Kootenay bound

I finally got my act together and am in Rossland. I drove to Kelowna yesterday and then drove the rest of the way today. I had to get moving, we were becoming quite restless. I'm hopefully going to get to see a bunch of new and exciting family, maybe previously undiscovered members.

The drive was nice. The scenery is amazing. This little bit of country I live in kicks the bloody crap out of anything I've ever seen. I love BC, merciless scorching sun and all. It's been so hot. Too hot. Where in freakin' do they think we are? We're west coast Canada it should never, EVER, be anywhere near 40 degrees. Leave the soul crushing heat to the people who 'like' it.

The car I'm driving tried it's hardest to break down. I put it in the shop and paid 250$ in Kelowna to replace the fuel filter and do a tune up, spark plugs and that jazz. It worked for 275 Km and then started acting up again. I think it will get me home, when the time comes.

I spent one night in Kelowna at a hotel downtown. I took a short walk to this pub and was pleasantly surprised. They had Hophead IPA on tap. Naturally I had a bunch of them. Then some guy started telling me how finally someone was stepping up and drinking real beer. Then he started constantly mentioning ganja. It made me want some, of course. He said he had lots at his place so I invited myself over. He was about ten years older than me and living in a one bedroom apartment. The bedroom was full of music supplies and there was a giant inflatable mattress in the living room in front of the TV which was his sleeping spot. That's about all there was. He started playing music, mandolin, and was A-friggin-MA-adoodally-ZING. Apparently he dedicated his whole life to becoming the eminent virtuoso mandolin player of our time. I wish I could remember his name.

Then I started getting all suspicious and paranoid. He tried to call me a cab to bring me back to my hotel but I started thinking the cabbies were out to get me and wouldn't get in any cab. Then finally I did get in one, to the drivers surprise. Then I started thinking that maybe my sister knew all these folks and told them to make sure I had a good time so I tipped the driver 60 or 80 dollars.

Then there was this kid who started being all supportive and I had myself convinced that he looked like me and was some distant cousin. I thought he was bringing me to this big party they had all set up for me but I kept being too drunk and paranoid to go to with any of them. Then, luckily, a clear thought popped through and said, 'get the hell back in the hotel.' I noticed he was leading me towards a group or something and my delusional self said, 'that's the party!' but my other half said, 'they gonna beat you.' I went straight back to the hotel and passed out.

The song remains the same

I've been back in Canada for two or three weeks now. Nothing has happened. Except all the things that did happen. Which are, de da de daaaa! An opera lesson, a PR trip, several 'celebration' nights and, the best part, no teeth falling out! Yay, cheer and shout for joy.

I'm quite sure other things have happened as well, just nothing very exciting. Last night I sang a little bit at an open mic in New Westminster. The other day I went with some folks to the folk festival. Jeez, I'm feeling pretty lame-tastic.

In PR I hit up the lake for some fish. It was slower going than the last time I was there in May. The trip in May was LEGENDARY. We must have caught thirty fish between the three of us. We released all but the nicest and most damaged ones (we kept four). It was nuts. I'd put my lure in and reach for my drink and BAM! I'd have a fish on the line. The fish were interfering with the drinking. What the hell is that? I think the fish madness was because there was a huge rain storm approaching and the fish could sense it and were feeding, feeding like it was the end of time. It was a sweet rain storm too. We got drenched. It was good.

Apparently I'm some kind of charitable soul as it seems I'm donating whole tens of dollars to various (two) organizations. How hard is it to resist people on the street trying to take your money? Pretty freakin' hard.

And so, after many minutes of intense searching the secret to my advancement and general well being has been uncovered, dusted and polished. I bet you want to know what it is.

Return

I'm happily back in Canada. The drive from Santa Barbara was much easier and faster than the drive there. It was faster and more comfortable. Plus, when we stopped at a Mexican restaurant for dinner, it was way better than the Mexican we had for dinner on the way down.

It rained today in Vancouver. I'm home! As if I've been tramping around the world for six weeks and the sun has been following me around the whole time. Burning down on me. Sweaty, hot and miserable me. Why? Who's in charge here? Don't they know that I need the occasional drenching? It's good to be home.

DG's wedding was sweet. All kinds of cool new-to-me traditions and neato gimmicks. I especially liked the drunken photo booth. The food was amazing too. Somehow I need to figure a way to have massive wedding reception style parties on a weekly basis. That's the spark of insight I've decided to follow.

With that in mind, I have a few goals. Singing is still number one on the list. Combined with the first one is getting as healthy of a body as possible. I don't need to look like, well, I can't think of anyone but I mean I want to be my ideal weight for running, jumping, climbing and all things evasive. Second or third, I'm all over the Italian consulate for reasons I'd prefer you to guess. Sixth (or whatever) is about work. I think I'm going to do the bookstore part-time while doing as much schooling towards my abandoned apprenticeship as possible and then write as much as possible on the side. Then when I'm working that trade, making a smidgen more scrilla, I'll be able to save faster and go back to some school or other for something to do with renewable energy.

As for immediate plans I'm hoping to get one opera lesson in and then see some people in Van I've not seen in a while. Then header back to the jewel of the Sunshine Coast to see my family and my cat and my bed. I just heard, I may have inherited a convertible...

Southern California Gas Station Girls

Back in Canada. Only 36 hours. It wasn't enough.

My 1st class flight? Good question. Air Transat doesn't really do 1st class the way real airlines do. They call it 'Club Class'. No individual cocoons, sheltering the rich from the eerie gaze of the weak, the small, the rest. It does have slightly bigger seats and fewer of them. What it does have, in spades, is service. Every time your glass is half empty, regardless of what it's half empty of, someone is there, almost in your face, trying to fill it back up. So, I was drinking wine then Clamato, then wine, then water, then wine. At one point the stewardess, dear that she is, informs me that, 'sorry, sir, you drank all the merlot, but we have shiraz. Is that okay?' Of course that's okay! Keep 'em coming.

It cost 225 euros to upgrade from coach to club, that's about 360 dollars canadian. That means I have to have sixty glasses of wine at bar prices to break even. There was also so much food and swag. Don't forget the swag. I'm still using the bag full of weird 1st class products. Hand creams, face coolers, lip balms, socks and on and on. I must have had 20 little airplane glasses of wine before the friendly stewardess informs me, 'sir, you drank all the bottles of wine. we only have little single serving bottles left. Is that okay?' Hell yeah, bring 'em on!

Needless to say, after the ten hour flight, I was feeling alright. At home, more wine and then off to Stella's for IPAs, of the Phillips variety. The best. But it closes at midnight. So we went downtown to the Cambie. By the time we got there it was closing in 15 minutes. So we wandered downtown Vancouver until we were tired of it and went home.

The one day I spent in Vancouver, was beautiful. Sunny and warm and, actually, pretty sweaty. I went with my roommate to watch him attempt to sell his Guatemalan trade goods. Unfortunately, he sold nothing. I think it had mainly to do with the location he tried to set up in.

On the plus side, I got a new pair of flip-flops. I had to leave a worn out pair in Frankfurt.

Then, all tired and worn out, I passed out while my roommate were drinking, carousing and dancing. I did put my earplugs in first. Then up at 6 am and off to California.

I spent over 25 hours in a car, with four of my closest friends. I think we're still friends, anyway. Sleep deprived and unclean, we arrive in our casa in Santa Barbara. Everybody showers and passes out for hours. I have a bottle of wine first and sleep less than the rest.

Our casa is very, very nice. I'm outclassed. The first day was very good, I found a 2 dollar bottle of wine and we recorded the smash hit single, 'Southern California gas station girls.' Coming to a youtube near you soon.

Then, this morning, breakfast of nasty french toast, coffee, bacon and sausage. I just plain don't like french toast. It's really too sweet for me, at any time of day, never mind morning. So I might have to eat lots of oranges from the orange tree, because my 'friends' have no concern over my dislike of their favourite nasty use for bread and eggs.

That brings me to now. I need to iron some clothes, do some laundry, clean me and basically, try and figure out why there is this aura of gloom approaching.

Europe, the end. And life? The Beginning.

My last night in Europe involved an Irish pub and an Australian. A highlight of the evening was a futie match between the USA and Brazil. We got there and it was 2 to nothing for the US and the, plentiful, Americans were jubilant. Then, four goals later (one of which, the refs 'missed'), it was 3 to 2 for Brazil, and me and the Aussie were jubilant.

Frankfurt is an unpleasantly warm place, and very humid. I sweat a lot here, maybe not Israel, Nicaragua or Venice sweating, but way more than Germany has any right to induce.

I quite spontaneously decided, being 7 hours early for check-in, that the queue was ridiculously long. And it just sprung into being, the check-in queue, how? Where did all these hundreds of mofos come from and so, so, early? So Summer of Rafer, most dominant trip yet, have you guessed what that means?

Yesterday, I was tired and unwilling to leave the hostel. I watched seasons of trailer park boys. My last days in Europe and I spent them with Canadian comedy? Yes, Canada is just that good.

I had no desire to brave the German streets, until I got hungry, that is. Then I foolishly spent 28 euros on a 4 course meal. Lousy hunger. Then the Aussie arrived and gave me beer and I was convinced to go out. And the hookers tried really hard to do their thing. But, the nature of the transaction disturbs me, and they failed.

So, if you haven't managed to guess, I'll tell you. I upgraded to 1st class. Ten hours on a plane, in luxury. That's right. Whoever's picking me up, expect a drunken Rafer. Word.

What do you get when you cross downtown eastside Vancouver with Amsterdam's red light district?

Frankfurt.

Or at least the part of it that I'm in now. I'm just a little wary of all the drunk, drug addict, whore crazy, shady individuals out on the street now. It's only 4 pm, and the shit goes down. It doesn't help that two nights ago I was waylaid by a 2x4 on a much tamer looking street in Hamburg. Or that I'm solo.

Even one more person would be a huge difference but the hostel I booked, while only 5 minutes from the train station and right in the middle of this madness, is pretty empty and has no common room. There are two other people in my room but they're out whoring it up, for all I know.

I just thought, 'maybe I'll go into this 'bar' and have a drink.' I was wrong. Instantly hordes of old nasty women were all over me trying to 'explain' something. And, it gets better, for 25 euros I can get us both drinks and a... well, use your imagination. For that price I'm better off not leaving my hostel at all.

I'm thinking maybe I should cancel my booking tomorrow night and find somewhere else, but oh noodles! I already paid for both nights. Something tells me the Guatemalan at the desk will be just about as understanding of me asking for my money back as I assumed Tarko would have been in Antigua.

So, it looks like I'm going to spend 48 hours straight in this nasty little hostel dorm room. Alone. I hope youtube has the trailer park boys and I can handle watching them on this awesome entertainment system.

Insight on a train

All across bloody Europe, 2nd class, but what kind of Eurail pass you suppose I have? Mother of God! I have a first class ticket! The whole damned time I coulda been lording it up in the front with plenty of room and no worries about some eager tool with a reservation saying, “actually, you're in my seat.” Who's in who's seat now, suckers? I get a reclining seat, a power jack for my laptop and enough legroom to have an orgy on the floor in front of me, combine that with the massive, efficiently designed folding table and I banquet with Kings.
No wonder my Eurail pass was so expensive. Too bad I've wasted the consarned thing. You'd think some smart mouth conductor somewhere would have said, “sir, you should be in first class, what are you doing here with the proles?” But no. Not one of them said anything. I had to discover the clues and put two and one to make three all by my blood stained, busted face lonesome self.

The Lucky-look-alike hippie girl was studying renewable energy and resources and she kept dissing all the candy-assed windmills that fill Germany, uselessly. She didn't say it but she implied it. The windmills are like 'fair trade' coffee, just a ruse to make German soccer-moms, or I guess futie-moms, feel good about themselves.
The Bolivian drug lord was some kind of genius with two or three degrees, including mechanical engineering, and a Swiss passport. One of the Scotch kids, the younger one, I was hanging out with that night warned me to stay away from the Bolivian because he was a racist and terrible human. And maybe he was a terrible human being, he certainly had some third world opinions about life and the way the world works. But not once, not even close to once, did he ever try and take anything from me. Not like the Scottish kid who tried to imply all night that it was my turn to pay, that I would get the bill, that I had his money, etc. Not that he was your typical Scotsman. I've never been to Scotland but I doubt many of them have dreadlocks to go with their skinny ass, pasty, snow white skin.

Now I'm thinking about the future. I might be able to use the Force to get my carpenter ticket by the time I'm thirty years old. Or, I could just go back to the book store and keep trying to find a real job, writing, in Vancouver. That would likely take longer and be less profitable. Alternatively, I could fuck right off to Nicaragua and live off my pension like a king. Another good plan would be to save money at the bookstore and go do some technical-type certificate for a year somewhere. Something like surveying or windmill repairman from BCIT or the like.

Why isn't there, on trains, and especially planes, (they have them on the ferries in BC) designated areas for wanker parents to take their douchie children so they can whine, scream and cry without disturbing all the friendly, important first classers, such as myself?

I've made a miscalculation. When I went to Central America I didn't bring anything of value. I went to the Val-Vill and bought all the clothes for my trip from them. That way they were all disposable and, essentially, worthless to me, as in they had no sentimental value. I wasn't attached to any of them. Of course then I acquired the Zebra shirt and became attached to it, but that's different.
On this trip I've noticed that yes, I do indeed like the clothes I've brought with me. They have stories that go along with them, lives of their very own. When something, so alive, reaches the end of its time, it is very sad.
Even worse than said end occurred simply because some German didn't like you being better looking than him so he turns one of your nicest, white, astro-fibre polo shirts into a mire of blood, sweat, guts and filth. I tried to wash it, I swear, I did everything I could for that shirt. But the blood and dirt were so deeply ingrained in it, it was a lost cause. I would have had to bring out the big guns for that shirt. Professional steam cleaning, and even then, I probably would never be able to wear it to work again. Not with faint traces of gore wafting from it.
So I had to lay it to rest, in Hamburg, at the Arcadia Hotel. A very nice Fila polo shirt, made of astro-fibers no less! and a pair of really old and beat up (and so filthy) crew cut socks. Gone forever!