By Lucy

Pre-Whistler

I was awoken by hunger.

That’s been happening more and more frequently lately. And I’m still losing weight; my pants are loose again.

I slunk down to the kitchen and waited for breakfast to be ready. Still quiet here. Once I was full, I gathered up my laundry and got everything in, then hopped in the shower. Time to wash off the dog smell and dog hair!

Someone posted in the lobby, spa day today. Only catch; the spa is in Coquitlam.

Agh! I just left!

Still, I’d like a soak in a spa.

Went down for a nap before lunch. Am still exhausted. Walked down to Robson Square for the food truck event, but I only found 2 food trucks. I grabbed some Pad Thai and walked back to the hostel.

Funnily enough, it was Fawzi taking us down to the spa again. No one else showed, but he wanted to go to the spa regardless, so we hopped on the train and headed back to Coquitlam.

I got the review for my dogsit already! 5 stars across the board, although I was amused that she said I was “committed” to walking Bailey. As opposed to? I don’t think Iana took Bailey for as many walks as she was supposed to, and I’m sure the owner checked, because there were cameras outside the house.

Fawzi walks fast, even faster than me, although I was a little tired from my mad ramble across town with my bags.

The spa was nice but lonely. It’s almost like an onsen, although it’s Korean, and it’s separated by gender because you can be naked in it. Not that I was; even in private, I dislike being disrobed, so I wore my swimsuit. I don’t imagine I’ll be attending any onsen in Japan; they really don’t like tattoos there.

The building is hilarious. It’s obvious a converted office building, pools shoved in odd spaces, and the ceiling is acoustical tile. There’s a hot tub, a cold plunge, a dry sauna and a steam sauna. There’s also some odd rooms, like a “salt” room. I’m skeptical of the salt doing anything, especially since there isn’t a mechanic to make it airborne, and you lay down on a blanket, so it’s not touching your skin, either. But it is kind of comfy, like falling asleep on a towel on the beach.

You can be there for three hours, but I spent about 2 hours there, cycling around and ignoring the odd looks because I was the only one not naked, and then there were too many people and I was uncomfortable. I waited in the lobby with my book of word searches. Fawzi fell asleep in the men’s salt room and didn’t check in on me.

It’s gonna be cold in Ontario this weekend… Coldest place on Earth. Russia doesn’t get that cold, does it? I never really realized how cold Canada is until I started travelling.

It’s dry in Vancouver. I realized part of the reason I don’t feel great is because it is so dry, which is weird. You think it would be moist out. My skin is dry and so is my hair, and it doesn’t smell like salt, like on the east coast.

After Fawzi finally woke up and came out to join me, we went across the road for ramen.

Me and Fawzi have a lot in common. We’re both Nintendo kids and we love the shit out of Legend of Zelda. He’s played through Metroid Prime 4 already as well. He travels a lot too! He’s Middle-Eastern – Lebanese, to be exact – and a little depressed about the fact he’s never seen his homeland.

“I was glad when I saw you waiting in the lobby, actually.” He says, “We’re all glad you came back. ‘Lucy’s the life of the hostel’.”

“Oh, thanks!” I blush, “Yeah, I might come back and work here, someday.”

“Yeah?”

“I do stuff like this a lot. I got a job at a hostel in Taiwan, actually.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” He smiles, “Well, if you ever want a job, you have my number.”

There was an awkward moment, when we were swapping stories about bad dates, when our eyes locked and…. y’know. We both looked away and blushed.

Back to the hostel. Unwind for a couple of hours. Had the room to myself again.

I slept in on Thursday, got 9 whole hours of sleep. The spa was good for me.

I decided to hop on a bus and go to the Van Deusen Botanical Garden. It’s a lovely wander, although it was getting colder and colder outside as the week wound on. Probably spillover from the polar vortex.

Even without the plants being in full bloom, it was lovely. The sun gently burning the frost and dew off the stems released all sort of lovely botanical smells into the air.

My only complaint about gardens is that there’s never one route through it. You always end up backtracking to see everything.

I watched one lady stick her leg into a pond because she was curious if the ice was thick enough to support her weight (smart).

The boreal forest section, in particular, transported me back home again.

They have a rare wasabi plant. Sorry-not-sorry to burst your bubble, but most “wasabi” is actually flavoured horseradish. The real thing is notoriously hard to grow, rare and expensive even in Japan.

I also discovered something new. There’s a particular species of plant, called the sweet pepperbush, that only grows around lakes on the French Shore on Nova Scotia. My family must have harvested this plant for generations, to flavour their food. I wonder if dad ever did?

Speaking of my father, we spent a good chunk of my visit to the garden texting back and forth. It’s rare for me to catch him in a mood to talk, so even though I should have been focused on the walk, I allowed myself to be distracted. He mentioned my brother has been doing most of the shoveling, so he must still be living at home. He’s turning 29 soon.

At the end of the garden is a maze. It’s been in continuous use since 1981. It’s pretty small for a maze; it took me less than five minutes to solve it, with my huge brain.

On the way back to the hostel, I stopped by the food truck expo again. I grabbed this shaved meat sandwich covered in cheese. Mmmmm!

In the afternoon, I ventured out again. There was a shop nearby offering Japanese pastries on 2Good2Go, and I was in the mood for some donuts. I got 6 donuts, a couple with red bean paste, a couple with sweet cream. They were very filling, almost a meal by themselves.

I sat down to apply to some hostels in Bangkok, but I waited too long. Everyone else has had the same idea, and they’re starting to fill up.

Ah well. I’ll start looking for April, then. Maybe Malaysia.

I start daydreaming again. Oh, Whistler! There’ll be a bunch of hunky boys who enjoy dangerous things at Whistler, won’t there? Boys with money to burn, when you consider how much skiing/ snowboarding costs. Maybe I should hit a bar and get myself some trouble…

I tried going out barhopping. The hostel hosts a bar crawl on Friday and Saturdays. The host is a man named Gabriel, another one from Lombardy, Italian with a French accent. He quickly points out the Kiwi accent I have, and deduces that I am an Italophile. 32$, and we hopped on a bus down to Gastown.

“What’s your favourite thing to cook?” He asks.

“Carbonara.” I say without thinking.

“Proper carbonara? No cream?”

“Yup, no cream.”

“Do you watch hockey?” He asks, as we pass the stadium.

“Nope.”

“I love women’s hockey.” He says, grinning. “They’re so passionate about it! So much buried rage!”

A walk down dark streets. Ah, here’s where all the bums are. A man lights up a crack pipe in front of us.

“Careful through here.” He says, as we walk past West Hastings, “This street is dangerous.”

“I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” I replied.

Went to the bar to wait for the rest of the group. Unfortunately, no one else showed up. We waited the better part of an hour, and I got a free shot of Fireball – yuck – and then I called TOD. The transfer on my bus pass still worked, and Gabriel didn’t want to head out yet, so I walked to the bus through downtown by myself.

When I got back to the hostel, the kid at the desk did not know how to give me a refund. Instead, he handed me a bunch of free bus passes. Which were not worth 30 bucks. Ugh.

I was not fortunate enough to have the room to myself again. Actually, I got the worst kind of hostel guest; the ones who makes the room all about them. They show up around 10 and spend an hour unpacking their 2 huge bags, leaving a mess of cosmetics around the sink. Then they leave, and obviously they went out clubbing and came back at 1AM. Turned the lights on, made a whole bunch of noise. I finally had to snap at them to shut up and turn the light off. They were young German girls, too… why is it always German girls?

Of course, not that I can sleep in. Up at 7 for breakfast, like always.

At 11, I went back to the room to get dressed for the day. The girls were hiding in their bunks, lights off, playing on their phones. Hungover.

Walked down to a currency exchange and got a few thousand baht. You know the currency is devalued when they have thousand dollar bills. Those are gonna be a bitch to break. I texted Jakob for tips.

Grabbed a burger from a place one of the guys recommended, Cheese Slap. It’s a pretty good burger.

The hostel advertised that at 3, there was a “Indigenous workshop” at the Jericho beach hostel. No one could tell me if it was at 3, or if we were leaving from this hostel to go there at 3, so at 2 I hopped on the bus and headed to Jericho beach. It doesn’t really matter if I’m early, but it did turn out to be at 3.

The Jericho Beach hostel also doubles as UBC accommodations. The building itself is imposing, used to be a military barracks.

There’s two event organizers and I got the guy who was clearly of two minds about it, Chris. He was hiding in a hat and hood the whole time, mumbling at his shoes. Without his partner, his general plan was to put on a movie and then talk about it. There was also a German girl named Sarah, an Iranian man, and a Filipino student.

The movie was called “Sugarcane”.

Trigger Warning

Things we don’t talk about…

The movie was very good. It was also depressing as all hell. In case you don’t want to watch it (but I think you should) it’s about the descendants of St Joseph’s Mission, in BC. The movie director’s dad was conceived and born at the residential school, and it quickly becomes obvious that he was the result of his mother being raped by the priest. It gets even darker, though, when they discover the priest got other girls pregnant… and disposed of the babies in the incinerator. He only survived because his mother hid him.

The German girl was sitting next to me, and she dissolved into muffled tears, a peice of paper towel crumpled in her hand, against her cheek.

We were quiet for a long time after the movie ended.

“Sorry, guys.” Chris says, quickly wiping away tears. “I always get weird after movies like this.”

“Of course you do. It’s painful.” I say. Everyone turns to look at me.

“I’m sorry, your name again?” He asks. He’s drowning.

“Lucy. I’m from Ontario.”

“Did they have these in Ontario? I’m from Alberta.” He pauses. “They don’t talk about it, there.”

“In Northern Ontario, it was different. There’s nothing there… no incentive to fix the ‘Indian problem’. But there was a guy I knew, in southern Ontario. He wrote a book about his time at the residential school.” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Oh, what was his name?” Chris says, excitedly pulling out his phone.

“Cliff Standingready.”

“That’s a cool name.”

“It is.”

I only met Cliff once. He died during Covid, but not of Covid. He had a heart attack during surgery. It had happened before, so James and his family went down to visit him before the surgery, just in case. We practically had to wrestle James into the car, he was too anxious, but I just knew… he had to go.

Towards the end of the visit, Cliff asked me to take care of James. That’s part of why it took me so long to break up with him; I felt like I was breaking my vow to a dead man. Eventually even James himself told me that Cliff wouldn’t expect me to torment myself like I was, and I ended things. But I felt like I’d failed for a long time.

“They have it in Iran, too.” The Iranian man says haltingly, in broken English. “Ayatollahs, who can do whatever they want, and you can’t talk about it.” He wipes his eyes, “How, though… how do they not know the girls had a baby?”

“When you’re malnourished… you don’t always get your period. And you don’t put on a lot of weight.” I explain. “So you don’t show. The girl might not even know she was pregnant… until the baby arrived.”

“It’s horrible. What can we do, though?” Sarah says, still sobbing gently.

“We can listen.” I say gently. Turning to Chris, I ask, “Do you smudge?”

“Yeah… oh, yeah. Do you guys want to smudge?” He says from a long ways away, as if he is somewhere else.

“Do you?”

He swallows hard. He props open a door and lights the smudge bowl, and smudges for a long time.

Then Sarah. Then me.

I don’t take that long. I have miles to go before I lay down that particular burden.

We all talk a bit longer. I listen, mostly. I’m the therapist of the group, taking in all the pain they have to express. Pain I can never forget. Stories that will live in my brain until I die.

I say “Miigwech” to Chris before I leave, which he finds amusing.

Chris and Sarah stay at the hostel to talk longer. The Filipino girl gets an Uber to where she’s going. The Iranian man walks me to the bus stop, still processing things. He also can’t stop thinking about Iran. He hasn’t been back since he left 3 years ago… and he can’t return now. All he can do is watch the news, in pain and anger and fear.

As you watch Julian’s journey with his dad, it brought up feelings I don’t usually talk about. ‘Cause you have to imagine, it’s awkward to be basically uncovering the fact your father was the result of rape, and that the feeling is so painful his mother still won’t talk about it.

What do you do with that information? When the man is dead and can’t face justice? When your mother won’t heal?

I’ve seen that before… in my father’s face.

We don’t really talk about what happened to Velma, but we know.

It’s the past, they say, it doesn’t affect you.

Except when it does.

When I get out onto the street, I check my phone. Eli texted me, funny that. I call him, “Your ears were burning, I just got out of a documentary about residential schools.”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear about that shit. I hear about it all the time!”

We talk about my travels in Vancouver a bit. His arm is still broken; needs to have surgery, is off work until he can get better. He tells me he got back in to carving wood. He learned how to whittle on the west coast, but then he went home and became a scaffolder.

“Hey, what was that documentary about?” He asks, unthawing. We talk about it. “My mom didn’t hug me until I was in my late thirties, you know. It’s generational. It keeps going. But we’re getting better. My grandkids barely know about it.”

I rag on Eli. And I think I’m right to be a bit suspicious of him. But I also know I’m one of the few people he has to really talk to, and I can’t turn him away. It’s heartening to hear people on the jobsite say he’s getting better. I think everyone deserves the chance to heal.

He sends me the number for his son, who lives in Vancouver. They just reconnected after years of no contact. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say – “Hey, I know your dad” – but I can always try, I suppose.

Trigger Warning Over

Back at the hostel, I needed to process. I put on a movie.

For whatever reason, I put on Howl’s Moving Castle. Sacre bleu! I have never watched most Studio Ghibli movies. Call me a hipster, but they were too over-hyped for me.

Cute little movie. I always love Japanese tropes and the way they aren’t afraid to do absolutely bonkers shit. Our movies are too safe. If I ever meet James Cameron, I’m going to tell him to his face that Avatar sucks and is the worst kind of white savior narrative.

I had the last one of my donuts and was surprised to discover it was savory! It was filled with potatoes and onions instead of sweet cream. It was actually pretty good, once I got over my surprise.

The girls went out clubbing again, although they were quieter about it this time.

They opened the window in the middle of the night. Gods, why do people keep doing this? It just tells the thermostat to crank up the heat and makes it warmer in the room than leaving the window shut. Not to mention, it’s loud outside, being downtown and all. I was awoken at 5 by a woman having an alcohol-fueled meltdown outside the hostel and couldn’t get back to sleep. I think it’s a German thing, sleeping with the windows open. Luften.

Back on the train to Coquitlam. Janice is taking me to see Bea’s Kloset.

On the train ride, Eli texts me. He got new wallpaper and needs my help putting it up.

I dunno what I thought Bea’s Kloset would be, but I wasn’t expecting what it was. It’s basically a storage locker, all organized with shelves, filled with housewares. Plates, dishes, kettles, sheets and towels. Janice explains some of the ways they get donations to fill the shelves. Social workers refer women to them, so they know they are in real need.

Still, it’s something we could easily run in Thunder Bay. 100 bucks a month for the locker, and we can skim donations from our yard sale and other things. Some of our members like going yard saling or thrift shopping.

“Where are you staying in Van?” Janice asks.

“Over by Davie Village.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I remember when it was… well, being gay is ‘mainstream’ now, but back when that was the place to be. You’d see so many more colourful characters there, it was a blast! My dad worked down there, and he come home and tell me about all the gay people he saw.” She laughed. “Not that he was offended, he just though it was so odd. And you’re going to Whistler after this?”

“Yep.”

“That’s good, you’re leaving just in time. We’re supposed to get hammered with rain.”

Train back to downtown. Grabbed KFC for lunch, spent the rest of the day hanging out at the hostel. They’re making a big deal about Matty Matheson doing a colab with KFC; trying to stay relevant after his restaurant shut down. If you haven’t heard of Matty Matheson, he’s a big deal in the Canadian chef scene, and he plays a character in The Bear. He used to be larger than life; covered in tattoos, doing blow all the time, but he’s sobered up now and clearly struggling with finding a new image. I feel for the guy.

Watched Spirited Away. This is me being a huge nerd again, but there’s a location in Dark Soul’s called Sen’s Fortress that was obviously inspired by the events of this movie (the girl in Spirited Away is nicknamed Sen, meaning “a thousand”). And Turnip Head exists in Dark Souls as well.

Whistler

I got some decent sleep that night. Of course, there’s only so many nights of sleep deprivation you can endure before you shut down and sleep through anything.

My bag feels lighter, as I strut down Burrard. I’m getting stronger. Time for the reserves soon.

Victoria texts me a picture of the tower. Down to the last lift.

Must be nice.

So, Whistler! The name is actually a reference to the marmot indigenous to the area, who “whistle” to each other as a form of communication. Although if you go to Whistler just to ski/ snowboard, you are unlikely to hear them, as they hibernate.

For thousands of years, it was actually called Sk̲wik̲w. It was the meeting place between the Squamish people, who live closer to the coast, and the Lilwat, who lived in the mountains, and ownership of the location was shared between them.

Of course, eventually white people showed up and the story becomes very staid, but it’s the only part you want to hear, right?

In the early 1900’s, the railroad was put through to enable logging deeper in the mountains. A bunch of hippies (no, really) realized that the place was great to hangout all summer, and it was actually a premier summer vacation spot for a while. Fishing, sailing, hiking were all popular activities here, and it remains a popular summer “adventure tourism” spot, which is also why the locals aren’t concerned about the lack of snow.

In the 1950/60’s, some Europeans came over to try and get a skiing resort started, and they picked Whistler. In 1965 the first iteration of the Sea-to-Sky highway was opened.

Technically the area is called “Whistler-Blackcomb”, because it is located on Alta lake, between Whistler mountain and Blackcomb mountain. At one point there were separate resorts for each, in rivalry, but it’s safe to say who won that one.

The bus driver is a nervous Asian man who doesn’t want to let anyone on the bus so much as holding a water bottle.

It takes us about 40 minutes to get out of the city. Then it’s about half an hour to Squamish, the highway weaving along the coast. And up and down; the constant change in elevation from 100 meters to sea level starts messing with my guts.

It is a gorgeous drive, though. If I lived in Vancouver, I’d probably drive up to Squamish just to go on a Sunday drive. Despite the calls for rain, we had sun and blue skies the whole ride.

Lots of active rockfalls and downed trees, as well. Probably from the massive thaw during the pineapple express.

Stepped off the bus. Wow! I’m here!

Despite being colder here than in Van, it feels warmer. Probably from the snow.

My guts are colicky, twisted into knots. I wander through town until I find a Tim Hortons, order some lunch and try to figure out how to get to the hostel. The hostel is outside of town; the only real option is the bus, although Whistler’s bus system is pretty good. Of course, they have all those tourism dollars! The only thing that irked me is that you have to download the app to use the bus, but it was pretty straightforward after that.

Whistler is perfect for vagabonds, actually. All the infrastructure is designed for people carting around snowboards and skis, and most of the staff are snowbums on working holiday visa’s. A snowy Vegas, an alpine village of sin.

Bus to the hostel.

The HI hostel at Whistler was originally part of the accommodations for the 2010 Olympic games, and I can see it. The dorms are organized into blocks. I’m unsure if every floor was the same, but I was in a block with 2 rooms, 4 beds each, a common area with 2 sinks and 2 mirrors, a toilet in its own room, and a shower stall in its own room.

It had pros and cons. On one hand, it was a little more private, and you weren’t running down the hall in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. On the other, it meant if someone really messed up the toilet, you’d all know who did it.

My room was located with convenient street views, so I could tell if I was late for the bus, and I could also see if the other girls were in the room before I got back.

In my room was Yana, who was looking for work here, and Rosie, a Dutch ex-pat. Rosie was super chatty, but the two girls accommodated my early-to-bed tendencies, which I appreciate.

Off we go!

I didn’t want to do too much on the first day (I regretted that later) so I went for a walk. There’s a train wreck nearby that the authorities left as some kind of living museum, so it’s a popular hiking spot.

There’s no snow. With the melt and the rain, the well-travelled trail was more ice than anything, and at a few points I sat down and slid down the trail on my butt, rather than try walking and do a pickle-flip.

The train was pretty cool, though. It’s hard to believe it’s been there since 1956, because it looks like it happened yesterday. The train is in such good shape I was able to climb up the ladder and sit on the roof of one of the cars (I don’t recommend anyone else do that. I’m used to testing ladders from working at the mill).

Walked back along the train tracks. Despite knowing they are no longer in use, I couldn’t stop glancing behind me every few minutes, just in case.

There’s a cafe in the lobby of this hostel, which is good, because it doesn’t offer free breakfast, and there’s not really a restaurant or grocery store in walking distance. I expected it to be overpriced, but the prices were actually pretty good; 5$ for a glass of wine or a beer, food priced accordingly. I ordered a plate of tacos and a hot apple cider with a shot.

Now I’d settled in for the night, the emotions started creeping in. As much as I’d wanted to visit, I started to see all the emotional baggage I was carrying about a place I had never been to before. My marriage falling apart. Missing Kyle.

After the tacos were gone and the apple cider had been drunk, I ordered a glass of wine. This place is dangerous. I shouldn’t have come here.

Victoria started texting me again.

“I do miss Kyle.” I confess, under the influence of liquor. It’s harder not to, when I can see the ghost of him wandering the cobbled streets.

“He said he feels bad about the two of you not talking.”

Glass shattering.

WHAT?!

She walks it back; he said that when they first got back, two weeks ago, and nothing has changed. Of course, she also told him I was fine, because I was trying to fake it ’til I made it.

And I might have succeeded too, but now all the feelings came roaring back.

I drained the glass, packed up, and stood. I should put this out of my mind…

And then there was literally shattering glass, as I knocked the wine glass off the table and it shattered on the floor.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” I exclaimed, as the bartender dutifully came over with a broom and dustpan.

“Don’t worry about it, happens all the time.” She says nonchalantly.

Ok, bedtime for Lucy!

Slept in.

Today I had booked a day in Cougar Mountain. I’d planned to be there for 9, but I hadn’t counted on being this tired, plus the bus trip. I’ll do the 10 AM shuttle, I guess. Hopefully I have enough time to see everything.

I got to town an hour before the shuttle arrived, so I went for a wander. Bought a sticker for my laptop.

I went back and waited for the shuttle.

And waited.

And waited.

The bus stop was empty. Does the shuttle just not run if no one has booked it? And how few people will there be today?

I called the company. She hailed the bus driver without properly muting the phone, so I could hear his grumpy reply that he was washing the bus.

20 minutes later, the small bus rolled up. I walked over.

“Did no one book it for 10?” I asked.

“Sweetheart, no one’s booked it today at all. You’re the only customer.” He told me, not even bothering to check if I had a ticket. I sat at the front of the bus and we took off.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah! Look at this.” He gestured to the small snowbanks. “Usually there’s four feet of snow there. No one’s coming to Whistler this year. The runs are alright, because the groomers keep it up, but most people who come to Whistler ski off piste (meaning off the prepared run) and there isn’t enough fresh powder for that.”

“Oh shit.”

“Ah, we’ll be alright. We’re usually busier in the summer anyway. Adventure tourism.”

“What are house prices like around here?”

“Insane.” He laughs. “But, they have a municipal housing program for the workers. You have to wait on the list, but the house prices are very affordable. The municipality buys the house back from you and resells it. Only going up 5% this year, or something.”

That’s pretty cool. I wish Thunder Bay had that.

He drops me off at ‘basecamp’. As promised, I am the only customer, and no one seems to have expected me. The girl running the cafe sends me off on the ‘Flora and Fauna’ walk while she wrangles some employees to entertain me. The budget VIP experience. I walked around the snowy path that’s usually a snowshoe trail, reading the signs, while black merlins sang overhead. Apparently all the bears around here are turning brown when they used to be black… adapting to the changing climate.

Fun fact; bears are not actually obligate carnivores. They are omnivores, like us, and they eat a lot of berries and other things. In the fall, berries can be up to 80% of their daily diet.

It’s a short hike that just serves to emphasize how much better this place is in the summer. They have treetop trekking here, an obstacle course in the trees.

By the time I finish the walk, she’s found two employees, Amelia and a boy who’s name I forget. They’re both from Port Elgin. Me and Amelia do the axe throwing for a bit and chat, but it’s not a stimulating activity. With little else to do, they take me on a cruise in an ATV, and then we head up the mountain to zipline.

Ziplining terrifies me, although less than it used to. When I was in high school my mother made us go ziplining. Now, having worked in the factory that makes steel cables, I have more trust in them, but the fear of heights remains. I did jokingly think to myself that I should go ziplining so I could get used to the idea of hanging out in my harness if I fall.

Oh gosh.

It’s so high!

Amelia goes first. The guy straps me in and explains the rules as I stare down at the abyss.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” He offers.

“No, no, I should.”

Weeeee…..!

The first five seconds are the worst, as I panic about not being able to feel the ground under my feet. Then I got used to it and enjoyed the sight of the valley unfolding before me.

Then I was slamming to a stop at the end of the line.

The two ziplines are back-to-back; this one ends where the other one begins. Hop down, set up the next one once the boy joins us. This one is much closer to the ground.

Once we’re back at base, there’s nothing else for me to do. I still have Vallea Lumina, but that’s not ’til the sun goes down.

Before I head back to the shuttle, Amelia hands me a gift card to a restaurant in town as compensation.

If I could go back in time, I’d reorganize what I had planned. Tuesday was the day with sunshine, so what I should have done was hopped on the gondola to the top of the mountain, then gone to the museum and then clubbing. Wednesday should have been sleep in and then go to the cultural centre, then do Vallea Lumina. But I didn’t realize how the weather would affect things, or that everything shuts down in the middle of the week. The one art gallery I wanted to visit is closed Tuesday and Wednesday, so I could have seen them Monday when I arrived, but I didn’t check. It was a silly mistake.

When I got back to town, I went to the free museum. There, I learned that Blackcomb mountain is older than Whistler by 50 million years. I also learned that nearby Black Tusk mountain is called “Perch of the Thunderbird” by the Squamish, and that it is geologically not part of the Rocky mountains. It’s an extinct andesitic volcano.

I spent part of the afternoon at the library, listening to tunes and doing my word search. Eli’s kid, Connor, finally texted me back, so we made some vague plans. Turns out he used to work at Whistler, so I asked him which bars the rich men frequent.

I wandered around for a bit before stopping at this little cafe, Hot Buns, for a treat. It was nice and homey, just off the main strip, but not busy. If I lived nearby I’d hop in here all the time; perfect for book writing!

Back on the shuttle to Vallea Lumina!

Vallea Lumina is pretty cool. It’s just a light show in the woods, but they put a lot of effort into it. Everyone else was sort of milling around the entrance, so I ran onto the path first. Then I can get unobstructed photos.

It was pretty cool, I’d recommend it.

After the walk, when I got back to the basecamp, the speakers were blaring out country music, ugh. I found a fire to hunch in front of until it was time to get back on the shuttle. The driver was still checking us on as we got back onto the shuttle; he said he’s had problems with people getting onto the wrong shuttle before, and then not having enough seats and it being a big fight.

Once I got back to the hostel, I changed into some nicer clothes and went back to the main town. I went to the ritzy cocktail bar that Connor suggested, but it was absolutely dead. I ordered a cocktail and nursed it for an hour, but no one was showing up, so I left.

I thank my wicked dreams, a year from Tennessee
Oh, Santa Monica, you’ve been too good to me
Won’t make my mama proud, it’s gonna cause a scene
She sees her baby girl, I know she’s gonna scream

Ah, whatever. This was stupid.

It starts raining as I wait for the bus.

I’m tired the next day. Too much walking.

I’m kinda over Whistler. I’ve worked through whatever emotional baggage I had and I’m keen to be back to Vancouver now. I wander downstairs for breakfast, then go back upstairs once my roommates leave and climb into bed for a nap.

I pry myself out of bed around noon. I didn’t realize it, but the cultural centre closes early on Wednesday. It’s still raining, which it shouldn’t be!

Bus to downtown, grab some sushi for lunch. Bus to the centre.

It’s a small centre, but I liked it. It was staffed entirely by indigenous people, and there’s a lot of love in the exhibits.

I really like the idea of their woven cedar baskets. Tight enough to retain water. A way of making dishes when society breaks down and ceramic is out of reach. I’m also enraptured by the idea of learning how they weave. Apparently they used to keep “wooly dogs” to make their capes, but the species is extinct now.

The indigenous people manning the cultural centre keep glancing my way. Is it because I’m wearing an orange shirt? Or is there something else about me, some deeper sense of curiosity, beyond the white people gliding through.

Or maybe I’m imagining it.

I wander downstairs to grab some food before the kitchen closes. Salmon chowder, with bannock. Yum!

I go back to the front desk to return the tag they gave me when I paid for admission. The man is still there; his name tag says David.

“So, what did you think of it? Do you have any questions? I’ve been here since day one.” The man asks.

“What day was day one?” I ask, smiling mischeviously.

“April 2008.” He says. He has to think about it for a moment.

We talk for a bit longer. I mention that I do some of the traditional beading and he shows me the talisman he has around his neck, which looks like a medicine bag but isn’t. “My mother made this for me.”

I turn it over and look at the hide on the back. There’s something written there. “Her name?”

“Her indigenous name, yes, her real name was Christine.”

“Real.” I scoff.

“Well, it is easier to say.”

“So? I’m going to Thailand next week, I’m not going to change anyone’s name just because I can’t pronounce it.”

“Well, it is easier to yell across the room. And there’s a long history of marrying Europeans in my family.”

He does look fairly white. But I feel like I’ve reached the end of what I can say without being rude, and I’m still head-spinning from being tired. I fiddle with the pins on the desk.

“I dunno if I have space for one on my hat.” I say, but I do want one. It’s orange and says ‘I am listening and learning’.

“Well, once you get back home, you can reorganize the hat.” He says, in a way that implies it’s obvious my pins are disorganized. And they are. They’re all jumbled from when the Soroptimist pin fell off and broke, and I can’t quite make myself organize it.

I buy the pin. “I don’t have a home.” I say sadly.

“Home base, I meant. Wherever you are staying.”

Still.

“That’s a Zelda pin, isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

We talk for a bit about video games. I show him the beading pieces I’ve made. Then we are interrupted by people who want to buy admission into the museum.

I wander off to the bathroom. When I get back, he’s leading them on a tour.

Well, I shouldn’t wait. Oh! I have business cards. I grab one and hand it to the lady now manning the desk. “I’ll make sure he gets it.” She says, and then I leave.

On the way back to the hostel, I grab some more sushi. I had half a mind to try and wrangle everyone and go out to a bar, but I’m actually just tired of being here.

I sit in the kitchen for a bit, eating my sushi and watching Cruella. I have no interest in these Disney villain prequels, but I do love Emma Stone’s ’70 British punk fashionista storyline. You can’t take the fashion student out of me!

I found an app called Pangea, that’s supposed to help you connect to other travelers before you get to a destination. I don’t really connect with anyone, but it’s nice to see that there are options. I do want some companionship, just not romantic ones.

I went back to my room and talked with Rosie for a bit. I was so tired I fell asleep, propped up on my pillows with my headphones on, in the middle of a movie.

Normal is the cruelest insult of them all, and I’m glad I never get that.

• Cruella de Ville