The fact that a few hours of driving puts us in a different country seems to be an irresistible lure for us; again last weekend we found ourselves in
Canada. This time we eschewed the ferry ride for a road trip complete with a long, long wait at the border crossing. Our destination?
Vancouver. This trip was inspired by my friend, who purchased a night’s stay and a horse-drawn trolley ride package at a charity auction we attended together. Honestly, she wasn’t bidding to win. But when she did win, I began plotting how we would all sneak away to
Vancouver for a beautiful fall weekend.
The hotel location was a little hipper than we really required. Needle exchange? Gay book shop? Cecil’s Exotic Show Lounge? All within a one-minute walk. On the first night we walked across the street to the Two Parrots, which looked like a tiki-themed restaurant. In fact, it was a tiki-themed bar. When we asked for a high chair, the waitress looked at us for a long minute, as though to help us understand how absurd the request was, before answering in the negative. We thought it would be alright, ordered ourselves some pints and some dinner, and watched Naomi fling herself around on the grimy bar chairs with the singular sort of hyper energy that only a very tired small child who has just spent four hours in a carseat can really master. We got the food packed to go, pounded our pints (which is a good way to get your money’s worth, if you know what I mean), and went back to eat amidst the strange juxtaposition of a gigantic king-sized bed in a tiny closet-sized room.
On Friday we took a funny little boat (Aquabus!) to the Granville Island public market. It has all manner of tasty foodstuffs, including a famous sausage place and a doughnut place that, if it’s not famous, is at least famous with me. When naptime encroached, Naomi and I jumped the Aquabus back to the hotel side of “False Creek,” while Jim left the food building and explored some of the art galleries and shops. It was after naptime that things really picked up, with a trip to the Capilano suspension bridge, north of the city. When you see the bridge (if you are not Jim, who has a pathological fear of heights), you really don’t think it is going to be a nerve-wracking experience. It is marketed as an attraction, not a thrill. But when you get out to the middle, holding a squirmy toddler as tightly as you have ever held anything in your life, deciding it’s more important to keep both hands on the toddler than it is to use one of those hands to attempt to steady yourself with the swaying, creaking cables, keeping your eyes fixed on the far side even as sweat drips into them, well, that’s when you realize that your safety-loving, height-fearing husband might actually be on to something.
On the far side of the bridge, though, was a “treetop adventure”, where we walked around on even more elevated, swaying pathways, and admired monstrous trees and trout-filled ponds. Was it worth the trip? I think so. On the way back over the bridge, I put Naomi in the back pack carrier, held on to her leg amid great complaint, used my free hand for the cables, and did some deep breathing exercises. Then went to the gift shop for some fudge.
Saturday was another trip to Granville Island, with our newly arrived (and about to depart) friends (who ended up in a smoky room with no crib, and decided that one night of that was just about enough). And another doughnut. In the afternoon, we enjoyed our absent friends’ free carriage ride around the beautiful Stanley Park. Our driver and tour guide kept shushing us (Naomi), as part of the ride experience was her witty and informative monologue (the driver, not Naomi). If you’re ever out somewhere and a toddler is making a lot of noise, and you think to yourself, geez, can’t those parents keep that kid quiet? The answer is no. They really can’t. Which is why we mostly avoid situations where a short and inappropriately loud chatterbox will be considered déclassé. But once we got on that carriage, we couldn’t just hop off and attempt to find our way back through the miles of park road. So, she chatted. And flirted outrageously with the woman behind us, who was the sort who calls out witty answers to the tour guide’s questions, and who definitely appreciated the attention from the crazy baby in front of her. The driver tolerated us. Did I mention the weather was perfect? It was a good day to be at Stanley Park.
Saturday night, Jim and I ate a weird but admittedly delicious tower of cream puffs from “White Spot” restaurant (which is like a swanked-up Canadian Denny’s) and pay-per-viewed The Davinci Code. In an ironic twist on the possible liberation from gender roles and restrictions enticingly dangled by the sacred feminine, I was unable to stop obsessing about how perfect Audrey Tatou’s hair looked. If you haven’t seen the movie, it is one of those “real time” narratives that takes place over the course of just a few days, and the characters are always on the move and don’t have a chance to change or shower or freshen up, as far as I could tell. Nevertheless, Audrey’s hair is a masterpiece in every scene. Those French women have it made.
Sunday morning, woke up, ate breakfast, drove home. Another good visit to our neighbors to the north. Canada, you do right by us.
