Stephanie Moreland
Professional Writer & Photographer
Stephanie Moreland
Professional Writer & Photographer
Arriving
This entry was posted on 8/7/2008 6:35 AM and is filed under Travels 2008.
I know I've had a good vacation if the following criteria have been met: I come back home with a suitcase full of dirty clothes, shoes that smell like they've jogged through a medieval sewage system, some kind of tan line (preferably brown and not red), at least one digital memory card that is full, space bags that are rumpled beyond repair, feelings of elation that can't be described, hair that is in bad need of cutting, a suitcase that tips the scales to weigh in just under that tricky 50 lb mark, and memories so amazing that I will find them difficult to articulate. If all of these things have happened, then I thank my lucky stars that I have successfully navigated another part of the globe--and another part of my soul. My three-week journey to the Northwestern US typified what a great vacation and made me realize that from here on out, I don't think I will ever be able to love any trip that does not involve ample time outdoors.
This trip began like many others with a long plane ride and the antsy anticipation of seeing a new place. We woke up before the roosters at a bleary-eyed 4:30AM as my sweet-natured and reliable boyfriend escorted both my mother and I to the airport for a flight that was leaving at an ungodly 7:55 am (ungodly to me who now works from home and feels that waking up any time before 7 am is now completely inhuman). I kissed my boyfriend good-bye, and thanking him for the millionth time for taking me (and my mom) to the airport at the crack of dawn so that I can go romp in the Northwest for three weeks while he would be putting in his usually 60 hour work weeks (God, I love this man). We met my brother at the airport, chugged some coffee and orange juice, gobbled some breakfast sandwiches, and boarded the plane for Seattle.
If there's anything I know about travel, it's that there will almost always be some unforeseen events (a kind of traveling comedy of errors) that usually ends up reducing you to tears of exhaustion, or causes you to have one too many stiff drinks (that give you a massive headache the next day and doesn't help your jet lag at all) or if you are lucky, it will cause uncontrollable fits of laughter and great stories that you will remember for years to come and then subsequently pass along to your friends. Fortunately for us, for the most part, the last scenario applied.
I might have found the archaic and painfully slow-moving luggage carousel funny if I wasn't so hungry. As I've found many times, the baggage handlers seemed to be required to unload the suitcases while under water or while wading through quick sand, because the bags were coming out of the luggage shoot in a manner that was so slow that I thought my social security number would expire while waiting for my bag. To control what little patience I actually have, I finally started to count the space between bags using the Mississippi Method. "One Mississippi and a half, two Mississippi and a half". When that didn't work, I mentally counted again, "One Mississippi and a half and three quarters" and so on. Finally, we got our bags and sat down to enjoy our first meal out of Texas.
Things were going along swimmingly until we realized that we had better find the shuttle that would take us to Vancouver or we would be stuck in the Seattle airport until that night or the next day. After our necessary stops at the bathroom and Starbucks, with fifteen minutes to spare, we headed downstairs to find the bus terminal. Naturally, when we got down there, we could not find our bus after franticly running back in forth in the bus terminal. With 10 minutes to bus-launch, we decided to ask for directions. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the man in front of us to ask his stupid questions, we asked the unpleasant information booth lady for directions. As is the rule of the Traveling Comedy of Errors, we were completely in the wrong terminal. So we set out for a brisk walk-turned-sprint to the proper bus drive with roughly 1 minute remaining before the bus was set to leave. "You almost missed it," said the brilliant bus driver as we gave our names while gasping and sweating profusely on his checklist. I wanted to smack him. I told him that there should be signs somewhere in the airport for these shuttles as many people fly into Seattle to head to Vancouver. He stared at me blankly and blinked.
We boarded the bus and got settled in, and it started to hit me that I'd finally be crossing the Canadian border for the first time. I love having to flash my passport---it still gives me a thrill. It's a sign of new land--unconquered territory (for my personal travel repertoire anyway), and I've wanted to go to Canada for some time. I thought of all of my favorite Canadians (my editors, friends, celebrities, and musicians) and fought off the urge to sing O Canada. This trip would finally give me a real glimpse into the lives of our neighbors to the north. I couldn't wait.
But the experience at customs temporarily quelled my excitement for the moment. I was shocked at the number of questions and the interrogation that ensued. I had been through customs in New York, Paris, Italy, Germany, Greece, Spain, and Mexico, but I'd never had so many questions. It was weird and disarming and....weird. Was this some new security thing? Was it reverse psychology in response to our hyper-paranoid American society? I can't even imagine what it's like for someone to come into America, so I know for sure it works that way on this end too. I'm also not foolish enough to think that security measures are not necessary, but it still depressed me. It just makes me sad that it is even necessary for Canadians and Americans to screen each other. But this is the way of the world, isn't it? We spend time building walls despite our similarities and geographic proximity. This has always makes me sad in my travels because one thing I have learned while traveling is that we are all a lot more alike than we are different. But that's a conversation for another day. After a grueling almost two-hour process, we boarded the bus (now officially in Canada), and made the trip to Vancouver.
They travel day drew to a close in typical surprising fashion as we were dropped off at a hotel in the middle of Vancouver (not our hotel). Being a budget-minded traveler, my savvy brother found us a motel in the suburbs of Vancouver that would save us a substantial amount of money each night and only create a 15 minute monorail ride (which is delightful, since we all adore public transportation despite Houston's lack thereof). The problem, of course, was that the monorail station was a good six blocks away, and the thought of navigating a new train system with huge bags after a full day of travel was nauseating, so we decided to take a cab.
After waiting for some time for the elusive taxis, a dark man in a turban approached my brother and asked if we needed a ride. I peered over his shoulder and saw the sleek, black limousine that he was driving. "Um, I think you're a bit out of our price range," I said.
"No, I give to you for forty-five dollars", he said with a thick accent.
"Three of us?" my brother asked, surprised.
"Yes, forty-five dollars," he remarked.
Tired, cranky, hungry, and desperate for a ride, we shrugged and climbed into the back. We spent the next 30 minutes laughing and taking pictures of each other striking luxuriant poses in the back of the limo. I'm sure that we paid double the price of an ordinary cab ride, and I can only imagine what the people at the Accent Inn in Burnaby thought of these ridiculous Americans who decided to take a limousine ride to the motel. Normally, I'm opposed to spending too much on transportation, and I despise looking like a ridiculous tourist, but we all made an exception in this case. I knew then that this was going to be a memorable trip.
This trip began like many others with a long plane ride and the antsy anticipation of seeing a new place. We woke up before the roosters at a bleary-eyed 4:30AM as my sweet-natured and reliable boyfriend escorted both my mother and I to the airport for a flight that was leaving at an ungodly 7:55 am (ungodly to me who now works from home and feels that waking up any time before 7 am is now completely inhuman). I kissed my boyfriend good-bye, and thanking him for the millionth time for taking me (and my mom) to the airport at the crack of dawn so that I can go romp in the Northwest for three weeks while he would be putting in his usually 60 hour work weeks (God, I love this man). We met my brother at the airport, chugged some coffee and orange juice, gobbled some breakfast sandwiches, and boarded the plane for Seattle.
If there's anything I know about travel, it's that there will almost always be some unforeseen events (a kind of traveling comedy of errors) that usually ends up reducing you to tears of exhaustion, or causes you to have one too many stiff drinks (that give you a massive headache the next day and doesn't help your jet lag at all) or if you are lucky, it will cause uncontrollable fits of laughter and great stories that you will remember for years to come and then subsequently pass along to your friends. Fortunately for us, for the most part, the last scenario applied.
I might have found the archaic and painfully slow-moving luggage carousel funny if I wasn't so hungry. As I've found many times, the baggage handlers seemed to be required to unload the suitcases while under water or while wading through quick sand, because the bags were coming out of the luggage shoot in a manner that was so slow that I thought my social security number would expire while waiting for my bag. To control what little patience I actually have, I finally started to count the space between bags using the Mississippi Method. "One Mississippi and a half, two Mississippi and a half". When that didn't work, I mentally counted again, "One Mississippi and a half and three quarters" and so on. Finally, we got our bags and sat down to enjoy our first meal out of Texas.
Things were going along swimmingly until we realized that we had better find the shuttle that would take us to Vancouver or we would be stuck in the Seattle airport until that night or the next day. After our necessary stops at the bathroom and Starbucks, with fifteen minutes to spare, we headed downstairs to find the bus terminal. Naturally, when we got down there, we could not find our bus after franticly running back in forth in the bus terminal. With 10 minutes to bus-launch, we decided to ask for directions. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the man in front of us to ask his stupid questions, we asked the unpleasant information booth lady for directions. As is the rule of the Traveling Comedy of Errors, we were completely in the wrong terminal. So we set out for a brisk walk-turned-sprint to the proper bus drive with roughly 1 minute remaining before the bus was set to leave. "You almost missed it," said the brilliant bus driver as we gave our names while gasping and sweating profusely on his checklist. I wanted to smack him. I told him that there should be signs somewhere in the airport for these shuttles as many people fly into Seattle to head to Vancouver. He stared at me blankly and blinked.
We boarded the bus and got settled in, and it started to hit me that I'd finally be crossing the Canadian border for the first time. I love having to flash my passport---it still gives me a thrill. It's a sign of new land--unconquered territory (for my personal travel repertoire anyway), and I've wanted to go to Canada for some time. I thought of all of my favorite Canadians (my editors, friends, celebrities, and musicians) and fought off the urge to sing O Canada. This trip would finally give me a real glimpse into the lives of our neighbors to the north. I couldn't wait.
But the experience at customs temporarily quelled my excitement for the moment. I was shocked at the number of questions and the interrogation that ensued. I had been through customs in New York, Paris, Italy, Germany, Greece, Spain, and Mexico, but I'd never had so many questions. It was weird and disarming and....weird. Was this some new security thing? Was it reverse psychology in response to our hyper-paranoid American society? I can't even imagine what it's like for someone to come into America, so I know for sure it works that way on this end too. I'm also not foolish enough to think that security measures are not necessary, but it still depressed me. It just makes me sad that it is even necessary for Canadians and Americans to screen each other. But this is the way of the world, isn't it? We spend time building walls despite our similarities and geographic proximity. This has always makes me sad in my travels because one thing I have learned while traveling is that we are all a lot more alike than we are different. But that's a conversation for another day. After a grueling almost two-hour process, we boarded the bus (now officially in Canada), and made the trip to Vancouver.
They travel day drew to a close in typical surprising fashion as we were dropped off at a hotel in the middle of Vancouver (not our hotel). Being a budget-minded traveler, my savvy brother found us a motel in the suburbs of Vancouver that would save us a substantial amount of money each night and only create a 15 minute monorail ride (which is delightful, since we all adore public transportation despite Houston's lack thereof). The problem, of course, was that the monorail station was a good six blocks away, and the thought of navigating a new train system with huge bags after a full day of travel was nauseating, so we decided to take a cab.
After waiting for some time for the elusive taxis, a dark man in a turban approached my brother and asked if we needed a ride. I peered over his shoulder and saw the sleek, black limousine that he was driving. "Um, I think you're a bit out of our price range," I said.
"No, I give to you for forty-five dollars", he said with a thick accent.
"Three of us?" my brother asked, surprised.
"Yes, forty-five dollars," he remarked.
Tired, cranky, hungry, and desperate for a ride, we shrugged and climbed into the back. We spent the next 30 minutes laughing and taking pictures of each other striking luxuriant poses in the back of the limo. I'm sure that we paid double the price of an ordinary cab ride, and I can only imagine what the people at the Accent Inn in Burnaby thought of these ridiculous Americans who decided to take a limousine ride to the motel. Normally, I'm opposed to spending too much on transportation, and I despise looking like a ridiculous tourist, but we all made an exception in this case. I knew then that this was going to be a memorable trip.