Oh, Canada

I’ve been to Montreal before and, as of a few weeks ago, Victoria, as well. But never Vancouver, or, I’m sorry, “North Hollywood,” as everyone kept feeling the need to remind us. Seriously, every restaurant we went to had been graced by ScarJo or Bennifer in recent weeks; hotels had dubbed certain quarters “the Halle Berry Suite” or “the Harrison Ford Room.”


Actually, I was nearly afraid Canada was going to reject us in the first place. I’d had this trip aboard the Rocky Mountaineer planned for months, and the deal was I’d fly into Seattle since I was to attend Francie’s wedding there this week in the first place, and Evan and I would drive up to Canada for a week prior to the big event. Ev, Francie and I were joined at the hip when we all studied abroad in Edinburgh five years ago (pic below from 2003), and aside from a quick sighting over the 4th of July weekend, I hadn’t seen either of them since 2004. So Ev and I decided to take this one last hurrah before she moves back to Minnesota next week to start med school and basically sacrifices all traces of a social life for the subsequent eight years.


After a very early, 6am Virgin America flight to Seattle (Virgin=OBSESSION), Evan picked me up at the airport and we drove her Minnesota-tagged Beamer north to the border, where we were surprisingly met with a three-car line in each lane. If you’ve driven from the US to Canada, or vice versa, in the time since passports have become standard in North America border-crossing, you know it’s usually upward of a two-hour wait. But despite our surprising revelation that apparently no one enters BC on Tuesday mornings from Washington, as always, we managed to pick the wrong line, the slow-moving lane, the one that was monitored by Canadian Border Nazi.


Where were we from? Seattle and San Francisco. How long were we going to be in the country? One week. Business or pleasure? Business for me, pleasure for Ev (for being in my company of course, HA). Why did our car have Minnesota tags? Because Evan originally hails from there. Why didn’t she change plates when she moved to Seattle? Umm, isn’t that for the state of Washington to be concerned with?…because she was moving back to Minnesota next week. Were we leaving anything in the country? What, like our bombs? No. Why was our luggage in the backseat and not the trunk? Again, because Evan is moving cross country next week and already commenced the packing process.

And then we were asked to open the trunk so she could search us. Seriously, do a good ole girl from the South and the Midwest really warrant a search? We were both makeup-less and, by default, already look about 12 as it is (I’m sure we’ll be happy for this when we turn, say, 40, but right now my youthful appearance seems to harm more than it does help)—are we really that suspicious of characters?

Regardless, we are law-abiding citizens, and Ev’s car is an older model, so she had to physically get out to open the trunk.

Stop! What are you doing? Canadian Border Nazi demanded to know.

Um, opening my trunk, Evan responded. Like you demanded.

Why do you have to get out to do that?

Because my car isn’t fancy enough to do that within. CBN glared at us both through her thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

Evan opened the trunk, and CBN forced her to get back in the car as she searched. The funny thing is that Evan ended her job at the Fred Hutchison Cancer Research Center the afternoon before, and had we been searched then, CBN would have found bags of needles and tourniquets and vials cramming the vehicle (Evan conducts research studies on women with cancer; I promise she doesn’t deal on the side). CBN was let down to find nothing suspicious on her clearly suspicious-seeming new underlings, so she fired off a few more questions in our direction—questions which we passed with flying colors—and dismayed, let us through. But seriously, people. We’re passport-holding American citizens, and apparently Vancouver (this told to me by Vancouverites, mind you) allows any and every one to take up residency there—why all the hassle?


This could have been a bad omen for our trip, but aside from half of the city being powerless due to a major blackout, Vancouver was pristine and charming and quite similar to Seattle actually, only with a North Dakota accent. And we proceeded to eat our way through the city, as every breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sometime even afternoon coffee, was planned for us with various publicists around town. The food was on par with New York and San Francisco, I’m happy to report, but sadly, our busy schedule left little time for seeing much of the sites, other than brief strolls through Yaletown, Gastown, and the waterfront in between meetings. (If you’re planning a jaunt to BC anytime in the near future, hit me up for dining recs—I have lots.) Though we managed to steal away to Grouse Mountain for a couple of hours and partake in this:


Ziplining in Vancouver from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Ever opposed to jeans, I wasn’t properly prepared for such an activity.


If my ballooning dress-cum-diaper weren’t enough, my feet were clad in flip-flops, and I had to borrow the ugliest pair of 70’s-style athletic VELCRO shoes from the zipline center you ever did see. And when I did the starfish pose the instructor made us do mid-flight, I’m sure I gave a nice view to all the lake-goers below. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m adamantly against butt floss (AKA thongs).


Evan, on the other hand--ever the mountaineering gal--actually dressed the part.


In essence, our first couple days in Canada were fun and adventure-filled—and tack Vancouver on to places I could easily live, because Canada, I’m so falling for you.