If I'm being honest, Monday was a complete false start. Eagerly springing from the blocks then trudging back sheepishly (though not sluggishly) for another attempt. Driving back to Port Townsend, I felt I could reconcile myself with the wasted day if I did something or went somewhere I wouldn't have otherwise. I didn't.
I didn't because I didn't have to. Having found a motel in Port Townsend, I then found a bar, and at that bar I got talking to the guy sat next to me. We had plenty to talk about since he had lived in Chile in the sixties and travelled extensively throughout South America. We talked about travelling, about travelling alone, and the places we'd both been to and how they had or hadn't changed.
Just before I left I asked him if he wrote a journal - he said he'd kept diaries, but that they were erratic and probably indecipherable. But also that maybe one day he could try and transpose them. And you know what, I got the feeling that, with memories reawakened by a passing stranger, he just might. Offering my hand as I left, I told him my name, and he replied with his. It was easy really, since they were the same.
I wonder if that will be me one day.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Monday, 12 July 2010
The Beast
When I was in Texas, I rented a car. It was a Dodge Avenger. Quite what it was supposed to be "avenging" is anyone's guess. Some extremely trivial infraction, it would seem. Had my first ever car not been a Peugeot 306, I would have no hesitation in declaring it the shittest thing I have ever driven. It handled like a cross channel ferry and accelerated at roughly the pace of the local armadillos.
Yesterday morning, I began the "road trip" portion of my trip (I cringe when I hear that term, sorry). It had already occurred to me that undertaking a trip down the pacific coast of the United States in such a ve-hicle would be nothing short of a crime. When I was in Australia last year, I bought myself a Nissan Skyline R33 since I wanted to blend in:
But this is America. Driving a Nissan around here would be like taking a fart to a shitfight. No no no. If you want to drive across, around or through America, you're going to need a car with a special kind of symbol on the front. And that symbol looks like this:
And if you're anticipating some good weather, and used to play Out Run on the ZX Spectrum (tape version) when you were a kid, then the rest of it should probably look like this:
Silver wouldn't have been my first choice but I'm not complaining. The 'stang, as I am affectionately calling it, has a 3.7 litre V6 that absolutely roars when you stick your foot down, though it would appear to be mechanically limited to 115 mph. At one point, snaking around Lake Crescent in Olympic Park, Washington with the top down, I saw a Golf Cabriolet up ahead. Long blonde hair flowed from some beauty in the drivers' seat, and my heart raced in anticipation of a Bond style chase that would culminate in an exotic and potentially deadly tryst. Sadly it wasn't so much Out Run as School Run, and after five minutes of being stuck behind her Miss Daisy style driving, I was rueing the day she ever got behind the wheel.
Fifty miles later, and I was rueing the fact that I no longer possessed my cellphone. One quick call revealed that, mercifully, it was safe in the custody of the Port Townsend Police Department. Port Townsend: a mere 110 miles back from whence I came. So the first day of my "road trip" involved driving 220 pointless miles and staying in a motel only marginally further along from where I'd left ten hours previously. At least I did it in a decent car - if I'd been in the Avenger, I'd have probably just driven it straight into the sea.
Yesterday morning, I began the "road trip" portion of my trip (I cringe when I hear that term, sorry). It had already occurred to me that undertaking a trip down the pacific coast of the United States in such a ve-hicle would be nothing short of a crime. When I was in Australia last year, I bought myself a Nissan Skyline R33 since I wanted to blend in:
But this is America. Driving a Nissan around here would be like taking a fart to a shitfight. No no no. If you want to drive across, around or through America, you're going to need a car with a special kind of symbol on the front. And that symbol looks like this:
And if you're anticipating some good weather, and used to play Out Run on the ZX Spectrum (tape version) when you were a kid, then the rest of it should probably look like this:
Silver wouldn't have been my first choice but I'm not complaining. The 'stang, as I am affectionately calling it, has a 3.7 litre V6 that absolutely roars when you stick your foot down, though it would appear to be mechanically limited to 115 mph. At one point, snaking around Lake Crescent in Olympic Park, Washington with the top down, I saw a Golf Cabriolet up ahead. Long blonde hair flowed from some beauty in the drivers' seat, and my heart raced in anticipation of a Bond style chase that would culminate in an exotic and potentially deadly tryst. Sadly it wasn't so much Out Run as School Run, and after five minutes of being stuck behind her Miss Daisy style driving, I was rueing the day she ever got behind the wheel.
Fifty miles later, and I was rueing the fact that I no longer possessed my cellphone. One quick call revealed that, mercifully, it was safe in the custody of the Port Townsend Police Department. Port Townsend: a mere 110 miles back from whence I came. So the first day of my "road trip" involved driving 220 pointless miles and staying in a motel only marginally further along from where I'd left ten hours previously. At least I did it in a decent car - if I'd been in the Avenger, I'd have probably just driven it straight into the sea.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Take me out to the ball game
Baseball. I can't say it's ever done a lot for me, except when multi millionaires were gambling on it, but in the absence of any better ideas, I got myself along to Safeco Field on Saturday night to watch the Seattle Mariners take on the New York Yankees. At least now I know why I couldn't get a hotel in town.
Since half of the world's population owns some form of Yankees apparel, I decide to support the home team. I'd heard before that a ball game is as much about stuffing your face as it is about watching sport. I manage to resist the lure of the $8 hot dogs for the time being, and the endless procession of people selling shit up and down the aisles.
I join about halfway through the second innings, with the scores tantalisingly locked at 0-0. It isn't until the bottom of the sixth that the Mariners actually manage to hit the ball, by which time the Yankees have already powered into a one run lead. I'm beginning to think it would have been more interesting to come down earlier in the day and watch the guys mowing those stripes into the pitch.
With the absence of drama in the middle, it's no wonder they're all so obsessed with statistics. The guy on first base is the first capricorn weighing less than 170lb to make over 50 appearances in a season. And the short stop is making his seventeenth appearance for the Mariners since the last time he ate chicken wings, which is an all time divisional record. When Fan Cam comes on in between the "action" the crowd go absolutely wild. Sitting in the stands with junk food detritus raining down around me, all I can really think of is the brilliant end to The Naked Gun. Strrrr-iiiii-ke.
Halfway through the seventh innings and tradition requires that the whole ground be upstanding as they play "Take me out to the ball game." I was thinking that just "Take me out" would probably do it - I can't even drink myself senseless as it costs $9 for a Bud Light and the guy selling them comes round about as often as the Mariners make contact with the ball.
To my utter astonishment, the game finally comes alive in the eighth innings when, more by luck than judgment, Seattle manage a home run with bases loaded, and so take a 4-1 lead. The whole place goes nuts, and there's a genuine atmosphere at last. When the final roar goes up, I'm almost at the train station.
Now it seems obvious to me that there are a number of areas in which baseball could be dramatically improved as a sport, and I feel obliged to outline them below:
1. Fielders should not be allowed to use gloves to catch the ball. Not only are gloves for pussies, but it makes it impossible to drop the ball, making batting that much harder.
2. It is too hard to hit the ball, and making contact can only be a matter of luck and not skill. Make either the bat or the ball, or better still both, bigger.
3. They get through hundreds of balls a game. They should use just one, so that it takes on different characteristics as the match progresses.
4. The pitcher has a disproportionate influence on the game. Pitchers should be rotated more often, and each one limited to a certain number of deliveries.
5. The term "Home Run" is misleading. "Boundary" would be both more accurate and appropriate.
6. Having nine innings of just three outs wastes a phenomenal amount of time with teams changing round. Instead, have maybe just two innings, of say ten outs each.
7. The diamond shaped pitch offers no scoring opportunities when the ball is hit behind the batsman. A different shape, oval perhaps, would create greater scoring opportunities and present a more complex and challenging puzzle to the fielding team.
8. They should use a red ball not a white one.
9. Having just a mythical square to aim at makes pitching, and the umpiring of pitching, difficult. Instead, there should have a physical target for the batsman to defend. Three sticks in the ground would suffice.
10. They all look very fetching in their uniforms, but would look a lot smarter if just dressed in white. Assuming, that is, that they were still able to divine which players were on their team.
Since half of the world's population owns some form of Yankees apparel, I decide to support the home team. I'd heard before that a ball game is as much about stuffing your face as it is about watching sport. I manage to resist the lure of the $8 hot dogs for the time being, and the endless procession of people selling shit up and down the aisles.
I join about halfway through the second innings, with the scores tantalisingly locked at 0-0. It isn't until the bottom of the sixth that the Mariners actually manage to hit the ball, by which time the Yankees have already powered into a one run lead. I'm beginning to think it would have been more interesting to come down earlier in the day and watch the guys mowing those stripes into the pitch.
With the absence of drama in the middle, it's no wonder they're all so obsessed with statistics. The guy on first base is the first capricorn weighing less than 170lb to make over 50 appearances in a season. And the short stop is making his seventeenth appearance for the Mariners since the last time he ate chicken wings, which is an all time divisional record. When Fan Cam comes on in between the "action" the crowd go absolutely wild. Sitting in the stands with junk food detritus raining down around me, all I can really think of is the brilliant end to The Naked Gun. Strrrr-iiiii-ke.
Halfway through the seventh innings and tradition requires that the whole ground be upstanding as they play "Take me out to the ball game." I was thinking that just "Take me out" would probably do it - I can't even drink myself senseless as it costs $9 for a Bud Light and the guy selling them comes round about as often as the Mariners make contact with the ball.
To my utter astonishment, the game finally comes alive in the eighth innings when, more by luck than judgment, Seattle manage a home run with bases loaded, and so take a 4-1 lead. The whole place goes nuts, and there's a genuine atmosphere at last. When the final roar goes up, I'm almost at the train station.
Bottom of the eighth, bases loaded...surely he'll hit it this time...
Now it seems obvious to me that there are a number of areas in which baseball could be dramatically improved as a sport, and I feel obliged to outline them below:
1. Fielders should not be allowed to use gloves to catch the ball. Not only are gloves for pussies, but it makes it impossible to drop the ball, making batting that much harder.
2. It is too hard to hit the ball, and making contact can only be a matter of luck and not skill. Make either the bat or the ball, or better still both, bigger.
3. They get through hundreds of balls a game. They should use just one, so that it takes on different characteristics as the match progresses.
4. The pitcher has a disproportionate influence on the game. Pitchers should be rotated more often, and each one limited to a certain number of deliveries.
5. The term "Home Run" is misleading. "Boundary" would be both more accurate and appropriate.
6. Having nine innings of just three outs wastes a phenomenal amount of time with teams changing round. Instead, have maybe just two innings, of say ten outs each.
7. The diamond shaped pitch offers no scoring opportunities when the ball is hit behind the batsman. A different shape, oval perhaps, would create greater scoring opportunities and present a more complex and challenging puzzle to the fielding team.
8. They should use a red ball not a white one.
9. Having just a mythical square to aim at makes pitching, and the umpiring of pitching, difficult. Instead, there should have a physical target for the batsman to defend. Three sticks in the ground would suffice.
10. They all look very fetching in their uniforms, but would look a lot smarter if just dressed in white. Assuming, that is, that they were still able to divine which players were on their team.
Uncle SAM does the best he can
Art galleries are a pretty sure fire bet if you've got a few hours to kill in a city. The Seattle Art Museum (SAM) is meant to be a bit tasty, so I shuffle along there of a Saturday afternoon.
Art galleries present a number of photographic challenges. Are you photographing works of art, or photographing the manner in which they are curated? Or are you just snooping around taking pictures of the other punters? Or all three? I love taking pictures in these places. In fact, what I think is one of my best pics was taken in MOMA in Brisbane last year, and I will shamelessly exhibit it here for your delectation:
I just love its starkness, and the guy's almost childlike inquisitiveness. You look at it and almost expect some giant sound to boom out and deafen him for his curiosity. I got the same feeling looking at the work of art below in SAM, but despite loitering around for ages, no-one stepped up to display the necessary interest:
SAM exhibits a range of works from all around the world, with notable gems from the pacific northwest, though nothing of the scale of MOA in Vancouver. I like the juxtaposition of this model in the crazy mask and the TV in the background though:
But surely the best work of art in the whole place is Some/One by Do-Ho Suh. A massive open suit of armour made entirely of military dog tags, it fans out for miles, taking up most of the room. It's incredibly impressive. I like this shot of it with the ends of the arms cut off so it fills the frame. It was the best way I could think of conveying its size and scope:
On the top floor there is an exhibition named Kurt. I'm not sure which work experience guy they got to write the copy introducing it, but I'll let him do the talking:
Technically there is nothing wrong with these two sentences. They were clearly written by either an idiot or a comic genius who slipped them past his boss. I'll spare you most of the next paragraph, but throughout it he constantly refers to Cobain.
I'm struggling to name the other members of POONAS (Pantheon Of One Named American Superstars) right now. I got Buddy, but it took me a while. I think it's as much about unique christian names as talent, so to my mind, the outstanding (and ongoing) career of Kurt Russell should be enough to keep Cobain locked out for the time being.
The exhibition itself is fittingly rubbish. Smells Like Teen Spirit is playing, there are pitifully few photographs, and a lot of dross that looks like it was scribbled on bedroom walls by manic depressive teenagers. One room contains an enormous Curt, sorry Kurt, Cobain head lying on its side. Which is strange, because I thought he'd blown his brains out with a 12-bore. Surely something by Jackson Pollock would have been more realistic - some porridge and tomato ketchup splattered around the walls perhaps.
Bizarrely enough, this is the only part of the museum where photography is prohibited. Like I'd want to take pictures of this crap? I still manage to get told off for taking a picture of the exhibition's crowning glory though, despite my protestations that it isn't actually part of it:
Art galleries present a number of photographic challenges. Are you photographing works of art, or photographing the manner in which they are curated? Or are you just snooping around taking pictures of the other punters? Or all three? I love taking pictures in these places. In fact, what I think is one of my best pics was taken in MOMA in Brisbane last year, and I will shamelessly exhibit it here for your delectation:
I just love its starkness, and the guy's almost childlike inquisitiveness. You look at it and almost expect some giant sound to boom out and deafen him for his curiosity. I got the same feeling looking at the work of art below in SAM, but despite loitering around for ages, no-one stepped up to display the necessary interest:
SAM exhibits a range of works from all around the world, with notable gems from the pacific northwest, though nothing of the scale of MOA in Vancouver. I like the juxtaposition of this model in the crazy mask and the TV in the background though:
But surely the best work of art in the whole place is Some/One by Do-Ho Suh. A massive open suit of armour made entirely of military dog tags, it fans out for miles, taking up most of the room. It's incredibly impressive. I like this shot of it with the ends of the arms cut off so it fills the frame. It was the best way I could think of conveying its size and scope:
On the top floor there is an exhibition named Kurt. I'm not sure which work experience guy they got to write the copy introducing it, but I'll let him do the talking:
"Grunge music is about as universally synonymous with modern-day Seattle as Starbucks and Microsoft. The late Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain is easily the most recognizable icon from this period, famous for his heartrending lyrics, agressive left-handed guitar playing, scraggy blond looks and premature demise".
Technically there is nothing wrong with these two sentences. They were clearly written by either an idiot or a comic genius who slipped them past his boss. I'll spare you most of the next paragraph, but throughout it he constantly refers to Cobain.
"The exhibition Kurt, titled simply with the musician's distinctively spelled first name, charts his ascendance into the pantheon of one-named American superstars such as Marilyn and Elvis".
I'm struggling to name the other members of POONAS (Pantheon Of One Named American Superstars) right now. I got Buddy, but it took me a while. I think it's as much about unique christian names as talent, so to my mind, the outstanding (and ongoing) career of Kurt Russell should be enough to keep Cobain locked out for the time being.
The exhibition itself is fittingly rubbish. Smells Like Teen Spirit is playing, there are pitifully few photographs, and a lot of dross that looks like it was scribbled on bedroom walls by manic depressive teenagers. One room contains an enormous Curt, sorry Kurt, Cobain head lying on its side. Which is strange, because I thought he'd blown his brains out with a 12-bore. Surely something by Jackson Pollock would have been more realistic - some porridge and tomato ketchup splattered around the walls perhaps.
Bizarrely enough, this is the only part of the museum where photography is prohibited. Like I'd want to take pictures of this crap? I still manage to get told off for taking a picture of the exhibition's crowning glory though, despite my protestations that it isn't actually part of it:
Seattle
It's a nice day, the sun's shining, and I'm in Seattle. I've been here before, I just chose not to mention it. I wonder what else I've been hiding from you?
That was two weeks ago on my way to Vancouver Island and I had a few hours to kill waiting for the ferry. I was laden with bags, exhausted from my early morning flight in from Houston, and wasn't really in the mood. But I pulled myself together and found my way to Pike's Place Market. There are hundreds of little hole in the wall restaurants, oyster bars and chowder joints, as well as a farmers' market, fishmongers everywhere, and all manner of other stalls. It's a foodie's paradise (and a photographer's it would seem, since everyone's packing an SLR).
Back then, I had lunch at Pike's Place Chowder - a crab roll and scallop chowder. They like their chowder super creamy here - too creamy for my liking. It tasted like a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup (minus the mushrooms), drowning out any trace of the scallops' flavour. I can think of at least one cookery school owner who would probably approve!
This time I try a spot of lunch at Emmett Watson's Oyster Bar. I tackle half a dozen oysters (two each from three different local beds), some cold shrimp and a dry smoked salmon with havarti. They're all incredible, but the shrimp win; they're fat, meaty and delicious. They taste so much better when they're cold. Today I went down to the dockside and ate at Anthony's Fish Bar. Great fish tacos, one Mahi Mahi and one Rockfish. The Mahi was way better - too much mango salsa in the other. But it looked good.
Seattle's got a good rep for its coffee, despite the fact that it was the birthplace of Starbucks. People crowd around the original store, though I can't make out if they're waiting to go in or watching the buskers. I probably should go in, but don't. Maybe it's the story I once read about there being a tap permanently running in every Starbucks in the world, wasting 23 million litres a day. I get a really good americano in Uptown Espresso in Belltown instead.
I like Seattle. It's got a good feel to it. If I were bound here for another week or so like I was in Vancouver, I'd probably grow to like it even more. But not a lot more. That might be because I am planted out near the airport in a ghettoised Travelodge next door to a rapper infested row of buildings comprising a strip club called Deja Vu, a bar that was playing music so angry I had to cross the street in case I got struck by a stray bullet, and a strip club called Deja Vu. If I was in downtown or Capitol Hill, it might well be a different story, but you can only work with what you're got.
This will no doubt incur the wrath of the locals, but there's not actually a lot to do in Seattle, unless you like getting elevators up big towers, going on Duck tours or getting wasted. I've asked enough of them what's good to do, and they don't exactly inundate you with ideas. So I utilise my internal resources, and come up with a few of my own...
That was two weeks ago on my way to Vancouver Island and I had a few hours to kill waiting for the ferry. I was laden with bags, exhausted from my early morning flight in from Houston, and wasn't really in the mood. But I pulled myself together and found my way to Pike's Place Market. There are hundreds of little hole in the wall restaurants, oyster bars and chowder joints, as well as a farmers' market, fishmongers everywhere, and all manner of other stalls. It's a foodie's paradise (and a photographer's it would seem, since everyone's packing an SLR).
Back then, I had lunch at Pike's Place Chowder - a crab roll and scallop chowder. They like their chowder super creamy here - too creamy for my liking. It tasted like a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup (minus the mushrooms), drowning out any trace of the scallops' flavour. I can think of at least one cookery school owner who would probably approve!
This time I try a spot of lunch at Emmett Watson's Oyster Bar. I tackle half a dozen oysters (two each from three different local beds), some cold shrimp and a dry smoked salmon with havarti. They're all incredible, but the shrimp win; they're fat, meaty and delicious. They taste so much better when they're cold. Today I went down to the dockside and ate at Anthony's Fish Bar. Great fish tacos, one Mahi Mahi and one Rockfish. The Mahi was way better - too much mango salsa in the other. But it looked good.
Seattle's got a good rep for its coffee, despite the fact that it was the birthplace of Starbucks. People crowd around the original store, though I can't make out if they're waiting to go in or watching the buskers. I probably should go in, but don't. Maybe it's the story I once read about there being a tap permanently running in every Starbucks in the world, wasting 23 million litres a day. I get a really good americano in Uptown Espresso in Belltown instead.
The first ever Starbucks. (Is that good or bad)?
I like Seattle. It's got a good feel to it. If I were bound here for another week or so like I was in Vancouver, I'd probably grow to like it even more. But not a lot more. That might be because I am planted out near the airport in a ghettoised Travelodge next door to a rapper infested row of buildings comprising a strip club called Deja Vu, a bar that was playing music so angry I had to cross the street in case I got struck by a stray bullet, and a strip club called Deja Vu. If I was in downtown or Capitol Hill, it might well be a different story, but you can only work with what you're got.
This will no doubt incur the wrath of the locals, but there's not actually a lot to do in Seattle, unless you like getting elevators up big towers, going on Duck tours or getting wasted. I've asked enough of them what's good to do, and they don't exactly inundate you with ideas. So I utilise my internal resources, and come up with a few of my own...
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Vancouver: an eye for an eye
My eye finally clearing up, the doc gave me the green light to skip town and so my extended Canadian sojourn draws to a close. Every cloud has a silver lining and all that; were it not for the eye I’d never have spent so long in Vancouver and grown to love it as much as I do.
It is a beautiful city. There’s water, that helps. There are stunning mountains and forests within minutes of town, and slick public transport makes them easy to reach. There are parks and beaches a short walk away. And like all cities where people spend a lot of time outside, its inhabitants are warm, friendly and active. You get the feeling that there is a balance to living here - that work doesn’t dominate like it does in, say, London. It's not just full of fat people getting drunk the minute they finish work.
A few days ago I hinted at its culinary charms, reflecting on my inadvertent uncovering of some great food. It was no accident. You could stagger round this city drunk, blindfolded and with a clothes peg on your nose and still come across wonderful, fresh ingredients and seriously accomplished cooking.
Places like Salt, a Gastown restaurant that serves locally cured meats and an international range of cheeses. Fennel pollen salami and honey head cheese with piccalilli and fig and walnut bread. Or Twisted Fork Bistro with its Thai style halibut fish cakes and mashed over ripe avocado, an incredible combination. Bin 941, a tapas joint serving prawns wrapped in shredded sweet potato then fried in deliciously crisp and light batter. And home baked focaccia, soft and perfectly salty. Or crab cakes with a burnt orange chipotle sauce and cucumber salsa that made me want to walk up and hug the chef. I could go on. I even made it back to Go Fish to try their halibut and chips which, needless to say, was exceptional.
I get the impression I could stay in this city for a very long time. Live here even. But there are a couple of things that temper my enthusiasm. Every seven eleven has a couple of homeless guys competing to open its doors for you, and I’ve lost count of the number of people I have seen walking along the road talking loudly to themselves with that wild look in their eyes that can only come from long term derangement. (In fact, walking along counting them to myself, I began to worry that someone else doing the same would probably count me too).
But the real problem, the real deal breaker - Vancouver is unbelievably expensive. It’s a killer. Take $400 out of the ATM and within hours you’re turning your pockets inside out wondering where the hell it went. Six bucks for a beer? Bargain. Pint of Guinness? Eight. Five minute cab ride? That’ll be twelve bucks please. 200 yard ferry across False Creek? Three fifty. Coffee? Three.
This place will rinse you out in minutes. But in spite of that, I still find myself sat on the Amtrak to Seattle wondering when, and why, I’ll be back. And for a city I had no intention of visiting when I left London five months ago, it's a nice feeling to have.
It is a beautiful city. There’s water, that helps. There are stunning mountains and forests within minutes of town, and slick public transport makes them easy to reach. There are parks and beaches a short walk away. And like all cities where people spend a lot of time outside, its inhabitants are warm, friendly and active. You get the feeling that there is a balance to living here - that work doesn’t dominate like it does in, say, London. It's not just full of fat people getting drunk the minute they finish work.
False Creek marina with downtown in the background
English Bay, some beaches and Stanley Park from Burrard Bridge
Post work by the seawall in Yaletown
Fruit and veg in Granville Market
Places like Salt, a Gastown restaurant that serves locally cured meats and an international range of cheeses. Fennel pollen salami and honey head cheese with piccalilli and fig and walnut bread. Or Twisted Fork Bistro with its Thai style halibut fish cakes and mashed over ripe avocado, an incredible combination. Bin 941, a tapas joint serving prawns wrapped in shredded sweet potato then fried in deliciously crisp and light batter. And home baked focaccia, soft and perfectly salty. Or crab cakes with a burnt orange chipotle sauce and cucumber salsa that made me want to walk up and hug the chef. I could go on. I even made it back to Go Fish to try their halibut and chips which, needless to say, was exceptional.
Halibut and chips at Go Fish - as good as it looks
I get the impression I could stay in this city for a very long time. Live here even. But there are a couple of things that temper my enthusiasm. Every seven eleven has a couple of homeless guys competing to open its doors for you, and I’ve lost count of the number of people I have seen walking along the road talking loudly to themselves with that wild look in their eyes that can only come from long term derangement. (In fact, walking along counting them to myself, I began to worry that someone else doing the same would probably count me too).
But the real problem, the real deal breaker - Vancouver is unbelievably expensive. It’s a killer. Take $400 out of the ATM and within hours you’re turning your pockets inside out wondering where the hell it went. Six bucks for a beer? Bargain. Pint of Guinness? Eight. Five minute cab ride? That’ll be twelve bucks please. 200 yard ferry across False Creek? Three fifty. Coffee? Three.
This place will rinse you out in minutes. But in spite of that, I still find myself sat on the Amtrak to Seattle wondering when, and why, I’ll be back. And for a city I had no intention of visiting when I left London five months ago, it's a nice feeling to have.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Naked ambition
This trip isn't just about seeing new places, eating food, taking photos and learning how to cook. It's about discovering little things about myself. It's about realising what makes me who I am; the little foibles and idiosyncrasies that I possess.
Not without good reason, I could be criticised for taking myself too seriously; for being too concerned about what people think of me. There are things I am not comfortable feeling or discussing, and when my own little fiefdom becomes threatened, my guard goes up. We are probably all guilty of this to some extent, but I can't help feeling that it holds me back.
A lot of this comes down to freedom. Right now, freedom is something I would appear to be enjoying. I am travelling, on a very generous budget, alone, so my own whims may dictate my course. If things become awkward, or situations threaten my freedom, I can always toss a few dollars in the right direction to steady the ship. I suddenly decide I want to do something, like take a sailing course or learn to cook Mexican food in la casita de tu abuela; no hay problema. It shall be done. But this is not freedom.
Freedom comes from within. It is a state of mind, not a state of being. Freedom is what you get when you remove all the constraints that you place upon yourself. All the restrictions, concerns and worries that you allow to weigh you down and inhibit your own movement. The pillars that we all erect to preserve and protect our own fragility - if we can cast them off, revel in their tumbling, then we are free.
Down near the UBC campus, there are a few stretches of beach, the most famous of which is Wreck Beach. It's proper old skool, Dazed and Confused stuff. I spent a few hours down there today. Lying in the sun, you hear the ladies with their cool boxes walking past. Margaritas, mojitos, ice cold beers. Mushrooms, purple haze. Bombay and tonic. To get down here you must first traverse the best part of five hundred steps down through the forest. At the top of the steps is a sign. It says Clothing Optional.
I've always been one to keep my clothes on. I feel unbelievably self conscious if de-robed outside of the obvious situations. So here presents a golden opportunity. An optional nudist beach, where my anonymity is assured. Where I can remove my clothes, lie in the sun and bask in the naked glory of my soul. If that's not a step towards true freedom, towards stripping away the things that hold me back and running through the streets with wild abandon, an ice cold beer in hand, then I don't know what is.
You should try it some time, it's good for the soul.
Not without good reason, I could be criticised for taking myself too seriously; for being too concerned about what people think of me. There are things I am not comfortable feeling or discussing, and when my own little fiefdom becomes threatened, my guard goes up. We are probably all guilty of this to some extent, but I can't help feeling that it holds me back.
A lot of this comes down to freedom. Right now, freedom is something I would appear to be enjoying. I am travelling, on a very generous budget, alone, so my own whims may dictate my course. If things become awkward, or situations threaten my freedom, I can always toss a few dollars in the right direction to steady the ship. I suddenly decide I want to do something, like take a sailing course or learn to cook Mexican food in la casita de tu abuela; no hay problema. It shall be done. But this is not freedom.
Freedom comes from within. It is a state of mind, not a state of being. Freedom is what you get when you remove all the constraints that you place upon yourself. All the restrictions, concerns and worries that you allow to weigh you down and inhibit your own movement. The pillars that we all erect to preserve and protect our own fragility - if we can cast them off, revel in their tumbling, then we are free.
Down near the UBC campus, there are a few stretches of beach, the most famous of which is Wreck Beach. It's proper old skool, Dazed and Confused stuff. I spent a few hours down there today. Lying in the sun, you hear the ladies with their cool boxes walking past. Margaritas, mojitos, ice cold beers. Mushrooms, purple haze. Bombay and tonic. To get down here you must first traverse the best part of five hundred steps down through the forest. At the top of the steps is a sign. It says Clothing Optional.
I've always been one to keep my clothes on. I feel unbelievably self conscious if de-robed outside of the obvious situations. So here presents a golden opportunity. An optional nudist beach, where my anonymity is assured. Where I can remove my clothes, lie in the sun and bask in the naked glory of my soul. If that's not a step towards true freedom, towards stripping away the things that hold me back and running through the streets with wild abandon, an ice cold beer in hand, then I don't know what is.
You should try it some time, it's good for the soul.
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