Earlier I mentioned how California traffic jams seemed to start for no discernible reason, as if someone had suddenly flicked a switch. Well, road trips are like that too. You get ready, set, then go go go! And then, somewhere along the line, a switch gets flipped. All of a sudden, it's time to go home. Whether or not you've finished everything on your list, you just decide that you're almost done, and you start heading home.
Maybe it's like the instinct that migrating birds feel - time to go, before winter comes. Except, with us, it's the instinct that it's time to go, before our funds run out and the bill collector comes. Come home; your house is empty and lonely! Come home; your doggies miss you! Come home; your coworkers need you (nah, they're fine). Come home; the Americans are tired of you. Well, maybe...
But, on the other hand, maybe I could just NOT go home, and make a new home out here in the San- or Santa-lands. Let's consider the possibilities:
Maybe there could be a Santa Cruz version of me who owns a surfboard shop, and my accidental sunburn could eventually turn into a tan, and I'd learn to swim and surf and be happy (before I eventually die in a freak surfboard accident or get skin cancer).
Or, alternately, there could be artist me living in San Francisco, with me and my funky artworks all piled together in a tiny little place (located just above the fault, no doubt) because I can't afford the beautiful Victorians. And then, one bright happy morning, the next big earthquake happens...
Okay, so how about San Diego me, married to some rich businessman who's always away, and I just sit on his yacht, drinking margaritas all the time and adjusting my sunglasses. And I'll be snapping my fingers at the maid: "Go get me a Limey."
Hey, I think I like San Diego me! Not too likely, though, is it?
No, it's way more likely that I'd be living in a crappy house under an interchange in some far corner of Santa Rosa or somewhere, spending two hours every day commuting to a job in San Francisco, paying tolls to get across the Golden Gate Bridge and being trapped in traffic all the time. I'd never go anywhere, because there's always too much traffic, and the only thing that would bring me solace would be my gun collection. Hmm...
Yeah, okay - so it feels like it's time to go home. ;-)
Yesterday, after we left Rainier without having seen the whole park, we blew through Seattle, intending to see some of it, but we didn't do that either. Instead, we headed on towards Canada and the border. And, the most fearsome of all our challenges yet, the border guards. You never know what you're going to get with them. Will they pull us over and start going through our receipts? Will they ask about the roof rack? Will they confiscate our magnets, or decide that the apple I've just eaten isn't digested enough to safely to cross the border?
We drive through at Peace Arch Park, where there's a big gathering of people to mark September 11. I'd take out my camera and take a picture, except border guards hate cameras even more than they hate you. I wonder how you get to Peace Arch Park? Is this a no-man's land between the countries? Then how did all those people get there, and how will they get back? Do you have to carry your passport with you every time you wander out to have a picnic?
Our border guard asks what we're doing crossing in Vancouver when we're from Saskatchewan. Um, well, we thought we'd see a small slice of Canada to add to our big helping of American pie; we didn't realize that was suspicious behaviour. How much money did we spend? Oh, we spent a lot. I think what they really mean is "how much are you bringing back?" The answer to that question can be any number you like, as long as it's below $750. (Although, really, I think if I'm down there for a month, it should be 4 x $750 - but border guards do not care what I think.) So, $749.95. What do you do for a living? Well, I'm an instructor at the local clown college, and Stephen digs ditches. Okay, good enough - we're free to go. "Whoo hoo!" we cry, perhaps a bit too loudly, as we hit the gas and drive away to sweet, sweet freedom.
The plan was to stop in Vancouver to visit my high school pal, Kathleen. However, the mistake I made was in warning Kathleen that we were coming. "Sounds good," she'd said, and that gritty sound in her voice was the sound of her lying through her teeth, "can't wait to see you." And then she stopped answering her phone or checking her emails. We drive by her house. Either she is hiding inside with her doors locked and the blinds drawn, or she has left town, or - more likely - she's alerted her cop buddies that we're going to be in town, and she's out helping them deploy radar traps as we speak. Ha ha, Kathleen - we're too quick for you! (Literally.)
We kick around town a bit, waiting for Kathleen to emerge from hiding, but apparently, we've misjudged her resolve. She ignores our pounding on her doors, and our attempts to pry open her windows. Eventually, it become evident that Kathleen ain't coming back - she may even have left the country to avoid us - so we leave a flaming bag of poo on her doorstep and take off, heading out to see how the TransCanada compares to the Interstates.
We've got used to crowded highways in the US, everyone driving bumper to bumper at 120kph. The roads here seem to have needlessly low speed limits, considering that there are not that many people driving on them (at least in comparison to the US).
Our GPS tells us where to go, but we like to double-check to make sure he's telling us the truth. I've got the map book, but I'm having trouble figuring out where we are - the map doesn't quite seem to match up with the exits I'm seeing. Eventually, we figure out that we're on the #5, not the #1. But our map book says the #5 is a toll highway. I didn't pay a toll. I didn't see a toll booth. Maybe that angry hitch-hiker running after us, shaking his fist, was really a toll booth operator? Oh well, too late now. (Oh wait, the Internet tells me it used to be a toll highway, but isn't any more. How disappointing. I thought we were getting a discount.)
We decide to call it a day at Revelstoke, and we stop at McDonald's for supper. I can't help but notice that everything is more expensive. "God Bless America," I sigh, with a sad little tear in my eye. "I miss you already."
Maybe it's like the instinct that migrating birds feel - time to go, before winter comes. Except, with us, it's the instinct that it's time to go, before our funds run out and the bill collector comes. Come home; your house is empty and lonely! Come home; your doggies miss you! Come home; your coworkers need you (nah, they're fine). Come home; the Americans are tired of you. Well, maybe...
But, on the other hand, maybe I could just NOT go home, and make a new home out here in the San- or Santa-lands. Let's consider the possibilities:
Maybe there could be a Santa Cruz version of me who owns a surfboard shop, and my accidental sunburn could eventually turn into a tan, and I'd learn to swim and surf and be happy (before I eventually die in a freak surfboard accident or get skin cancer).
Or, alternately, there could be artist me living in San Francisco, with me and my funky artworks all piled together in a tiny little place (located just above the fault, no doubt) because I can't afford the beautiful Victorians. And then, one bright happy morning, the next big earthquake happens...
Okay, so how about San Diego me, married to some rich businessman who's always away, and I just sit on his yacht, drinking margaritas all the time and adjusting my sunglasses. And I'll be snapping my fingers at the maid: "Go get me a Limey."
Hey, I think I like San Diego me! Not too likely, though, is it?
No, it's way more likely that I'd be living in a crappy house under an interchange in some far corner of Santa Rosa or somewhere, spending two hours every day commuting to a job in San Francisco, paying tolls to get across the Golden Gate Bridge and being trapped in traffic all the time. I'd never go anywhere, because there's always too much traffic, and the only thing that would bring me solace would be my gun collection. Hmm...
Yeah, okay - so it feels like it's time to go home. ;-)
Yesterday, after we left Rainier without having seen the whole park, we blew through Seattle, intending to see some of it, but we didn't do that either. Instead, we headed on towards Canada and the border. And, the most fearsome of all our challenges yet, the border guards. You never know what you're going to get with them. Will they pull us over and start going through our receipts? Will they ask about the roof rack? Will they confiscate our magnets, or decide that the apple I've just eaten isn't digested enough to safely to cross the border?
We drive through at Peace Arch Park, where there's a big gathering of people to mark September 11. I'd take out my camera and take a picture, except border guards hate cameras even more than they hate you. I wonder how you get to Peace Arch Park? Is this a no-man's land between the countries? Then how did all those people get there, and how will they get back? Do you have to carry your passport with you every time you wander out to have a picnic?
Our border guard asks what we're doing crossing in Vancouver when we're from Saskatchewan. Um, well, we thought we'd see a small slice of Canada to add to our big helping of American pie; we didn't realize that was suspicious behaviour. How much money did we spend? Oh, we spent a lot. I think what they really mean is "how much are you bringing back?" The answer to that question can be any number you like, as long as it's below $750. (Although, really, I think if I'm down there for a month, it should be 4 x $750 - but border guards do not care what I think.) So, $749.95. What do you do for a living? Well, I'm an instructor at the local clown college, and Stephen digs ditches. Okay, good enough - we're free to go. "Whoo hoo!" we cry, perhaps a bit too loudly, as we hit the gas and drive away to sweet, sweet freedom.
The plan was to stop in Vancouver to visit my high school pal, Kathleen. However, the mistake I made was in warning Kathleen that we were coming. "Sounds good," she'd said, and that gritty sound in her voice was the sound of her lying through her teeth, "can't wait to see you." And then she stopped answering her phone or checking her emails. We drive by her house. Either she is hiding inside with her doors locked and the blinds drawn, or she has left town, or - more likely - she's alerted her cop buddies that we're going to be in town, and she's out helping them deploy radar traps as we speak. Ha ha, Kathleen - we're too quick for you! (Literally.)
We kick around town a bit, waiting for Kathleen to emerge from hiding, but apparently, we've misjudged her resolve. She ignores our pounding on her doors, and our attempts to pry open her windows. Eventually, it become evident that Kathleen ain't coming back - she may even have left the country to avoid us - so we leave a flaming bag of poo on her doorstep and take off, heading out to see how the TransCanada compares to the Interstates.
We've got used to crowded highways in the US, everyone driving bumper to bumper at 120kph. The roads here seem to have needlessly low speed limits, considering that there are not that many people driving on them (at least in comparison to the US).
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| Canada may not have Paul Bunyan, but it does have giant bears. |
We decide to call it a day at Revelstoke, and we stop at McDonald's for supper. I can't help but notice that everything is more expensive. "God Bless America," I sigh, with a sad little tear in my eye. "I miss you already."
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