Whistler – last day
4th day of mini-vacation in Whistler, posh ski-resort 2 hours out of Vancouver.
Too tired to get out of bed at check-out time this morning and thought I heard someone barfing in the girl’s bathroom next door, so a good excuse to pull covers over my head and spend another day in solitude of Whistler Hostel (55 mins out of the village, on a big lake). I have a bizarrely narrow bed and slippery green canvas mattress, so spent most of the night tangled in sheets and almost sliding onto the floor. Eventually got up at 12.40 and lied to English James when he took the piss that I’d already spent two and a half hours writing a screenplay upstairs in my bedroom, thank you very much. Don’t want him to think I’m an idle swine afterall.
It’s so wonderfully quiet. In fact, not quiet enough. English James and Canadian James are out in the canoe. I can see them right at the other end of the lake from my room window. In half an hour I’m going to walk the hour into town to get my groceries. Looking forward to it, as long as I don’t get eaten by a bear on the way.
Maybe it’s not the canoe I’m looking at. It hasn’t moved in 10 minutes and I can’t see them in it. Maybe it’s a log. Maybe they need rescuing (it’s $50 if you or the canoe need rescuing). Not by me obviously.
I’ve enjoyed these last three days of having manageable hair after my haircut, but it’s back to being a pain in the butt. Blow dried it this morning as an experiment and it increased to three times its normal volume. It’s just enormous. I look like Charles II. Took my can of Coors light to a bonfire party next door last night, which was nice, met lots of nice people who tried to persuade me to move to Whistler.
English James must be running out of lives. He’s been headbutted by a trigger fish (a fish with three potruding front teeth) whilst scuba-diving, been caught in a rip tide which killed two other people in front of his eyes, and he’s always flinging himself around on his bike at the top of mountains. Yesterday he saw two grisly bears.
Ok, I’m off. Just had a conversation with Austrian front-desk guy:
Me: I wont see any bears if I walk into the village now, will I?
Him: You might
Me: (freaking out)Oh my God, I don’t want to see a bear! Oh my God! What do I do?
Him: Oh (shrugs) nothing. If you see one ahead, just back away, clap your hands, sing loudly, make some noise. If it’s intent on attacking you, don’t let it think you’re easy prey. Fight back a little!
Thus reassured, I’m off into town.
Later
Phew! I’m back. That was hair-raising. Set off the wrong way, then was given wrong directions by a guy who told me to stick to the roadside, adding half an hour onto an already hour long journey. Spent the whole time glancing worriedly behind me and into the bushes on both sides, convinced every lamppost, postbox, snapping twig was a bear. Did latter half by a nature trail, which was less scarey for some reason. Walked along clapping my hands and bellowing fifties songs out of tune, enough to scare any wildlife away, I should think. Bears were around, though, if huge piles of bear shit and musty bear smell anything to go by, but only wildlife I saw was a slug. Had fun gawking at the gorgeous mountain/forest scenery, swinging my thermos of tea about, accompanied by catcalls of cyclists trying to draw attention to themselves by making a din. Feels unnatural and counter-intuitive to draw attention TO yourself in order to scare bears away.
In evening, went for a canoe around the lake with English James (26, from Blackpool, soon to be Naval officer/Engineer) which was good fun but suspect I was neither use nor ornament since we made exactly the same progress when I laid my paddle down and none whatsoever when I was paddling alone.
Late evening spent drinking two cans of beer and reading Hollywood Husbands by Jackie Collins, which has no likeable characters but claims to be what life is really like among the movers and shakers of Hollywood, so interesting from a sociological perspective. Surprisingly no gratuitous shagging.
Tags: Travel
Flora
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