January 10, 2005

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  DAY FOUR:::SEATTLE & VANCOUVER

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  We’re up early again and we need to find some food. There’s a bit of a drizzle during the five block walk to the Public Market. She has to squeeze closer to my arm because it’s cold. I can see myself doing this day after day after day and not worrying about going crazy.

  For a few minutes I am not the guy who writes dirty shit in a blog. Until we see the Public Market sign, that is. I make some kind of Pubic Market remark.

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  The Athenian is where they shot a scene for Sleepless in Seattle. I didn’t see Tom Hanks, but there were a lot of grizzled old men. Our server was a little pink eyed and the couple behind us chatted a little too loudly about business oppurtunity and cost.

  I really wanted to turn around and yell at them with:

  A) Shut the fuck up!
  B) Shut the fuck up and bone already!
  C) Your business idea is just like you two because it stinks!
  D) All of the above!

  So I yell, “D, all of the above!” and they look at me strangely. Kinky suddenly needs to use the restroom and I realize what an idiot I am. Before she makes it back to the table, I salp the man and woman with a bottle of ketchup and feel a little bit better about myself.

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  After breakfast we bid farewell to the Westin by farting in all of the pillows. We pick up our buddies and head off for Vancouver. I can’t remember if everyone fell asleep or if they kept talking because I felt like going to sleep the whole time. You want a prescription for trouble sleeping? Listen to three girls talk. It’s utter pointlessness multiplied thrice.

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  Pulled up to the border and the first thing Canadian I notice besides the ‘Think Metric’ sign is the stop arret sign. We had no french speakers in the car so I had to use my best judgment. I told everyone to fart as much as they could so that when the border guard questioned us, no one would arret by accident and send us back home.

  It wasn’t until my seventh or eighth fart that Kinky told me arret meant stop and it took her nearly ten minutes to explain to me that they put the equivalent of stop in french underneath.

  I was going to ask the border guard if arret meant fart. Kinky didn’t let me ask the guy because of something about him having a gun. Then I wanted him to pose for a picture with me, but he wouldn’t let me. The only proof of his existence that I have is the above blurry one. I just want him to know that I will never forget the exchange we once had, no matter how short it was.

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  The signs on route 99 say 100, so I go 100 mph. Kinky tells me to slow down and the other two girls keep their eyes closed. My excuse was that the Canadians didn’t put the equivalent of 100 kmh, so I had every right to assume it meant mph.

  The screams start to get to me so I slow down to 60 mph, which when thinking metricly is around 100 kmh. Although I slow down the screams don’t stop. I ask why and am responded with, “Only the British drive on the left side of the road.”

  Oh. No wonder that Mountie on horseback tried to flag me down when we passed the maple syrup stand.

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  Canadians do not know how to plan freeways. There are stop lights on this fucker and the freeway disappears on the south side of Vancouver and reappears on the north side. What the fuck? This doesn’t make sense.

  CalTrans did a similar thing with highway 1 when it hits San Francisco. But I want to point out that highway 1 is a freaking highway. Route 99 is supposed to be a freeway, though it’s more like a byway.

  
  Vancouver doesn’t have route 99 because they blew all of their money on this sign.

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  She got in my shot, prompting me to give her a shot in the eye with my knuckles.

  I grabbed this girl to give to one of you guys like I promised I would. Problem is that she went bad (what the fuck is that smell, eh?) in half an hour. Please don’t blame me, but all of the Canadian gifts I brought back for you guys went bad in Canada. Must be the French influence.

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  Canadians, while nice, give horrible directions. I had to jump out of the car to ask a few people where Alberni street was. I had gotten the Vancouver map ready last night, but absent mindedly dumped it into the bag buried under three women’s worth of luggage. So smart.

  Anyway, the only answer I get is an index finger pointing west and a verbal command to ‘go that way’. Later on, I imagined the GPS systems in Canadian cars only provided pointing fingers and voices saying ‘that way’. Probably explains Boxing Day/Week, too. There is no way Santa can find anything around here.

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  I get to the hotel and am pleased. No cum stains. Always a plus.

  The view isn’t quite as good. We’re only on the 17th floor this time. Plus we’ve got two other people with us, meaning I can’t walk around naked. This upsets me very much and I throw a temper tantrum.

  After the kicking and screaming on the floor, we decide to take a walk on Robson street. I didn’t remember all those shoe stores Robson had. Kinky sees them and goes bananas. It’s Boxing Week and she finds some elegant shoes to match her New Year’s dress.

  I find some clown shoes to match my New Year’s suit. Boy, I ain’t ever seen her frown like that before.

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  The whole crew goes to a Chinese seafood place for dinner. I tried to get directions from the front desk which turned out to be futile. What is it with these people? Friendly as hell, but all I get is a finger, ‘go that way a little bit’, ‘make a right’, and a smile. Perhaps this is the Canadian form of assholism; giving wrong directions to make you frustrated.

  I consult the map, instead, and we head out. I’d show you pictures of the dinner except they’re only full of sexual positions that I’m not in. Friendly wait staff, but terribly horny.

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  Are there any famous Canadian explorers? A Canadian found Nova Scotia, right? Because I have ten Canadian dollars that says he found it by accident. He was probably trying to find Senegal.

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  • 12:03 am
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