Eh, Canada

In my journey across North America, I had thus far made it from New York to Chicago, a solid 800 miles thrust into the centre of this continent. I had, some might say unfortunately, taken a slide backwards into Ohio but my options looking forward were clear: either I could continue on my earthly-bound combination of plodding, hitching and bussing through the rip-roaring countryside known as the Great Plains, or I could cash in on my previous corporate life and sneak a free-ish flight across to the West Coast. As appealing as 2,500 miles of featureless land was, I jumped onto a flight at Akron airport and hopped my way across the country (zooming in and out of Detroit and Seattle on the way – some have said this is as close to Detroit as I ever would have wanted to get), finishing up in Vancouver, Canada. One night in the hostel and a meeting with a diamond miner and I was nicely set up for my trip up to Whistler.

The Sea-to-Sky highway (so pretty it’s listed #16out of all the things to do in British Columbia) connects Vancouver to Whistler and beyond, and it took all of 15 seconds of me with my thumb out to the world before a car stopped and took me up North. Here I was greeted by the semi-manical soft Scottishness of Jenny, a “colleague” of mine. I say “colleague” as although we both worked for IBM, we were never on the same project, but did organise two fantastic (some have used the word infamous) Christmas parties for the graduates. The rest of the day saw a visit to the classic Furniture Warehouse (Furnys to the locals), and a blur of taverns, culiminating in a great game of Toasts, whereby upon buying a round of shots each person takes it in turn to give a toast, and then neck their shot. Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, always worthwhile.

The next few days saw various degrees of hiking, snow shoeing and gallavanting around. As beautiful as the countryside around the area is, Whistler is designed for two things in mind – skiing and snow boarding. And so it was with bated breath that I found myself back on the slopes, decked in the finest (cheapest) hired gear, throwing myself down the extensive Whistler-Blackcomb runs. As the venue for the 2010 Winter Olympic and Paralympic games, the lifts and facilities were of the top class, and I began to understand why one of my other friends, Laura, had moved out here a year back to work as a lifty. I did find that the runs interwove in and out and around each other, often leaving me unsure as to where I was – but that was half the fun.

An interesting place that I’d recommend a visit to is the Squamish Cultural Centre. Situated just above the main Whistler village, this centre was only completed a few years ago, and goes a good way at explaining the culture of the Native Canadians that originally lived here (known as First Nations). I particularly enjoyed the hands on opportunity to make a traditional bracelet out of Red Fir bark – something my Scout skills and experience of making paracord bracelets made easy. I did manage to make a big cultural faux pas just before leaving, when I asked the receptionist (and ethnically Native woman) when the First Nation people actually come across (i.e. was it when the land bridge to Russia existed?). This was replied with an icy “Well everyone has their own beliefs” and a turn up on the nose. Good work Prids.

One aspect I did miss out on at Whistler compared to my previous visits to the French Alps was the supreme apres-ski culture. I was accostomed to 2pm ringing round and everyone heading to the mid-mountain bar/club (made famous on the classy Ski, Sex and Suspicious Parents show, but in Whistler most were focused on getting the most out of their season and actually staying fresh. This was only once interrupted by the visit of the DJ What So Not (one half of Flume), which saw my purchase of the traditional red beer pong cups bring great rewards.

Soon I had taken in my full share of mountain air, and desired a return to the pulsating pollution filled city life. Travelling down to Vancouver with Jenny, we fulfilled another Canadian stereotype by watching the Vancouver Canucks play the Carolina Hurricanes in the NHL. Whilst distressingly more skillful than anything we get back in the UK, I was disappointed by the lack of fighting and generally barbaric behaviour – one of my favourite family stories was from when we used to watch the Solihull/Coventry Blaze play, and my father walking out in disgust at my mother as she jumped up, hollering and bellowing at the battling warriors on the ice to knock each out (The Pridding/Frank females have a quite frankly terrifying streak of steal in them all).

Whilst in Vancouver I also had a wrong to right that I perpertrated in the previous week. WHen I arrived in Whistler, I found I had an email from the hostel I’d originally stayed in asking whether I had potentially taken the wrong pair of shoes that morning. Sure enough, checking the depths of my bag I was greeted by a smart pair of black leather shoes, in no way appropriate for the gallavanting journeys I would be making, nor large enough to fit my boat like feet. It appears that in my attempts to be kind to my fellow dorm members I had packed in the dark and accidently taken shoes of the poor sod sleeping in the bunk below me. Fortunately, he had left my shoes behind at reception, and so I sheepishly returned with his and exchanged for my somewhat battered but hard working pair. I then moved to a different hostel…

A solid 6 out of 10 evening then occurred in the (new) hostel bar in the hipster Gastown neighbourhood, and I found myself texting Marissa, my Canadian friend who would be joining me the next day. Upon hearing my laments about how average the night was going, she uttered the inspirational phrase “You gonna go out and seize the night?”, and I was reminded why I had made friends with her 8 months previously when travelling through Budapest and Prague. Bracing myself I headed back downstairs, got over my inherent shyness and spoke to people in bars, only to find myself 3 hours later dancing like a lunatic with an awesome pair of ladies who I’m still in contact with now. Karma, or something, continually putting yourself in those marginally potentially awkward situations, or mildly uncomfortable places, it all comes good.

The next morning I met another colleague and friend from Switzerland, and we had a great little chin-wag about the latest going-ons in the KISC group. I even got to finally try a (apparently) infamous “Double Double” from Tim Hortons, something which as a non-coffee fan wasn’t actually that bad. A trip to the Aquarium with Marissa proved particularly enlightening thanks to her (inherited from parents) knowledge of the aquatic world, and a night out with friend and former Mayoral candidate from Toronto was suitably entertaining for all involved.

The next morning came around with disappointing speed and I was forced to decide whether to extend my Canadian stay or to move on. With a sore head and my travelling mindset I decided to leave that very afternoon, and so I headed back to The States, looking forward to what the Pacific North West would have to offer.