Of Inuit and Epidurals

Through the arch of the window, Lake Louise is a perfect Wedgewood blue. When you get close, it becomes more like Bombay Sapphire Gin, perfectly clear but with just a hint of blueness such that you think you might be imagining it. But I’m not near the water at the moment, nature is perfectly contained in a picture postcard view, from my table at the Lakeview Bar of Fairmont’s Chateau Lake Louise. Bec has gone horse riding and I’m enjoying a small bottle of mineral water, complimentary nuts and snide glances from my server.

The Chateau has been photographed so many times that it is almost a destination in itself, separate from the lake. The main part is a little faded now, especially downstairs with a mall of tacky yet expensive shops. But behind the signs that say “Guests Only beyond this point”, poorly enforced despite my wearing Teva’s, you can get some idea of what it was like in its heyday. The heads of long-dead animals look mournfully at you from every room. Light from the many chandeliers leave shadows of elk antlers on dark wood panelling. Sitting here on a sunny Saturday, a harp serenades us, unfortunately with “Stairway to Heaven”.

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When does a weekend start? JT left the office at one thirty, an early weekend by anyone’s account. Except maybe JR, who didn’t make it in at all on Friday. Maybe, for most people, around five. That was when D put his head round the door rather sheepishly, saying he would have to pull out of Whistler because he hadn’t finished his write up. But surely by eight o’clock, the most pressing decision should be no more than “Should I have a Cosmopolitan, or a Lemon Drop?” Not for me. At eight o’clock I was in the midst of one of those horror anaesthetic exam type scenarios, except there wasn’t going to be a bell that rang to get me out of it, this was real life. The shift finally ended at eleven, my first moment to stop, and I realized I was still shaking. I left the resident, thrilled by her most exciting shift in all of her three months of training. I left two new mothers, alive, to see their babies. I left, a little older and wiser, grateful to those who have trained me, and very ready for the weekend.

Saturday dawned with the brightest of cerulean skies, and I decided I would make the trip up to Whistler anyway. I was quite excited about driving again. I picked the rental car up downtown and drove back to Kits to meet with my bank manager. I parked three streets away from the bank, in an effort to avoid reverse parking on the wrong side of the road and thought wistfully of my bike, which always drops me off at the door.

An hour and a half later, but now with the possibility of a Canadian credit card, I emerged from the bank. I also had seven pages of maps, downloaded by my friendly bank manager when I confessed, I wasn’t entirely sure of how to get to Whistler, but was pretty sure there would be signs. Now, I am perhaps not the best map-reader I know, let alone when I am concentrating on driving on the wrong side of the road, and indicating every turn by a furious swishing of windscreen wipers. It was hardly surprising that somewhere between Map 4 and Map 6 I found myself, no longer on the map, no longer on the highway, but on the scenic route through West Vancouver.

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that red cars go faster. The same however cannot be generalised to red bicycles. In the office several days ago I was moaning about waiting at the bus stop in the rain. It's ... [Continue reading this entry]