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…