Note to the regular readers: I’ve gone back through the Vancouver Diary and posted some links to pictures! Finally got my scanner up and running tonight, sorry it took so long!

Day 4 — Saturday, July 3rd (Cathi Day)

Today starts with the two-hour gym ritual before I meet up with Bwain for a trip to a store. My blister tells me it’s time to find a comfortable pair of shoes, one that will allow me to stomp about the city without ruining my perfect pedicure.

I notice as we set out that Bwain has a bit of a limp. This worries me. I ask if he’s okay. Shrugging it off and explaining that it’s an occasional malady, he helps me pick out tacky Canadian souvenirs in the hotel’s gift shop before we set forth toward Robson Street. I check every so often (and probably to his chagrin) about his atypical gait. Methinks I have walked this boy too hard around Vancouver.

My shopaholism takes us to Aveda for facial products (where I take a picture with some artful whales) and then to Sears. Sears carries reliable shoes and socks; in the heart of Vancouver their location is seven stories tall. I’m impressed. But the moment we walk through the door I discover that this is not your average Sears, or at least an average Sears as measured by U.S. standards. In Vancouver, make note, it is a fashionable department store much like Macy’s or Nordstrom’s.

“I don’t believe this,” I coo at Bwain at some point in our shopping expedition. “They are carrying designer wear!”

Bwain waits patiently (I insist he do this sitting down) as I peruse the various nifty sandals and such. Finally finding a pair to my liking that didn’t cost too much in American currency, we amble across the street to a lovely little Indian restaurant for some curry. The food is stellar; I excuse myself after our meal and secretly pay for lunch, for I am done fighting with Bwain over who is picking up the tab. It’s my vacation. And I am diva.

Bwain’s limp is getting noticeably worse as he indulges me in a side trip to London Drugs so I can fetch a new bottle of Febreze. This stuff is the greatest invention since cling wrap. I do not travel anywhere without it! Along the way I find a trendy little boutique called “Below The Belt,” where I try on the best-looking asymmetrical top in the joint and discover, to my horror, that this particular style makes my left boob look like a B-cup while my right boob looks like a D-cup.

“Am I wearing this correctly?” I ask the pubescent sales clerk.
“Yep, that’s how it’s supposed to look,” she nods.
“Y’all like looking a little lopsided in the chest in these here parts?”
She stares at me blankly.

I’ll talk more about Vancouver’s fashion sense later…

I find a blouse that I like equally well, but its $350 (Canadian) price tag is not to my liking. Oh well. I can always shop back home. Where we know how to dress.

This being a Saturday at the start of high tourist season, Robson Street is crowded. As we return to the hotel I find myself irritated by the throngs to the point where Xanax just is not the answer. I’ve nearly been pushed into on-coming traffic and almost hit by a bus, so I ask Bwain if it’s okay for us to take a side street. Alas, while the side street is the more pleasant stroll, Bwain missteps on a curb and severely sores up his ankle.

Sigh.

Five blocks later we are in the hotel. We make a quick pit-stop at my room to retrieve a Ziplock bag and move on to Bwain’s where I grab some ice and plop his poor body onto the sofa. Doctor Babs props Bwain’s swollen foot on a pillow and slaps the bag of ice over it. Though Bwain makes light of the affliction, I am not happy. I feel like I have done the poor guy in.

Alright so Bwain is now in pain, laid out on his sofa nursing his swollen ankle. I am nursing a low-grade fever with its accompanying chills (not to mention my aforementioned unpopped ear, which is now causing me discomfort). And Cathi Bell, my dear friend for many years, who now lives in Revelstoke, is running around Vancouver gathering hockey supplies and such for her son, Morgan, aspiring superjock. Plans call for us to meet up for dinner. After much back and forth we settle on eating at the hotel, since she isn’t up for my suggestions and I am in the mood for steak.

Much to my surprise, just as I’m settled into some time on the computer, there is a knock on my door. Since I was online no one could ring up so the front desk gave Cathi a key to the elevator and sent her to my floor.

Bear in mind that Cathi and I have not seen each other since shortly after Cydney’s birth. It’s been roughly seven years. As I open the door and find her there, I am reminded that good friends are unphased by the passage of time. We slip easily into a conversation that started decades ago and has continued, in spite of my horrible attempts at keeping in touch, right up to this moment. She is a joy to see.

Moxie’s is the hotel’s restaurant (the Shark Club is entirely too noisy). Apparently Moxie’s is a chain of restaurants similar to Hawaii’s Zippy’s. Not exactly fine dining but not exactly fast food. Bwain and I have been there each night having either a dessert or a nightcap and I’ve loved everything they’ve served, so a steak dinner isn’t entirely out of the question. We settle on sirloins with seafood and hollandaise and a couple of appetizers. I have a margaretto (Bwain, I adore you for turning me on to this drink!) and Cathi has a Cosmopolitan. Or something. We’re not exactly sure what it is.

The dinner is very, very good. It’s not exceptional but it doesn’t suck, either. We talk and talk, catching up on the people we know and the things they are doing; we discuss Tony Canlis and his current project — writing children’s stories. We talk about my company, her life, Morgan’s hockey, my life…catching up on every little detail. The conversation is rapid-fire and lasts for two solid hours. With dinner done we return to my room, sip some rum and chat some more.

Alas, the time goes by too quickly. It is late, my fever is rising, and Cathi has a long drive back to North Vancouver. With a hug and a promise to get together tomorrow, we say our goodnights. I insist Cathi call me when she gets to her sister’s house. I hop online but find myself dizzy so I do very little work before heading to a long, hot bath. There’s a barbeque being planned for tomorrow, July 4th. I want to knock whatever this fever is suggesting so I can gorge on some serious All-American food.

Now you may not find this so much a “Cathi Day” as it is anything else, but Cathi is so very close to my heart that any day with her in it, rare as this is, brightens my soul. There’s something about Cathi’s energy that is energizing and exhausting all at once. Cathi is educated, cultured, classy. Babs, as you know, is frivolous, indulgent, ebulliant. We give each other balance in our viewpoints, our problem-solving, our philosophies. In a way I give her flight while she keeps me grounded. I wish I could be there for her more than I am — emotionally, psychologically, financially. She is like a sister to me and I’ll bet she doesn’t even know it. I’m going to have to tell her.

Oh, drats, she may read this here first!

Day 3 — Friday, July 2nd (The Day Of Bwain)

For those of you who know Brian Heins, you know my pet name for him has been “Bwain” ever since that hilarious typo on the back-channel in Dragonrealms. For those of you who don’t know Brian, you now know the story behind the name “Bwain.” He also came to be known as the “aetherbunny,” but that’s for some other story — probably in some other blog.

* * * * *

The plan for today is to go with Bwain to his new apartment and QC the place from top to bottom. QC means, in Simuspeak, to “Quality Control” it. In layman’s terms, Bwain needs to do his inspection and Babs has offered to keep him company.

But first Babs must hit the gym. Bwain won’t wake up until around 10am, so I hoist myself out of bed at 7:30am, wrestle my brain away from its dreams and head downstairs to the quaint little workout room with its quaint equipment and equally quaint staff.

It’s freezing in here, something I find amazing. Every gym I’ve ever been in, no matter where in the world, has always been…well…room temperature. And I don’t mean gyms where the girls are in full makeup and the guys are wearing very tight trunks — I mean sweaty, smelly, serious gymnasiums where the only person one gawks at is one’s self. To check one’s form.

“Is this room always this cold?” I ask, realizing as the words leave my mouth that “cold” will be a relative term to the man at the desk.

“You’ll come to appreciate the temperature once you get into a workout,” he smiles.

I glance around the room at the Nautilus equipment. Yeah. Uh-huh.

“I’ve never been in a gym this cold anywhere I’ve traveled,” I smile in return. I’m twice this guy’s age and not =that= out of shape. What =is= he implying?

“Oh, but we are not one of those poser gyms, Ms. Saito. We’re here to offer you a serious workout.”

I again glance around the room at the Nautilus equipment. Yeah. Uh-huh.

As I head to the treadmill for my one-hour endurance run, I have only one thought: “Faggot.”

Twenty minutes into my run (which is more of a fast walk) I notice another female in the gym working her routine. A blonde female, perhaps 25 years of age (or so). She makes a big production out of settling her back just so on a giant rubber ball. I don’t recall the name of this exercise but it involves lying across the ball and alternately pushing and pulling with your legs. I watch, wiping the sweat from my eyes, as she does a really difficult three reps, stops, then does three reps again. She leaves the ball and heads for a cross-trainer, where she does six lateral pulls, rests, then does six more.

Serious gym? Yeah. Uh-huh. No wonder my stomach is tighter than hers. And that’s not saying much.

It’s suddenly 10:30am and I’m still in my workout. Bwain calls to let me know he’s up, I’m late, and of course we can do lunch before we brave the bazaar that is Broadway, Vancouver. Sufficeth to say I ditch the rest of my workout (how much more can my poor muscles stand after two hours?) and head for my room.

* * * * *

Bwain is a most excellent eatery finder. He has found a delectable Thai restaurant with snooty atmosphere and fabulous satay. We order entirely too much food (ostrich tastes like flank steak, don’t waste your money), consume huge quantities of it, then skip down a few blocks to catch a bus. I’m so excited! I’m riding a bus in Vancouver! No, seriously — I like riding buses, you see the most interesting people in them!

I will omit the part that has him waiting patiently on a chair while I peruse every rack of very swank Italian clothing in a seriously chic boutique.

Broadway is a vast avenue of shops and restaurants that stretches for blocks before terminating abruptly in a quaint residential area. Lining the busy street are patches of Vancouver’s ethnicity — a Russian block, several Greek blocks, and in the middle of all this, a stretch of Chinese, a dapple of Korean, a smatter of Japanese.

There are antique stores squeezed between upscale salons and drug stores. One finds retired Greek immigrants sipping very dark coffee from very small cups at tiny cafe tables, discussing whatever the heck it is retired Greek immigrants find discussion-worthy. There is a Euro-Russo feel on the sidewalks, broken occasionally by a small group of Asians or the ever-present-yet-harmless crack addicts. It is a fascinating boulevard that represents well, I think, the mix of people who have come to call Vancouver home.

Bwain’s apartment is about a block from Broadway. We enter a sterile hallway and make our way to an elevator that takes us a level above the business-strewn street. When the elevator door opens we are greeted by an abbreviated but gentrified courtyard leading to a handful of dwellings.

These are smallish, split-level two-bedrooms, not without their charm. A little fireplace in the angled far wall, a tiny balcony with a view of the residential area (it so reminds me of Japan that I take a photo of it), a convenient cross-ventilation between the two bedrooms, and a reasonably spacious bathroom. We take notes in all the rooms, compare them, measure (as best we can) the fit of his furniture, and discuss the lack of drawers in his kitchen and the overall need for more cleaning and fresh coats of paint. I test the stairway railing; it fails the Babs test. Alas, I keep testing it as Bwain tries to use it as a desktop, resulting in his giving me one of those, “Babs, I’m trying to write here!” glances. Uh…three times, I think? Hehehehe.

I ask if he’s tried the water in the tub to check the pressure — there is a reason I am a QC guru, after all. He opens the tap and the most preternatural screech splits the air. We stare at each other. The water pressure’s fine but something about that bathtub is just not right…

Satisfied that we have done an inspection thorough enough to make Tina Hill proud, we leave the place. It’s a beautiful day, sunny but not too warm, so we decide to walk. Babs needs a detour to a drug store for shampoo. Babs also realizes she has developed a blister on her foot. We opt to catch the bus (another bus ride, yay!). I should mention here that we find a very enthusiastic, one-note musician, one of the aforementioned crack addicts, strumming heartily on his guitar. My heart leaps with pity, but I have to admit, he sounds better than some of the folks who have walked into my office attempting to audition for a recording contract.

Now the original plan for the evening calls for Cathi to arrive from Revelstoke at around 8pm. She, Bwain and I will go to dinner and get “met and caught up.” Bwain and I return to my room (he played sherpa again, did I mention that?) and call Cathi, who is running a bit late, lost on her way to her sister’s house. It looks like we won’t be seeing Cathi after all.

So Bwain and I get to do dinner as a duo. He suggests Mexican (or is it Spanish?), so we stride a few blocks from the hotel to this absolutely sensational little Mexican (or is it Spanish?) restaurant that is off the beaten path.

Bwain has never had paella. I insist we order it, for he must try this food of the gods. We order sangrias but are not impressed with them. The food, however, is OHMYGOSH good, and to our surprise there’s some guy on a barstool with a guitar singing Spanish songs while we dine. Ask Bwain about the conversation at the other table sometime. He has to listen to it while I run outside for a quick smoke.

Armed with enough leftovers to keep him happy for two more meals, Bwain escorts me back to my room, we say goodnight and I get ready for bed. But I’ve eaten too much so I find myself restless. After a bit of chatting on the computer I slip into bed to watch some television.

It is an alarming revelation to find programming on two channels devoted to scantily clad women promoting a “1-900″ number for hours on end. I watch the provincial news, CNN, some old reruns of American prime time programming, flipping back and forth between stations to see these women pressing their flesh for the next three hours. One has to wonder about a place in which the “1-900″ number is block programming. Surely there are people in Vancouver who have sex? The city is full of young people, they must have come from somewhere. I quickly calculate air time rates versus number of probable calls at an average of five minutes per call. I estimate $250,000 in revenue. My mind boggles. There must be a lot of verrrrrrrry lonely men in Vancouver. Having seen the women, I can understand this. But more on that later, I’m finally tired enough to sleep.

Tomorrow is Cathi Day.

Day 1 — Wednesday, June 30th

I arrive at Honolulu airport and check in early to secure my upgrade to First Class (just one of the perks I will miss when I leave my current job). I am informed that my flight is now at 3:30pm instead of 1:10pm, so I call Dustin to tell him I’ll be in late, and spend the rest of the morning/afternoon shuttling between the V.I.P. lounge and the smoking area just outside. I am a nervous wreck as I pop Xanax after Xanax, wondering which would be worse — overdosing on Xanax or freaking out when the captain calls, “Attendants, please cross-check and verify” over the airplane speakers.

The flight is uneventful until we get near Vancouver. Turbulence takes over. I am sitting next to a lovely old gentleman who wants to talk and talk and talk while all Babs wants to do is heave into an air-sick bag. These are not standard issue in first class. Clearly we are not expected to vomit while sitting in leather seats.

The plane touches down at about 12:20am. I call Dustin to let him know I’m on the ground. He says he’s coming inside. I don’t know what that means. “Outside” can mean any number of things to me — outside the customs area, outside the baggage area, outside the building — but “inside” generally means “in the baggage area.” This is not a public area at Vancouver Airport. Baggage is still part of the customs area, I learn.

I manage to breeze past the snooty customs agent (”Take off the shades, lady!”), grab my luggage (which thankfully hits the carousel right away), and walk right past Dustin, whose picture I have in my wallet so I can remember what he looks like but of course he doesn’t look like that in person because he’s recently cut his hair. Thankfully I have told him to look for the fat chick with the sagging butt who is stumbling around on high heels, so he spots me immediately. We fit my luggage into his spiffy car and off we drive — to a convenience store for a snack and some sodas, and then to the Sandman Downtown Vancouver, which we find a couple-three drive-bys later.

Dustin was kind enough to help me get my bags to my room. Things looked very grim, however, when we got off the elevator on the third floor. There is drywall up, but nothing is painted. I realize this is a floor in transition. I panic — I am not going to listen to people plastering the drywall during my ONE vacation in five years. Little did I know I had nothing to fear from the hallway, for awaiting us as the end of the construction zone was…THE CLOSET ROOM FROM HELL.

Now I may be a diva, and I may be spoiled by having reasonably exotic accommodations wherever I vacation, but OH MY GOD, even a non-diva would have shrieked!

There was a double bed with two small side tables, a view of the air vent from the floor below, a closet with NO DOORS on it, and a bathroom that, Dustin cautioned, I shouldn’t look at. So naturally I had to look. It wasn’t so bad — there was a toilet, a sink, and a tub. But one must be suspect when one finds a shower curtain rod bent in the shape of a chevron. I couldn’t think, aside from a midget committing suicide or some couple having wild, “tie me to the curtain rod, baby!” sex, how that thing could have warped the way it did.

There was even an ugly painting above the squishy, too-slept-in bed. I was ready to dissolve into tears thinking I had paid $120 per night to sleep in what was a disaster in even the worst Motel 6. Thankfully I had bought a bottle of rum at Duty Free, so we cracked it open, drank and chatted until he left, and I calmed down enough to sleep. But at 8am I was up like a rocket because nobody — NOBODY — was going to get the room they SHOULD have given me.

Day 2 — Thursday, July 1st (Canada Day)

Brrrrrrrrrrring!
“Thank you for calling the Sandman Downtown Vancouver, this is Amy, how may I help you?”
“Hello, Amy. How are you this morning?”
“Doing just fine, thank you. Happy Canada Day.”
“Amy, I would like to know if this room you have me in is the room you intended to put me in when I made my reservation for this hotel.”
“Let’s see, you are in room 304? Well, that is our standard room, ma’am.”
“This is not a room, this is a closet. I have no room to maneuver, there are no doors on my closet, my curtain rod is bent in the bathroom and I have ugly art on my wall.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, and as you can imagine, arriving at 2am to =this= didn’t put me in the best of humors.”
“Hrm, you booked this through Travelocity, it says here.”
“It doesn’t matter if I booked it through your boss’s grandmother, frankly, I can’t stay in this closet for six days.”
“Hm, let me call you back…”
“I mean, I’m staring at an air vent that is four feet from my bed…”
“Let me try to rearrange things…”
“And I had requested a room where I could open a window, Amy, I get claustrophobic if I can’t open a window. I’m from Hawaii.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know about you, Amy, but I really do prefer the art on my walls to be at least reasonable copies of master works…”
“Ms. Saito, give me five minutes and I’ll see what I can rearrange for you. How soon can you be ready to move?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Yes. I need to recover from waking up to this.”
“Very well, we’ll send a porter up to move you to your new room.”
Click.

Twenty minutes later a very sweet porter arrives to gather up my things and ushers me to another wing of the hotel, the “south corporate tower.” The room they have available (this is Canada Day weekend, the hotel is sold out), has a loveseat, a coffee table, a desk, and a king bed. The bathroom is bigger, it does not have a bent curtain rod. I can handle this for six days. My view is of the smoke stacks of the sports complex across the street but hey — it’s Canada. What was I expecting, a view of Kaanapali Beach?

Brian is working today, so I spend my afternoon sussing out my shopping plan and seeking out a 7-Eleven. My ear is in pain from the steep descent, my sinuses are rebelling against the air conditioning from the night before. Robson Street is two blocks away. The 7-Eleven is closer. I decide to forego a shopping trip, find me some Ricola, and nap until Brian gets off work. This is Canada Day, after all. The shops I think are interesting are closed, the hotel’s tiny gym is closed, and I am too tired to think about food or recreation. Maybe with sleep my ear will stop hurting and my sinuses will unblock because oh — I forgot to mention — THIS room has a window that opens!

That evening, Brian and I brave a two-mile walk to the Liliget Restaurant on the opposite side of the city. I have never had Eskimo-inspired food but I have to say this is extraordinary stuff. Fried herring roe with seaweed, seaweed ooligan on rice, a seafood soup with subtle and honest flavor. Brian opts for elk. It is a stunning meal — I highly recommend it to anyone who visits Vancouver. It’s not your average fare (the flavors are very diluted; you won’t find a lot of spice in anything), but it’s more a Pacific Northwest restaurant than anything else you’ll find in the downtown area.

The two-mile return trek takes us through the West End, an area I fall in love with immediately. I can live here, it is SO very diva. We find little grocery stores run by ethnic grocers, and I pick up some Israeli halawa and sour cherry syrup along with Polish mayonnaise and a handful of fresh cherries.

Brian, ever the gentleman, acts as personal sherpa and carries my sack of supplies back to the hotel. I want to hit the gym when it opens the next morning, so Brian says goodnight and I head for the shower. By the time I am in bed I am blissfully thankful that my phone has not rung with any urgent calls from the office. And I am looking forward to seeing Cathi the next night!

More to come…