DAY 499 (Part 1): Vancouver is a great city for outdoorsy-types as there are plenty of outdoor activities in and around town, from sailing to Ultimate. While sailing a boat and tossing a Frisbee around are good fun, they weren't what brought me to Vancouver. What did that (other than the chance to visit friends) was snowboarding.

The Vancouver area has several mountains for snow sport enthusiasts, but none are better known than Whistler Mountain, the Intrawest-run snow resort that has become synonymous with Vancouver. Whistler, along with neighboring Blackcomb Mountain, are more-than-formidable mounds for any skill level, from beginner to Olympian -- it's no wonder they, along with the city of Vancouver, are the proud Canadian hosts of the 2010 Winter Olympics. "Vancouverites" have already been getting the mountains ready for the international affair, and I put that in quotes because it's really the Australians doing it; a huge majority of Whistler/Blackcomb is staffed by Aussie snow bums working the mound in return for the opportunity play in the snow without spending the small fortune it costs to be at Whistler.

DAVID SEBASTIAN HAD BORROWED his parents' Subaru Outback and we had it packed up and ready to go by eight in the morning -- his skiing gear, plus all the snowboarding gear and apparel I had borrowed from Anthony the night before. It was still another two hours to Whistler from Vancouver along the Sea to Sky Highway, which flew by with our usual banter. Not surprisingly, on our way up, Canadian rock star Bryan Adams' "Run To You" came on the radio.

The first parking lot was full by the time we arrived around eleven, which was sort of surprising, it being a Tuesday and all, during what everyone seemed to be calling "the worst snow season in over twenty years." My time in Vancouver was during a warm spell, with unseasonably warm temperatures. While people in northeast North America were complaining about the accumulations of the snowy winter, I had heard many Vancouverites complain that they weren't getting any.

"It disheartens me to see it so bare," Sebastian said -- I mean, Dave said -- as we rode the gondola up to the midway station. The scene was different on the upper mountain; the higher elevation sustained the fresh powder that had started since the night before, and making the trip more worthwhile. The snow was still coming down in spurts, sometimes in blurring white out conditions, but it was better than nothing -- actually it was "the first decent day of the [Vancouver] ski season" -- a day good enough to make a Canadian proud to be back out there. We took the lift up to Whistler Peak and started the day off easy with easy green-marked trails and intermediate blue-marked trails, which was a good thing because it was hard for me to adjust to not only someone else's equipment, but to the fact that I hadn't done any boarding in a while, not since the time I was at the coastal sand dunes of Namibia.

"You gotta do the Whistler Bowl," David Sebastian said, leading me to the advanced black diamond trail. "Bragging rights." It probably wasn't a good thing that I was already sore all over from playing Ultimate a couple of days before, but I went anyway down the mogul-filled trail. My knees were shot already, putting all strain on my lower legs, and I cramped up to the point where I couldn't even walk straight. I didn't want to be a downer to David Sebastian so we split up for a couple of runs and met at the base of one of the chair lifts. Eventually I got my groove back after some rest and a Snickers bar, but soon other concerns sprouted up.

"[I think I forgot to lock the car,]" David Sebastian said with a look of worry. He asked me if I remembered him pointing the remote towards the car to lock it up; I did, only I couldn't remember if it was at the time we left the car for the day, or the brief time we went to take a piss in the bushes when we first arrived. We decided to ask the guy working the mid-station snack bar selling water and candy bars (at insanely inflated prices) about the security of the parking lot.

"I haven't heard of anything, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen," was his very neutral answer -- until he mentioned that he once had a board stolen in Whistler Village at the base. David Sebastian and I thought it out. Go all the way down? What if it's locked? We would have gone down for nothing.

"What are the chances something got stolen?" David Sebastian asked the guy.

"[I don't know,]" he said with a shrug.

"What are the chances that we locked the door?"

"Really, we're just looking for a scapegoat," I added.

"I'll say a seven out of ten chance."

"Okay, take his name down," I joked.

"Uh... Tony... Smith..."

We put our faith in the seven of ten and went up for a couple of runs. I was really getting my groove back, carving back and forth, riding with the best of them (picture above). Why do people complain about snow? You can play in the snow! I thought. Sebastian was having a good time too, but the thought of the car was always lingering in our minds. Was there anything important in the car? Well, our wallets and credit cards. But those can be replaced. But wait, what about the actual car being stolen? I sort of put my faith in the kindness of Canadians, but then remembered that I had a bike stolen just days before. Is the car locked? Of course it is; it's a reflex to lock it -- but wait; then why am I thinking of it?

"What are the chances of something getting stolen from the same guys twice?" I asked David Sebastian.

We shrugged until we figured we might as well just go down and get peace of mind. "I'm feeling responsible," David Sebastian said. I watched our gear at a bench in Whistler Village while my Canadian friend went to go check.

"What's the verdict?" I asked him.

"The fact is that the car is..."

"Stolen?"

"Not locked."

"And our stuff is..."

"Not stolen."

With that said, we enjoyed the last part of the day doing runs up and down the big winter wonderland of Blackcomb's upper mountain. For some reason, my lift ticket was missing -- it must have ripped off in one of my nasty wipeouts that morning -- but we managed to talk one of the Australian ticket checkers into bending the rules. "Your story checks out," the guy from Brisbane said.

"Alright. I love Australia!"

With each run I was getting more and more comfortable with the conditions and the gear, and the actual first names of my company. "DAVE!!!" I called out to David Sebastian at one point.

"Wait, did you just call me Dave?"

At the end of the day, we ended up having a good time, despite the cramps and the worries about the car. It's a good thing we checked up on it though; on the way home, news radio reported that a car was stolen from Whistler and the thieves were on the lam towards Vancouver.

* * * * *

Home Is Where The Nettles Are

DAY 499 (Part 2): People ask me if I get homesick being on the road for so long. "Yeah, in the beginning I was, but after a while you just sort of get used to it," is my usual response. Traveling from place to place like a vagabond just becomes your norm and it doesn't phase you.

"Where do you live?" some would ask me.

"Well, I got rid of my apartment, so I don't really live anywhere. I live out of a bag at the hostel."

"Don't you miss your friends at home?"

"Nah, most of my friends are on-line, so I talk to them all the time," I said. True; my virtual self never left, and being on-line with people at home had been the constant that had kept me sane on the road. "Home is where the internet is," I'd say.

Speaking of homes, that's where David Sebastian and I went that night after Whistler; not to the college house in Kitsilano, but his parents' house in the southern Vancouver suburb of Surrey, near Crescent Beach and White Rock, to drop off the car.

"I thought I heard car noises," said a voice from the front porch. It was David Sebastian's mom Wendy greeting us with open arms, and a special treat. "We thought in honor of your return, we'd do something new," she said. "The First Annual Crescent Beach Nettle Fest!"

"And what's a nettle exactly?" I questioned.

"You don't know about the stinging nettle?" David Sebastian said with a smirk.

On the front door of the house were signs welcoming not only us to the Nettle Fest, but two others; my arrival coincided with the arrival of David Sebastian's grandparents who had just come in on the train from their home in Toronto, and it was them that I met next as I stepped through the doorway. Wendy's father Larry had recently become a national celebrity after he had appeared in a famous TV ad for Buckley's cough syrup, where he read a letter to the Buckley's company on camera in a somewhat confused state. His demeanor in the ad became so popular that it was actually parodied by Canadian comedian Shaun Majumder in the Canadian news parody show This Hour Has 22 Minutes (a show similar to America's The Daily Show). I was excited to meet him since my friends and I at home were big believers in Buckley's -- it tastes awful, and it works.

The King household was very homey not just because of its rustic charm and cozy atmosphere, but mainly from its people. David Sebastian's parents and grandparents were a more-than-hospitable bunch; Charles, David Sebastian's doctor father, greeted me and led me to a bathroom where I could have a shower after a day on the slopes. While he went to the kitchen to prepare some nettle-related food, Wendy briefed me on the "Nettle Fest," first by giving me a printout of a web page explaining what exactly the stinging nettle was:

Stinging Nettles are perennials that belong in the nettle family Urticaceae and have opposite leaves. They are common in coastal areas of BC, Washington and Oregon and inland in south and central BC. They grow best in moist forests and prefer shady disturbed areas where they grow in patches...

When a human brushes by the plant and it touches their skin, the tiny hollow hairs break off and release an acid which irritates the skin and causes white itchy spots to appear. The degree and length of itchiness depends on the individual’s skin sensitivity. Some people suffer for as long as 24 hours, while others only have the sensation for an hour or so.

There was a bowl of stinging nettles on the table (picture below) for me to see, but not touch, and I was assured that they lost their poison ivy-like properties when cooked, and that they were actually rich in nutrients when consumed.

"[I called it the Noxious Nettle Fest,]" Wendy told her son. "[I couldn't think of another 'N' word.]"

"[How about 'nifty?']" I suggested.

"[Yeah, you're always saying 'nifty.']" David Sebastian added.

"[The Nifty Nettle Fest!]" Wendy said. She liked it.

"[You see where the banter in the Kitsilano house comes from?]" David said to me. He mentioned that his mother had been dying to have a nettle festival for quite some time, but never really had the excuse to throw it until the celebratory arrival of guests that night. In fact, streamed across the dining/living room was a line of hanging pendants, each one representing a celebration at the house, and I was asked to autograph the one put up in celebration of "The Global Trip 2004, Day 499." It was a family party after all, complete with a lovely dinner of nettle pastry puffs and nettle tempura, both yummy and lacking of anything poisonous or stinging. The epitome of the dinner party was when they brought out a cake that they had gotten for me and my arrival, a sweet cake with coconut and bananas and lots of icing, complete with a flag of the globe sticking out on top and a little wind-up walking globe toy.

"That's you!" Gwen, David Sebastian's grandmother, said.

"Aw, it's like a surprise party!" I said. Their welcoming couldn't have been warmer, and I felt like I was at a second home.

"Well, thank you for befriending our son," Wendy said.

"Mom," David Sebastian said embarrassingly.

"I'm just saying."

I entertained the group with my insights on traveling the world until it was time to go; David Sebastian had to get back to school to get cracking on a report he had due. His mom drove us back to Kitsilano, and thus ended the First Annual Crescent Beach Nettle Fest.

"You should come and visit again and when you go around the world the other way," Wendy told me when she dropped us off.

"I'll be sure to be back for the second annual Nettle Fest," I said.

David Sebastian and I settled back in the house that night with the rest of the gang, quite content of the events of the day. "[See, all that: family, a home-cooked meal... you can't get that on-line,]" Dave Sebastian said to me. "['Home is on the internet,' ha!]"

Touché. I suppose when you can't get to your friends and family on-line, home is definitely where the nettles are.

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