses, blew a bit of cash in return for exuberant sights and sounds, food, shopping, and clubbing. But I did not vacate. Sure, I vacated Vancouver to enter into an illusory life comprised of lights, slot machines, and firm asses; however, my body and mind worked in overdrive, and however much or little I drank, I still feel hungover from head to toe. I sustained a right pinky injury, a redder credit card bill than I planned for, and I've slept 30 hours over the last three nights. I wish I could blame it on jet lag, but I can't.
Some of you are probably reminded of similar vacations to places other than Las Vegas that you've been to, after which you came home in shambles, broken, and tired with swollen feet and a sunburn.
But this one's different, folks. It's nothing I've ever experienced before (and trust me, I've lived out of a backpack for months, slept on snails on a camping trip, have been down to a single Euro in Amsterdam, and was hostel-less at 3am).
What Vegas does is exhaust all senses.
So, let's give a cheers to vacations - in all their forms and guises. Because until you've been to Vegas, you could've sworn you knew them all.
I'm happy to have known you, Vegas. I hope to see you soon, sexy lady. I'll miss you, friend. But I need a break from you because one can have too much of a good thing (especially if that thing seems to be on steroids and speed all the time.)
xox.
I say "almost" because five days after landing in Vancouver, sleeping in my old bed and snapping my lips hungrily at fresh BC water (oh, how I missed you!), I was on another plane headed south via Bellingham allll the way to the place where people leave a lot of things behind - namely money, integrity, normal GI levels, and memories.
Vegas.
$ A town whose article we frequently drop because it truly is one of a kind.$ An artificial city that looks like the Lord Almighty played a simultaneous game of Lego and Lite-Brite.
$ A place where one can't find a grocer, a clock, nor a dirty bathroom (thank god!) but always has plenty of O2, cheap alcohol, and fake sky.
$ A city that offers everything - but if you're smart, not all at once.
$ A place where it takes a long time to get anywhere or do anything (especially make decisions that don't involve pressing a single button that says "Bet" or "Lobby").
$ A place that I thought I'd never want to visit, let alone actually return to.
 |
| Rose-coloured glasses. |
 |
| no biggie. |
Before I knew it, I refueled poolside by working on my tan lines. It also made me realize that I forgot what desert heat felt like (my last trip to Israel was 3 summers ago). I'd actually close my eyes and have a very hard time figuring out from which direction the sun was hitting me.
 |
| dinner. |
 |
| breakfast (chicken & waffles) |
But, the true reason that my word today is "vacation" is that in all my amazement at the "Desert Rose", I actually don't think I had a vacation - or at least the kind I'm used to.
I stopped and smelled the roses, blew a bit of cash in return for exuberant sights and sounds, food, shopping, and clubbing. But I did not vacate. Sure, I vacated Vancouver to enter into an illusory life comprised of lights, slot machines, and firm asses; however, my body and mind worked in overdrive, and however much or little I drank, I still feel hungover from head to toe. I sustained a right pinky injury, a redder credit card bill than I planned for, and I've slept 30 hours over the last three nights. I wish I could blame it on jet lag, but I can't.
 |
| Because to see Vegas clearly is to not to have seen it all. (It's a coping strategy) |
But this one's different, folks. It's nothing I've ever experienced before (and trust me, I've lived out of a backpack for months, slept on snails on a camping trip, have been down to a single Euro in Amsterdam, and was hostel-less at 3am).
What Vegas does is exhaust all senses.
So, let's give a cheers to vacations - in all their forms and guises. Because until you've been to Vegas, you could've sworn you knew them all.
I'm happy to have known you, Vegas. I hope to see you soon, sexy lady. I'll miss you, friend. But I need a break from you because one can have too much of a good thing (especially if that thing seems to be on steroids and speed all the time.)
xox.
February 20, 2011
happy hour (n.)
This past week was the highly revered "Reading Break", a week during which Masters students like us, MPubbers, spend six or seven mornings (hopefully) sleeping-in, rest our eyes away from laptop screens, and indulge in a simple thing called "free time".
This year, Ben and I decided to head down to Portland for a few days to get away for a mini-vacay.
The 92 hours we spent there were 100% fantastic, filled with scrumptious food and beer and sights and sounds and tax-free shopping (who knew?! I didn't!)
Of those 92 hours, if we weren't sleeping, we were enjoying the famous Happy Hour, which I have only come to truly understand.
Portland is allll about their dandy discounts, and man, oh, man do they do happy hour justice.
It appears that every establishment has some kind of happy hour deal - and not only that, but a happy hour that spans across about 8 hours of the day, every day of the week. You can get amazing ravioli for $4 (remember, no tax), a cheap haircut, or $9 pitchers without even really trying to plan for it! Ben and I really got to appreciate our senses a bit more.
The lack of sales tax and the great prices just make for a really happy bunch of people. Every waiter we spoke to, every salesperson who rung us in, every person seated nearby, whipped out a napkin and a pen to jot down suggestions of where we should go next.
[the table blow the fold is not scary; it's just ugly - and a game!]
Here are some of the Portland Must-Dos (really, Portland Must-Dine At's)
(I've included some of my own, to pay it forward):
Mix and match, if you dare!
Answers below.
Thank you Portlandians! We like you a lot.
It was such a pleasant experience to be around people who don't seem to have road rage ("rush hour" is pretty happy), and who genuinely want to help out and be NICE. There's this really admirable lacking in cruel ambition; instead, there's a true sense of Zen-like grounded-ness.
Portland, in a nutshell, is a heavenly Vancouver circa the 1980s, before Yaletown high-rises, 778-, and expensive real estate: Before we all became kind of hoity-toity and vain because we live in "the #1 city on the planet."
My fellow Vancouverites, I think it's gone a little to our head; We need to come back down to reality and try to be a little more open, compassionate and conversant with the world around us. Even if we have to deal with HST, it'd be nice to find a little more happy in the hours of our days.
From this point forward, let's bring back the "happy hour" mentality. Let's bring it up in random conversations; let's genuinely smile and not just to be polite; and if we're going to honk at each other in traffic, let's do it to say hi; let's try to make every minute really count.
Cheers!
Answers (but not upside down because I don't know the HTML tag for it..ha!)
This year, Ben and I decided to head down to Portland for a few days to get away for a mini-vacay.
The 92 hours we spent there were 100% fantastic, filled with scrumptious food and beer and sights and sounds and tax-free shopping (who knew?! I didn't!)
Of those 92 hours, if we weren't sleeping, we were enjoying the famous Happy Hour, which I have only come to truly understand.
Portland is allll about their dandy discounts, and man, oh, man do they do happy hour justice.
It appears that every establishment has some kind of happy hour deal - and not only that, but a happy hour that spans across about 8 hours of the day, every day of the week. You can get amazing ravioli for $4 (remember, no tax), a cheap haircut, or $9 pitchers without even really trying to plan for it! Ben and I really got to appreciate our senses a bit more.
The lack of sales tax and the great prices just make for a really happy bunch of people. Every waiter we spoke to, every salesperson who rung us in, every person seated nearby, whipped out a napkin and a pen to jot down suggestions of where we should go next.
[the table blow the fold is not scary; it's just ugly - and a game!]
Here are some of the Portland Must-Dos (really, Portland Must-Dine At's)
(I've included some of my own, to pay it forward):
Mix and match, if you dare!
| A. VooDoo Donuts | B. Bunk Sand- wiches | C. Laurel- hurst Theatre | D. Deschutes Brewery | E. Shanghai Tunnel | F. Henry's Tavern | G. Via Delizia | H. 21st Ave. Grill | I. Elephant Deli | J. Powell's Books (duh!) | K. Rose Arena |
| 1. The Cuban | 2. Heavy Metal | 3. Pineapple brioche with a side of Oe | 4. Visa to China? or fresh-squeezed juice as a vodka chaser. | 5. Maple & Bacon | 6. Shuffle -board + ping pong what! | 7. Bitter Orange Cream Ale & a pretzel! | 8. Free Chalupa? | 9. Italian ambiance for cheap | 10. Super Steak | 11. Mama Leone's soup |
Thank you Portlandians! We like you a lot.
It was such a pleasant experience to be around people who don't seem to have road rage ("rush hour" is pretty happy), and who genuinely want to help out and be NICE. There's this really admirable lacking in cruel ambition; instead, there's a true sense of Zen-like grounded-ness.
Portland, in a nutshell, is a heavenly Vancouver circa the 1980s, before Yaletown high-rises, 778-, and expensive real estate: Before we all became kind of hoity-toity and vain because we live in "the #1 city on the planet."
My fellow Vancouverites, I think it's gone a little to our head; We need to come back down to reality and try to be a little more open, compassionate and conversant with the world around us. Even if we have to deal with HST, it'd be nice to find a little more happy in the hours of our days.From this point forward, let's bring back the "happy hour" mentality. Let's bring it up in random conversations; let's genuinely smile and not just to be polite; and if we're going to honk at each other in traffic, let's do it to say hi; let's try to make every minute really count.
Cheers!
Answers (but not upside down because I don't know the HTML tag for it..ha!)
A5, B1, C2, D7, E4, F10, G9, H6, I11, J3, K8
December 29, 2010
bushwhack (v.)
My first encounter of "bushwhack" in a sentence came from my early childhood days spent at Camp Miriam, a wholesome, socialist-leaning, nature-loving, Jewish summer camp on Gabriola Island. Each age group (or "kvutzah" in Hebrew) had a daily branch of work (or "anaf avodah"), and mine was Anaf Bushwhacking.
My second encounter of bushwhacking was a week and a half ago when my boyfriend, Ben, and I were in Uclulet/Tofino. (It seems this bushwhacking thing and the Island are inseparable in my life.) Anyway, as I've mentioned, we attempted to go beach-combing in the morning (during low tide) at Schooner Cove, one day before our four year anniversary. After a nice one hour walk down the beach, kicking logs and sipping coffee from our tumblers, we decided it was time to head back.
However, seeing we'd only walked down and not back at all for the entire time, we were a few kilometres short of being anywhere near the (only) trail back to our car, the highway, the town, and well, civilization.
Before we knew it, our little stroll amounted to me running for my life toward shore after the tide came back and the ocean filled my Timberland boots and soaked me to my knees. So much for waterproof.
To avoid the waves that were crashing into the cliffy shoreline (and out to get us), we had to climb - yes, literally climb - into the forest.
I was in a frenzy, shaking from the cold that was climbing up from my frozen feet, and totally paranoid that the ocean was gonna take us in alive. I kept looking at the ground, the dirt and the branches all mushed together beneath my feet, and whenever I saw shells, I kept screaming to Ben, "Keep climbing higher!! It's moving fast! It's coming for us and it's gonna get us here!"
To say the least, fear makes you crazy. In retrospect, though, the only image I have from this moment was cliffs and slippery rocks in front of me as I quickly skittered across them, and Ben, scurrying along behind me, a tumbler in each hand high above above his head.
Once the shells in the dirt disappeared, and the ocean waves sounded far behind us, we calmed down a bit. This only lasted for a moment, though. It's hard to remain calm when you look around yourself and all you see are dense trees, storm debris, and no sign of human life (apart from the odd Birkenstock that just brings up images of a castaway's death).
We started walking. Well, hiking, climbing, crawling, and (wait for it)... bushwhacking.
I'd never in my life realized what a real forest really looks like, how unpredictable terrain can be, and how utterly exhausting it is to move through it. There were tricks we developed. From staying low when the brush was high, to moving backwards to keep branches from hitting us in the face. Ben found it easier to move forward once he put the tumblers in his backpack and I found it easier to keep going by yelling at him. I threatened to kill him if a cougar didn't first. I blamed him for not bushwhacking fast enough (to beat the dark), or bushwhacking with too much gusto (for fear he'd get hurt and I'd have to drag his 6-foot self through the forest alone).
My favourite plant was soon the fern because it signalled easy terrain and no swampland or thick brush.
After walking for an hour, we lost all orientation. It sounded like the ocean was surrounding us (which we later found was true because we'd reached the end of a small peninsula). We eventually called 9-1-1 (as my cell phone blinked "low battery"); while Ben gave out our information (B-E-N...May 2nd..... Vancouver... V-I-S-N....), I imagined our names in the paper: Due to a freak accident on Vancouver Island, Visnja, 23, and Ben, 25, were.... I didn't dare finish the thought.
Eventually, the operator put us through to the local Constable (Our Saviour!) who then told us we had two choices: 1: Wait at least five hours (two of which would be in the dark!) until the low tide came back; or 2: bushwhack.
Seeing I was not going to listen to animal sounds, freezing my butt off in a dark forest, we moved forward. To gain orientation, Constable B. played his car siren at the reservation close to the trail we were aiming for. Every couple of minutes, we'd stand in silence, our ears perked up listening for the sound of our target.
Luckily, we weren't hurt. We sang together loudly (the silver lining) to keep the wildlife away (yikes) and tried to stay positive. Three and a half hours later, I, covered in mud and twigs, and Ben, with rain pants ripped to shreds, set foot on the trail.
Down the trail we saw Constable B. He looked back at us and smiled, then uttered a simple "fuck".
After a short car ride in the back of a police car, and another short drive back to our place in Uclulet, we realized how exhausted we were from our four hour trek. Never in my life had I tried so hard to move 1 km/hr.
Once at the condo, Ben had to actually hose down our clothes. We left everything at the door (our muddy clothes and our negative feelings). Soon we were sipping rum and egg nog in front of the fire sighing over what had happened. Ben even looked at me with a smile saying, "When you said we weren't going to make it to our four-year anniversary, was that because you were going to break up with me or because you thought we were gonna die?"
I didn't bother replying and just gulped my drink, pulling twigs out of my hair.
That night we had a burger and wings and fries and clam chowder and a whole lot of beer. We also sang karaoke.
We had a whole new appetite for life.
Happy Anniversary, baby!
 |
| Ben, before the real tumbling. |
However, seeing we'd only walked down and not back at all for the entire time, we were a few kilometres short of being anywhere near the (only) trail back to our car, the highway, the town, and well, civilization.
 |
| Just a stroll. |
To avoid the waves that were crashing into the cliffy shoreline (and out to get us), we had to climb - yes, literally climb - into the forest.
I was in a frenzy, shaking from the cold that was climbing up from my frozen feet, and totally paranoid that the ocean was gonna take us in alive. I kept looking at the ground, the dirt and the branches all mushed together beneath my feet, and whenever I saw shells, I kept screaming to Ben, "Keep climbing higher!! It's moving fast! It's coming for us and it's gonna get us here!"
To say the least, fear makes you crazy. In retrospect, though, the only image I have from this moment was cliffs and slippery rocks in front of me as I quickly skittered across them, and Ben, scurrying along behind me, a tumbler in each hand high above above his head.
Once the shells in the dirt disappeared, and the ocean waves sounded far behind us, we calmed down a bit. This only lasted for a moment, though. It's hard to remain calm when you look around yourself and all you see are dense trees, storm debris, and no sign of human life (apart from the odd Birkenstock that just brings up images of a castaway's death).
We started walking. Well, hiking, climbing, crawling, and (wait for it)... bushwhacking.
I'd never in my life realized what a real forest really looks like, how unpredictable terrain can be, and how utterly exhausting it is to move through it. There were tricks we developed. From staying low when the brush was high, to moving backwards to keep branches from hitting us in the face. Ben found it easier to move forward once he put the tumblers in his backpack and I found it easier to keep going by yelling at him. I threatened to kill him if a cougar didn't first. I blamed him for not bushwhacking fast enough (to beat the dark), or bushwhacking with too much gusto (for fear he'd get hurt and I'd have to drag his 6-foot self through the forest alone). My favourite plant was soon the fern because it signalled easy terrain and no swampland or thick brush.
After walking for an hour, we lost all orientation. It sounded like the ocean was surrounding us (which we later found was true because we'd reached the end of a small peninsula). We eventually called 9-1-1 (as my cell phone blinked "low battery"); while Ben gave out our information (B-E-N...May 2nd..... Vancouver... V-I-S-N....), I imagined our names in the paper: Due to a freak accident on Vancouver Island, Visnja, 23, and Ben, 25, were.... I didn't dare finish the thought.Eventually, the operator put us through to the local Constable (Our Saviour!) who then told us we had two choices: 1: Wait at least five hours (two of which would be in the dark!) until the low tide came back; or 2: bushwhack.
Seeing I was not going to listen to animal sounds, freezing my butt off in a dark forest, we moved forward. To gain orientation, Constable B. played his car siren at the reservation close to the trail we were aiming for. Every couple of minutes, we'd stand in silence, our ears perked up listening for the sound of our target.
Luckily, we weren't hurt. We sang together loudly (the silver lining) to keep the wildlife away (yikes) and tried to stay positive. Three and a half hours later, I, covered in mud and twigs, and Ben, with rain pants ripped to shreds, set foot on the trail.Down the trail we saw Constable B. He looked back at us and smiled, then uttered a simple "fuck".
After a short car ride in the back of a police car, and another short drive back to our place in Uclulet, we realized how exhausted we were from our four hour trek. Never in my life had I tried so hard to move 1 km/hr.
Once at the condo, Ben had to actually hose down our clothes. We left everything at the door (our muddy clothes and our negative feelings). Soon we were sipping rum and egg nog in front of the fire sighing over what had happened. Ben even looked at me with a smile saying, "When you said we weren't going to make it to our four-year anniversary, was that because you were going to break up with me or because you thought we were gonna die?"I didn't bother replying and just gulped my drink, pulling twigs out of my hair.
We had a whole new appetite for life.
Happy Anniversary, baby!
December 27, 2010
beach combing (v.)
Ah, the art of beach combing - or perhaps the art that comes of it. It's a pretty neat activity that many people take part in while they're on the Westcoast, especially on Vancouver Island. Many people try to accumulate enough cool stuff to make art pieces (including picture frames and jewellery), but most take part in the hopes of clearing the beaches of unnaturally beach-occurring stuff.
Cool finds:
- shoes (hopefully, foot-free)
- boxes of high quality merchandise from China lost at sea that fell off of freighters (like boxes of shoes).
- beer bottles, beer cans, beer bongs, beer caps, lots and lots of beer stuff.
- plastic bottle caps (it's always disappointing).
- These awesome Japanese glass floats or buoys, from as early as the 30s (read about them here), which some persistent beachcombers spend their entire lives hoping to find. They're worth a pretty penny but no true beachcomber would sell it if they stumbled across one.
- poles, tubes, and other phallic objects.
- shipping pallets, or at least pieces of them (not that exciting seeing there's plenty of timber around anyway).
- nets, hooks, and other fishing/aquatic equipment) & boat parts (even motors).
- lots and lots of dead sea stuff (that still looks alive).
With all this adventuresome opportunity, my boyfriend Ben and I ventured out to Schooner Cove to partake in this island hobby.
However, much to our chagrin, we wound up bushwhacking.
Stay tuned.
Cool finds:
- shoes (hopefully, foot-free)
- boxes of high quality merchandise from China lost at sea that fell off of freighters (like boxes of shoes).
- beer bottles, beer cans, beer bongs, beer caps, lots and lots of beer stuff.
- plastic bottle caps (it's always disappointing).
 |
| Japanese glass float |
- poles, tubes, and other phallic objects.
- shipping pallets, or at least pieces of them (not that exciting seeing there's plenty of timber around anyway).
- nets, hooks, and other fishing/aquatic equipment) & boat parts (even motors).
- lots and lots of dead sea stuff (that still looks alive).
With all this adventuresome opportunity, my boyfriend Ben and I ventured out to Schooner Cove to partake in this island hobby.
However, much to our chagrin, we wound up bushwhacking.
Stay tuned.
December 22, 2010
island time (n.)
Last week, I went to Vancouver Island with my awesome boyfriend, Ben. More specifically, we visited Uclulet and Tofino.
These two island communities sit about 27 km away from each other and are linked by highway 4, a windy road that takes you through a brush of old cedar and pine trees where if you're lucky, you can spot an eagle perched above you or a deer quickly disappearing into the thick bushes - and if you're unlucky, where you can get swept by a tsunami during the rainy winter season and go skidding and sliding into the Pacific Ocean; okay, maybe less dramatically, fall into a ditch and wait for a friendly local to bail you out, and then take you to The Maquinna to dry off, (and if it's a Wednesday, karaoke you out of the rut with a Journey song).
Some of the main elements of island life, as seen through the eyes of a city gal are:
- You don't need a watch. Stores close at random hours and often don "be back later" or "be back tomorrow" signs.
- The only hour:minute that matters is high and low tide.
- There are no franchises and so you get to drink coffee at the Tofitian, eat cinnamon buns at The Common Loaf, munch on the most amazing fish tacos at SoBo (it stands for Sophisticated Bohemian), wear organic cotton tees printed at Pina, and muse over Westcoast art by Roy Henry Vickers without the distractions of neon signs and commercialism.
- The days feel long - in a good way. This is especially true in the wintertime, because by 3pm you've done everything you can possibly do in daylight, which opens up a huge window of time for creative pursuits (it explains why so many artists choose to live on the island).
- As a visitor, you realize the first time you checked the actual time (and cared) was on the day of departure: when you checked the ferry schedule.
Apart from this whimsical feeling of the ticking of island time, I had a special opportunity to feel a different kind of it. Stay tuned for the full story later this week (I gotta go catch a bus--ugghhh city life!)
xox
Vish
These two island communities sit about 27 km away from each other and are linked by highway 4, a windy road that takes you through a brush of old cedar and pine trees where if you're lucky, you can spot an eagle perched above you or a deer quickly disappearing into the thick bushes - and if you're unlucky, where you can get swept by a tsunami during the rainy winter season and go skidding and sliding into the Pacific Ocean; okay, maybe less dramatically, fall into a ditch and wait for a friendly local to bail you out, and then take you to The Maquinna to dry off, (and if it's a Wednesday, karaoke you out of the rut with a Journey song).
Some of the main elements of island life, as seen through the eyes of a city gal are:
- You don't need a watch. Stores close at random hours and often don "be back later" or "be back tomorrow" signs.
- The only hour:minute that matters is high and low tide.
- There are no franchises and so you get to drink coffee at the Tofitian, eat cinnamon buns at The Common Loaf, munch on the most amazing fish tacos at SoBo (it stands for Sophisticated Bohemian), wear organic cotton tees printed at Pina, and muse over Westcoast art by Roy Henry Vickers without the distractions of neon signs and commercialism.
- The days feel long - in a good way. This is especially true in the wintertime, because by 3pm you've done everything you can possibly do in daylight, which opens up a huge window of time for creative pursuits (it explains why so many artists choose to live on the island).
- As a visitor, you realize the first time you checked the actual time (and cared) was on the day of departure: when you checked the ferry schedule.
Apart from this whimsical feeling of the ticking of island time, I had a special opportunity to feel a different kind of it. Stay tuned for the full story later this week (I gotta go catch a bus--ugghhh city life!)
xox
Vish
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