There was an insistant knocking on the door. Hoping it was the repair-man with a new plug for the bath (the Timberline Lodge has a real blind spot when it comes to the bath plugs - neither of the rooms I've stayed in have had baths capable of holding in water) I opened the door.
Before me was an impressively built man. Shaved head. Entirely naked. Dripping wet.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, knuckles tightening around his beer can.
"Er. Waiting for someone to come and fix my bath?" I volunteered, feeling slightly inadequate for a variety of reasons
"Dude. Where's Mary? She with you?" the man asked.
I thought carefully about my answer.
"No"
The man leaned back and peered at the room number. "Oh man, I'm sorry. Wrong room. Hey - you want to come to a party?"
I looked at the man. Consulted the clock. Asked the bear.
"Ok"
And so it began.
...I gotta catch a bus. And fight a hang-over.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Evil
"But it says it expires on 6 Jan" I explained to the man wielding the scanner
"Computer says you used it on the 29th"
"I couldn't have. I was in Vancouver"
I was trying to board the gondola for my final lesson on my final day. And my lift pass had apparently expired.
"Look, I'm going to miss my class. My pass says it ends on 6 Jan. How can it have expired?"
"Computer says you used it on the 29th" was the response
I considered my options. I could make a fuss and lose my last afternoon of skiing or I could swallow the 20 dollars and be done with.
"How old are you?" I asked
"31"
"Do you smoke?"
"Yes... why do you want to know?"
"No reason"
I paid the money and rode the gondola, secure in the knowledge that the officious lift attendant would most likely be dead before me. Such things sustain me in this cruel world.
"Computer says you used it on the 29th"
"I couldn't have. I was in Vancouver"
I was trying to board the gondola for my final lesson on my final day. And my lift pass had apparently expired.
"Look, I'm going to miss my class. My pass says it ends on 6 Jan. How can it have expired?"
"Computer says you used it on the 29th" was the response
I considered my options. I could make a fuss and lose my last afternoon of skiing or I could swallow the 20 dollars and be done with.
"How old are you?" I asked
"31"
"Do you smoke?"
"Yes... why do you want to know?"
"No reason"
I paid the money and rode the gondola, secure in the knowledge that the officious lift attendant would most likely be dead before me. Such things sustain me in this cruel world.
Bye Bye Whistler
The Bear and I are wondering what to do with our penultimate night in Canada (and our final night in Whistler.) The Bear wants to meet some new people. I want to sit in a corner of a restaurant with my book, a bottle of wine and some food that I will regret eating an hour later.
Over breakfast I decided to make a list. This was ostensibly in order to make notes for tonights journal entry, but mainly to take my mind off the fact that the waitress had underwear more visible than The Bear's, and its rude to stare. So - here we go:
Lost evenings - 2
Units of alcohol consumed - (numeric overflow error)
New people met - 12
Number of days I skiied - 7
Number of falls - 2
Number of different ski instructors - 5
These were:
Paul - an Australian with an affected Californian accent.
Sara - a Canadian who gets a little uptight about swearing. Unfortunate, when my principle method of skiing is to say "fuck" most of the time.
Hiro - a charming and entirely unintelligable Japanese woman. Her main mode of communication was to shout "Up! Up!" a lot. What she meant was anyone's guess.
Barrie - a Canadian who had a spiritual approach to skiing: "Be one with the skis, dude". Eh? "One with slope" is more my style.
Eric - another Canadian with a somewhat lassez faire attitude to tuition: "Ya, you guys ski down and I'll watch you from here. Ya. That was great. Lesson's over."
Yep. I had a good time. The bear has talked me into one more night out. Photos to follow.
Over breakfast I decided to make a list. This was ostensibly in order to make notes for tonights journal entry, but mainly to take my mind off the fact that the waitress had underwear more visible than The Bear's, and its rude to stare. So - here we go:
Lost evenings - 2
Units of alcohol consumed - (numeric overflow error)
New people met - 12
Number of days I skiied - 7
Number of falls - 2
Number of different ski instructors - 5
These were:
Paul - an Australian with an affected Californian accent.
Sara - a Canadian who gets a little uptight about swearing. Unfortunate, when my principle method of skiing is to say "fuck" most of the time.
Hiro - a charming and entirely unintelligable Japanese woman. Her main mode of communication was to shout "Up! Up!" a lot. What she meant was anyone's guess.
Barrie - a Canadian who had a spiritual approach to skiing: "Be one with the skis, dude". Eh? "One with slope" is more my style.
Eric - another Canadian with a somewhat lassez faire attitude to tuition: "Ya, you guys ski down and I'll watch you from here. Ya. That was great. Lesson's over."
Yep. I had a good time. The bear has talked me into one more night out. Photos to follow.
Zero Self-Respect
I'd planned a quiet evening in. I took a long bath, read some more of my book, thought about how beautiful the mountains had looked in the fading light of the afternoon (kind of pink, if anyone's interested) and then slid deeper into the water and let the bubbles close over my head.
My reverie was interupted by a noise from the laptop. Since I'm a slave to all things electronic, I padded over and peered at it. A friend was reminding me that tonight was an important hockey game for Canada and why wasn't I watching it?
I've developed a liking for hockey and decided that rather than sit in front of the TV with a glass of water and a box of cookies for company, I really should watch it in a bar.
This, my friends, was a mistake.
The Amsterdam Cafe is practically opposite my hotel, so I acquired a seat at the bar, ordered a beer (my New Years resolutions don't take effect until I leave Canada...) and watched Canada demolish their unfortunate Russian opponents. I imagine the poor kids from Moscow will be spending some quality time in Siberia after that performance.
My new friend, Sean (pronouced Shahn) next to whom I was sitting (I've got very good at talking to strangers in bars) tried to explain the significance of 'Sutter-Style Hockey'. I was more fascinated by the theatrical headsets the commentators were wearing - this is the 21st century, guys. No need for something that looks like it came from the prop basket of a 50s movie.
The game ended with the result that had been inevitable from the start of the second period. The bar was pretty apathetic about it. I watched some commercials on the big screen (the one for something called "hamburger helper" which basically involved a woman feeding her family something hideous from a packet and then declaring it "home-cooked goodness" tickled me. Lady - heating pre-prepared food from a packet in a microwave doesn't count as home-cooked...)
Sean left and was replaced by Robert. Robert is a snowboarder and was in Whistler to take avalanche training (I never did work out if that meant cause or avoidance) and decided that tonight I'd be his drinking buddy. I'm easily lead and went along with it.
This was the second mistake.
As the Amsterdam began to empty, Robert and I headed out to find somewhere a bit busier. We stopped in a few bars, watched a band play in the mock-Irish pub at the bottom of the gondola and eventually found our way back to the Amsterdam. By this time, Robert had decided that we were both going to get "laid" tonight. After the tequila, I could barely stand up, so laying down seemed an excellent idea. I have a feeling that that wasn't what he meant.
No, his plan was to head into the Down Under club and introduce us to any unfortunate woman that was standing by herself for more than 30 seconds. Sometimes more than once. Remembering New Years Eve, I'd switched to soft drinks (much to the disgust of the waitress who was, it must be said, stunning) and was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Robert (who I was interested to note suffers from a stammer like me) dispensed advice with the confidence that only Jack Daniels can give. While gesturing vaguely in the direction of some ladies for whom we'd bought drinks. I nodded, and admired the waitress.
At midnight we staggered back into the night air. Robert had nowhere to stay tonight, and dropped some not-so-subtle hints. I was sober enough to know that I did not want him in my hotel room and so guided him back to his huge off-road vehicle (which, I have to say, looked a great deal more comfortable than my room) and left him to sleep it off.
My alarm awoke me this morning from a dream where I, the hamburger-helper lady and a basketball player were planning a mission to Mars to save humanity and I lay still for a while, trying to work out if I'd had fun last night or not. I'll get back to you on that one.
For now, I have a final day of skiing and tomorrow I return to Vancouver. Tonight needs to be... quiet.
My reverie was interupted by a noise from the laptop. Since I'm a slave to all things electronic, I padded over and peered at it. A friend was reminding me that tonight was an important hockey game for Canada and why wasn't I watching it?
I've developed a liking for hockey and decided that rather than sit in front of the TV with a glass of water and a box of cookies for company, I really should watch it in a bar.
This, my friends, was a mistake.
The Amsterdam Cafe is practically opposite my hotel, so I acquired a seat at the bar, ordered a beer (my New Years resolutions don't take effect until I leave Canada...) and watched Canada demolish their unfortunate Russian opponents. I imagine the poor kids from Moscow will be spending some quality time in Siberia after that performance.
My new friend, Sean (pronouced Shahn) next to whom I was sitting (I've got very good at talking to strangers in bars) tried to explain the significance of 'Sutter-Style Hockey'. I was more fascinated by the theatrical headsets the commentators were wearing - this is the 21st century, guys. No need for something that looks like it came from the prop basket of a 50s movie.
The game ended with the result that had been inevitable from the start of the second period. The bar was pretty apathetic about it. I watched some commercials on the big screen (the one for something called "hamburger helper" which basically involved a woman feeding her family something hideous from a packet and then declaring it "home-cooked goodness" tickled me. Lady - heating pre-prepared food from a packet in a microwave doesn't count as home-cooked...)
Sean left and was replaced by Robert. Robert is a snowboarder and was in Whistler to take avalanche training (I never did work out if that meant cause or avoidance) and decided that tonight I'd be his drinking buddy. I'm easily lead and went along with it.
This was the second mistake.
As the Amsterdam began to empty, Robert and I headed out to find somewhere a bit busier. We stopped in a few bars, watched a band play in the mock-Irish pub at the bottom of the gondola and eventually found our way back to the Amsterdam. By this time, Robert had decided that we were both going to get "laid" tonight. After the tequila, I could barely stand up, so laying down seemed an excellent idea. I have a feeling that that wasn't what he meant.
No, his plan was to head into the Down Under club and introduce us to any unfortunate woman that was standing by herself for more than 30 seconds. Sometimes more than once. Remembering New Years Eve, I'd switched to soft drinks (much to the disgust of the waitress who was, it must be said, stunning) and was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Robert (who I was interested to note suffers from a stammer like me) dispensed advice with the confidence that only Jack Daniels can give. While gesturing vaguely in the direction of some ladies for whom we'd bought drinks. I nodded, and admired the waitress.
At midnight we staggered back into the night air. Robert had nowhere to stay tonight, and dropped some not-so-subtle hints. I was sober enough to know that I did not want him in my hotel room and so guided him back to his huge off-road vehicle (which, I have to say, looked a great deal more comfortable than my room) and left him to sleep it off.
My alarm awoke me this morning from a dream where I, the hamburger-helper lady and a basketball player were planning a mission to Mars to save humanity and I lay still for a while, trying to work out if I'd had fun last night or not. I'll get back to you on that one.
For now, I have a final day of skiing and tomorrow I return to Vancouver. Tonight needs to be... quiet.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Bear Meets Mountain
I felt fragile this morning, and since I'd given myself an extra day in Whistler figured that I'd take the morning off. And the bear wanted to see the mountain (evidentally she'd tired of the succession of bars.)
Up we went, feeling a little foolish in our casual clothes while surrounded by skis, boards and portly individuals wearing jackets that only further emphasised their egg-like appearance.
The mountain was, of course, stunning. The Bear peered out to the horizon. I listened to The Beatles' 'Eleanor Rigby' on the PA which seemed somehow appropriate at that moment.
When we returned to the village, something wonderful happened. Yesterday I lost my skis. Well, someone took my skis (I assumed by mistake) and I'd had to rent some more. I was looking down the barrel of the cost of new skis... but... there they were. Whoever had taken them had realised their mistake and returned them. Back where I'd left them.
Whoever you are, thank you. The Bear thanks you too. Stuff like this, and the re-appearance of Ms Sundae's jewellery really gives me a sense that there are more decent people in the world than we give credit for.
And now the snow is calling.
The Enigma Part 2
So Canadians and US citizens. The similarities continued.
You guys also have terrible, terrible television. I really don't understand this. The US certainly is one of the most demanding nations on earth and I've witnessed the impressive method of ordering a sandwich and coffee in coffee-shops. Where I might say "A black coffee and a cheese sandwich, please" the transatlantic version takes twice as long to say, with well over 1000 possible permutations.
So, I've ascertained that you guys aren't afraid to ask for what you want (unlike we Brits who tend to regard waiters with the fear and awe deserving of one who has the power to spit in your food) so why the bad, bad TV? The first time the television was turned on in my room was while my guests were recovering from the excess of new years eve. Aside from the ice hockey (which I have to confess to rather enjoying on first viewing) and a lottery advert spoofing the Dukes Of Hazzard called The Dukes Of Windsor (make that show!) there were literally 50 channels of crap to choose from.
Why do you guys put up with it? And why do Canadians put up with so much US TV?
It is, like I said, an Enigma.
I'm taking the bear up to look at the mountain now, and to give the servers at the roundhouse a hard stare.
You guys also have terrible, terrible television. I really don't understand this. The US certainly is one of the most demanding nations on earth and I've witnessed the impressive method of ordering a sandwich and coffee in coffee-shops. Where I might say "A black coffee and a cheese sandwich, please" the transatlantic version takes twice as long to say, with well over 1000 possible permutations.
So, I've ascertained that you guys aren't afraid to ask for what you want (unlike we Brits who tend to regard waiters with the fear and awe deserving of one who has the power to spit in your food) so why the bad, bad TV? The first time the television was turned on in my room was while my guests were recovering from the excess of new years eve. Aside from the ice hockey (which I have to confess to rather enjoying on first viewing) and a lottery advert spoofing the Dukes Of Hazzard called The Dukes Of Windsor (make that show!) there were literally 50 channels of crap to choose from.
Why do you guys put up with it? And why do Canadians put up with so much US TV?
It is, like I said, an Enigma.
I'm taking the bear up to look at the mountain now, and to give the servers at the roundhouse a hard stare.
Monday, January 03, 2005
And Another
This post is a little icky... readers of a delicate constitution probably shouldn't read it.
I have one more resolution. Never, ever eat chicken pasta at the Whistler roundhouse again. It was all going so well - another day of lessons in the hope of transforming myself from a talentless amateur into a talentless amateur with marginally less money but a nice shiny badge with my forename on it.
After a morning of not falling over we retired to the roundhouse for lunch. Since I can count the number of 'proper' meals I've eaten since arriving in Canada on the fingers of one hand, I elected to actually eat something while trying out my new grasp of the Canadian language on the solitary local in our party.
"Fer-sher-ay?" I volunteered. She looked at me strangely and asked me which part of Australia I came from.
The chicken pasta began to work its magic on the chairlift to the summit. As I slid off the chairlift I was painfully aware that last night's snack and lunchtime's meal were about to do a comeback tour through any available orifice. And the nearest bathroom was a long, long way away.
"You ski good today, yes!" called the instructor in her thickly Japanese accented voice, "Very fast! Very good!"
We'd reached the first waypoint, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to wait for the rest of the group and still maintain my dignity as well as the virgin whiteness of the snow. I explained the situation to the instructor replete with actions for the words she didn't understand (I'm damn good at charades), locked my skis parallel and rocketed down runs I wouldn't have dared tackle an hour earlier.
I spent the solitary journey on the gondola back to the mid-station curled up on the floor and then did something of which I'm rather ashamed on the final gondola run. By coincidence, I was sharing a gondola with a paramedic and an unfortunate child with a broken arm (snow-boarders, tch) The medic peered at me: "Are you ok, man?"
I cast dignity aside - my pasty face and the frozen sweat on my forehead had betrayed me: "No. I'm not. I ate something at lunch that hasn't agreed me and if this gondola doesn't get down NOW its going to get messy..."
This started the kid puking (shock of the broken limb, I guess) and the medic hauled open the door and held her over the edge. My delicate stomach decided to join in - I did say I was going to try following the crowd, remember?
When we'd finished the medic peered down at the damage.
"I wish you guys had waited until we'd got over the trees" he sighed.
If you were skiing down from mid-station to the village this afternoon, I'm really, really sorry, ok?
I have one more resolution. Never, ever eat chicken pasta at the Whistler roundhouse again. It was all going so well - another day of lessons in the hope of transforming myself from a talentless amateur into a talentless amateur with marginally less money but a nice shiny badge with my forename on it.
After a morning of not falling over we retired to the roundhouse for lunch. Since I can count the number of 'proper' meals I've eaten since arriving in Canada on the fingers of one hand, I elected to actually eat something while trying out my new grasp of the Canadian language on the solitary local in our party.
"Fer-sher-ay?" I volunteered. She looked at me strangely and asked me which part of Australia I came from.
The chicken pasta began to work its magic on the chairlift to the summit. As I slid off the chairlift I was painfully aware that last night's snack and lunchtime's meal were about to do a comeback tour through any available orifice. And the nearest bathroom was a long, long way away.
"You ski good today, yes!" called the instructor in her thickly Japanese accented voice, "Very fast! Very good!"
We'd reached the first waypoint, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to wait for the rest of the group and still maintain my dignity as well as the virgin whiteness of the snow. I explained the situation to the instructor replete with actions for the words she didn't understand (I'm damn good at charades), locked my skis parallel and rocketed down runs I wouldn't have dared tackle an hour earlier.
I spent the solitary journey on the gondola back to the mid-station curled up on the floor and then did something of which I'm rather ashamed on the final gondola run. By coincidence, I was sharing a gondola with a paramedic and an unfortunate child with a broken arm (snow-boarders, tch) The medic peered at me: "Are you ok, man?"
I cast dignity aside - my pasty face and the frozen sweat on my forehead had betrayed me: "No. I'm not. I ate something at lunch that hasn't agreed me and if this gondola doesn't get down NOW its going to get messy..."
This started the kid puking (shock of the broken limb, I guess) and the medic hauled open the door and held her over the edge. My delicate stomach decided to join in - I did say I was going to try following the crowd, remember?
When we'd finished the medic peered down at the damage.
"I wish you guys had waited until we'd got over the trees" he sighed.
If you were skiing down from mid-station to the village this afternoon, I'm really, really sorry, ok?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)