Last night, Nate and I checked out a painfully lovely condo in Cloverdale. I wasn't sure why we were looking at it; we haven't expressly said to each other that we were looking to move from our basement suite in Aldergrove, although we have both voiced our displeasure at the lack of space in the kitchen and the absence of a bathtub. The condo was a top-floor beauty with a killer deck and surprisingly great view; skylights, crown molding, open floor plan-- utilities included for only $650 a month. Startlingly cheap for these parts. Scott, the fellow showing it to us, liked us immediately, and wanted us to move in. Right. Now. He was tired of going through the hassle of showing it to person after person, having it empty and costing him cash. I liked him too; liked the paint, the layout, the details; liked the deck and all the bright light that we don't get in the Aldergrove dungeon; liked the $100 less than we're paying now for rent. But driving home, I thought about the reality of the huge commute, the pain we would cause our current landlord by our surprise departure, the hassle and stress of picking up and packing up... all of these things reverberated and I had to say 'No'.

After Nate called Scott back with our (my) disappointing decision, I found myself pensive and sullen. I could see us enjoying that Cloverdale condo-- Nate finally having a sundeck to put his crazy indoor pond out on, a workable kitchen, lots of light and happy houseplants. But what does that make our life about? As it is, I live not 10 minutes drive away from where I'm working, and I can walk or ride my bike on the nice days (if I wake up at 5:30 AM). I don't spend that much time at home, because I'm usually at work, or grocery shopping, and I'm not much for laying about watching TV. My life seems to be mostly revolving around my job these days anyway, with brief interludes of inspiration that send me reaching out for something more-- e.g. school/education, artistic website, future business plans, etc. What does my life become about when all I am doing is travelling to and from work? Paying bills and saving money so that I can buy something and pay more bills? Is this it? Make and spend and make and spend, and sleep and eat and make and spend? It grosses me out, infuriates me. How many people do you know who are actually HAPPY caught up in this self defeating cycle of perceived need and acquired debts? This surface life of skimming the periphery of the deep end, staying in the shallows of consciousness and satisfaction?

Nate took me for breakfast this morning at DeDutch, and I ordered the Hawaiian Toast. That being the French Toast with pineapples and coconut and ham. It was OK. After three cups of coffee and my weird tropical Dutch/French/Canadian cuisine (do French people actually eat French toast?) I felt bolstered enough to launch myself into the tangly mess of the above questions... "seriously, Nate-- what do you want your life to be about?" I admire Nathan for his calm approach, his gentle desire for simplicity and his innate patience. He is natural in the very best sense of the word-- a man of the earth, of slow growth, of greenery and the due course of things. Of course, as much as I admire his qualities, they sometimes clash with mine. I find myself to be a more and more evenly divided between the personalities of my parents, dependant on the situation. I can be the social butter(fly) that my mom is, spreading things smoothly and infecting those around me with a sense of fun and joy and spontaneous-ness. Or I can be the scientist that my dad is, exacting and precise in my research and development, be it technical or creative. Or I can be both at once, spontaneously exacting, joyfully technical and precisely creative. So when Nate calmly answered that he was looking to keep things simple, to stay with his job, to grow, and to one day have his own landscaping company, I had to rephrase, to find out What Do You Want It To Be About? What Is The Big Picture?

When I lived in Japan, my live was about enjoyment and astounding, unprecedented growth. I mean-- I had to grow, to survive. I met new people, learned new rituals, new words, new ways of thinking and being. Thank goodness! I stretched and grew stronger. There was MORE than work, more than bill-paying and grocery-shopping. There was something bigger going on.

I don't want to believe that something bigger can't happen here, in Canada, but I can't help but think that if I want to keep growing at the rate I was in Japan, I'm going to have to keep throwing myself into the deep end of things. I don't want to simply settle for the next nice condo or a new car. What great boon am I to society if I become just another cog in the economic wheel? Luckily Nathan understands-- or claims to. I think my impatience and quivering desire to burst out in all directions unsettles him at times. Fair enough.

We reached a decision though, and shook on it over the crumbs of Hawaiian Toast and DeBacon. No moving. No misplacing the energy destined for great changes on small, futile ones. If I can be secure that I don't have to pack up my art supplies in two weeks and move to Cloverdale, maybe I'll actually use them. If we can be sure that we can be steady where we are standing, it makes it a lot easier to see clearly into the future, and take the steps that will lead us there.

How did I go from focusing on the abundance of the universe to focusing on the 2008 Consumer Report for cars? Maybe the abundance of the universe will deliver to me a car: a reliable, happy car, one that is safe, sound, reliable, and not too thirsty. Or maybe the universe will say,"Screw you, chiquita. Get off of your bum and get walking!"

There are two fundamental rules of nature. Well, actually, there are hundreds, but instead of poking our heads into the mating rituals of dung beetles, let's focus.

One rule is abundance.

The other rule is scarcity.

And whichever one you believe in the most-- that is the one that you will attract.

The idea is that abundance attracts abundance, so I must immediatley drop my fear-based attitude of "I don't have enough," and instead give and receive freely, sound in the comfort that I will always have enough of the things I need to live bountifully.

A beautiful idea, and one that I have come to (and retreated from) repeatedly over the past few years. I guess the question that always sends me retreating is along the lines of: "When Mastercard calls looking for a payment, how do I explain that I am waiting for the abundance of the universe to deliver?"

Just kidding. Kind of.

OK. Here’s the manifesto. No more negative, rude, asinine or drippingly sexual t-shirt slogans. I’m so tired of them. I don’t want to read “Your BOYFRIEND wants ME” or “I’m a Sexy Sexy Sexy Thang” or “Spread Those Legs”, or anything like that. Let’s make T-shirts that say things like: “The Way to a Better World is Through Compassion” or “Blissful, Balanced and Aware” or howabout “Spread Some Kindness”.

Not as catchy, I guess.

So, keeping with this theme of self-actualization, I’ve been furtively checking out CELTA websites, checking prices and student reviews and locations. I’m finally seriously considering going back to school because I need a goal, and I want something to look forward to when this financial drought has come to an end. I’ve known for a while that improving my education will help prevent further financial droughts—however, I balked because my educational history is already quite impressive, if not cumulatively useful. Out of 29 years on the planet, I have been in school for nineteen of them. And I don’t have a doctorate to show for it; instead, a mish-mash of diplomas, certificates, and the ever-useful Fine Arts Degree. Time to solidify this jelly.

It has been nearly a year since I returned to Canada from Japan, and there are times that my longing for my home on the other side of the world feels like a fresh wound.

I received an email the other day from a good friend, from Ryo who managed the tiny coolness-laden bar (think dark rich wood, shining brass in the dim light, and tired, single, beautiful Japanese women coming in to smoke peach-flavoured cigarettes and flirt with Ryo). Ryo had a thing for me, though. Ryo was sweet and smooth and a little bit dorky to boot, so I never could quite take him as seriously as he expected to be taken. We once had an argument over the word ‘Retriever’—as in the dog—Ryo had grown up with an exceptionally intelligent ‘Golden Retliever’. He was SO sure that it was spelled with an ‘L’ that we made a bet. If he was correct, I would cook him a Canadian meal. If I won, he would take me for sushi. Thank god I knew what I was talking about (and it should be general knowledge that Canadians should be taken as your best bet for a correct answer when in contention with Japanese over the placement of “L’s” and “R’s”), because what the heck is a ‘Canadian meal’? Poutine? Pancakes and maple syrup? Maybe some salt cod with a side of Screech? Anyway, the dingy little sushi place he took me to was one that I’d biked past many times before without noticing. It ended up being one of those places with a tank full of terrified critters, all waiting to be scooped out and deftly murdered and splayed over rice for human consumption. It was awesome.

Have I told that story before?

Anyway, Ryo’s bar is closed now; he quit last Tuesday, and no-one was hired to replace him. I guess I kind of expected Tokushima to remain in suspended animation, awaiting my return—which is ridiculous, if I consider how seldom Tokushima stood still the entire time I was there. Since I’ve left, Miho has moved away, Kayo has obtained a boyfriend, Bubu and Haruko are now the proud grandparents of little Youtaro, almost 7 months old. Little earthquakes have come and gone, hundreds of restaurants and bars have opened and closed throughout the entertainment district (like so many anemones), and I’m sure that construction has continued at its normal alarming rate; tear down, build up, and do it all again.

I shouldn’t feel as though I’ll never return. And I shouldn’t force myself to choose a permanent home either; cities are not jealous lovers. I need to allow myself the freedom of considering myself a world citizen, no matter where I end up. Who is to say that I won’t develop a career that takes me bounding across the planet on a regular basis? A delicious prospect.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling really good lately, much better than the last time I wrote—I’m healthier, more empowered. Mostly that comes from the decision I have made very recently. To live my life to the fullest, no matter what. Because the only thing that ever stands in my way is me, and I’ve had enough. I deserve better, and there’s a good chance that I can have it all. If I put in the work, I can get the results. The tough thing, as it always is, is sticking to that decision. I think women in particular find it easy to let ideals slide, in the name of a variety of other causes—“oh, I’ll just stick this crappy-ass job out a little longer, they NEED me here…” or “I’ll just stay with him until he’s got his shit together, I can’t leave him NOW.” I can do myself (and those around me) a favour by being accountable to myself, thereby forcing others to step up to their own responsibilities. Remember this, remember this, remember this!

You ever get the feeling that everybody is having fun but you? Of course you do… I hope you do. I can’t be alone here…

It’s snowing today, snowing and snowing and snowing to the extent that my boss has called for a snow day, hurrah—it doesn’t take much in the lower mainland for everything to come to a standstill. What is there out there, maybe a foot? Schools are closed, traffic is freaky, and I am SO GLAD to get a snow day. For the freedom of it. Not for the financial ramifications of missing a half day of pay.

So, like I was saying, I’m not having much fun. Not because I don’t intend on going sledding as soon as I get off work (I am SO going sledding) but because of money. Money, money, evil, evil money. Astronomical rent, out-of-work student fiancée, gas-guzzling car… maybe it’s not the money that hurts me. It’s the things I find myself spending it on. I have no savings, no financial intelligence. How did I get to be 29 years old and not learn how to take care of cash? I feel ashamed, angry, disappointed. I feel like I’m better than this. I’m better than ‘broke’.

The artist dream seems a wicked thing at this point. We all know we’re not supposed to believe the naysayers when they talk about “starving artists,” and “maybe your paintings will be worth something when you die,” but how often can you listen to that shit without absorbing some of the content? Sometimes I don’t even want to draw or paint anymore—I don’t want to hear about the millions people will rake in when the hock my sketches on E-bay after my demise. Creativity seems to come to me when I’m feeling confident anyway, and let’s face it—when you’re in overdraft to keep the gas tank ¼ full, there isn’t a whole lot of room left for confidence, not a lot of room left for fantasy. Or if there is, it’s a fantasy about having a full gas tank.

I think I just expected more from myself by now, by age 29. I remember having this same crisis of expectations at 23, and at 25 too—where is the house, the kids, the husband, the car, the traveling, the everything? And for that matter, are those dreams valid anymore? Are those the things I really want, or just the things I have convinced myself that I should want? The kicker is that I’ve finally realized that responsibility for oneself is one of life’s greatest lessons; if I’m here, and I don’t like it, I only have myself to thank. If my ass is fat, it is because I had one too many of those lovely silky chocolate balls. If my teeth hurt, it’s because I haven’t been a diligent flosser. Anything I have done, or haven’t done, has got me to where I am now. I suppose there is a part of me that has been waiting for destiny to reveal itself with the attendant flash of light, ardor of jasmine, and song of seraphim. But no-- if my life sucks, it’s because of me, me, me.

It’s a sour cocktail, baby. I gotta procure me a little sugar.

It isn’t easy. To see humanity, in everyone, all of the time. I mean, to see that everyone is possessed of their own brand and flavour of intelligence, to forgive them what you might perceive as flaws, when in fact they are not flaws. They are the warp and weft of humanity, I suppose. The colours of the strings we are woven from. Nubbly, crusty grey wool, or fine red silk, or whatever. I’m probably blue-and-white bed sheet cotton. Fresh, dreamy, insubstantial, childish. Nothing to keep you warm on a cold winters’ eve.



Today is grey and gold, sunlight weak and chilly and shining wet on black-grey pavement. I want to skip and kick a gritty soccer ball across the melting earth, I want to shout to my distant friends, speak in schoolyard squeals of bright winter afternoon joy.



Tongue is different from hand. Tongue speaks and sets boundaries and sculpts. Sculpts emotion. The hand can reach, reach. Out, out to give, to take, to give. To quantify, to establish and make real. I can say I will give this to you, but only actions will prevail, or they won’t. Only hand can act.



In Japanese, there is one word for heart, mind and soul: kokoro. Stop dividing your spirit. Live whole. Feel, think, know, and do them all at once.

Oh, lengthy absence. Oh, unwritten words welling up and swirling around the troubled mind...

Christmas was well-contained, ever on the brink of gong-show... you put my brother, my brother's girlfriend and I, my not entirely accepted fiancee, my father, grandmother, and the ever-at-odds combo of my mother and grandfather all in one house for a week, and stir...

Well, sir. Most times I think it'd be a recipe for disaster. But we did alright, we did ok.

Ah, a short blurb, and then gone again am I.

Back to work.

I quit the waitressing job about a month ago, and am I ever glad I did. There was no lack of characters (truckers, cowboys, strippers) to entertain me, but there are limits to the number of times I can shoulder complaints about hair in the food and undercooked chicken. Seriously. If you can’t honestly recommend the product you sling, can you really feel good about slinging it?

Nope. Something that the tobacco companies probably ought to think about.

My current job is offering me an abundance of learning opportunities, but it’s a major struggle to throttle my gypsy tendencies. I was whining to my Mom about not knowing where my home is, not really liking any one place enough to live there, and she snappishly noted that I don’t really seem to like anywhere much. Duly noted. It’s not that I don’t like places, but it’s the commitment to a place that freaks me out. Oooh, psychology time… I was thinking that a phobia of commitment might be a problem of mine when some smart-ass (the bride’s brother, I think) noted at a wedding I went to this summer that about 50% of the guys in the room were my ex-boyfriends. (It wasn’t true! In that case, anyway.) I mean—hey, you’re only young once, and dating copiously was one of those things I wanted to do while I could. I did it. I’ve done it, I’ve finished it, and it was fun—no regrets, right?

If I have any regrets, it’s that I got so used to tasting all the flavours at the ice-cream-store, that I almost didn’t realize how unhealthy it was. Anyway, I think I’ve found my favorite flavour now, and I’ll stick with him, thank you very much.

Yummmmmm.

Even funnier is how I can call my blog "the habit of happiness", and then look back to my last post... not the most optomistic at that point, I'm afraid.

Things are good now, great, fantastic. I'm riding a wave of employment-induced euphoria; one job at a retaurant dishing out souvlaki and spagetti in equal proportions in a Korean-owned restaurant, and another job learning about the clockwork of a successful small business while I write procedure and systems manuals.

And I'm in love.

What, really, could be better?

Namaste

~e

Funny how one can go from living on top of the world (or at least on the other side of it) to feeling like a jobless bum. The euphoria of being a gypsy has dwindled with my savings, and now I am pondering the advisability of taking the graveyard shift at a self-serve gas bar.

Feeling sorry for myself doesn't seem to help the situation.

Still painting at Tickleberry's. The 30 degree-plus heat in the afternoon turns the paint into bubblegum, hence the current early hour of 6:52 am... just waiting for my painter's whites (well, more like my not-so-white-anymores) to come out of the dryer.

Early starts justify early offs, so I'll be floating down the river channel in Penticton this afternoon... haven't done that in an eon. Another friend suggested going to church this evening-- you got it, another eon since I did that, so why not. Let's Make God Happy.

The dryer stopped. Off I go.

Back on old stomping grounds, and stomping like crazy.

I'm currently residing three doors down from my old childhood home in Kaleden, with my kind and generous neighbors, the Cooks. It's a little strange to look out the window and be confronted with the scenic wallpaper of my youth; blue lake, dark golden-and-green mountains. The air is dry and warm and scented with Russian olive tree blooms, desert dust and sagebrush. I feel very at peace... for now!

What is this... let me count... house number seven! I have stayed in seven different homes since I began my Grand Vagabond Homecoming Tour of BC. The G.V.H. Tour has become enormously easier since Kurosuke (my big black mama of a gypsy wagon) and I have bonded. Yesterday I took the day off from mural painting in Okanagan Falls to learn how my black beastie works. Tom Cook showed me fan belts and the master cylinder and the oil doodly-hoo and the fram-fram whamma-dammer. You can see that my retention is a little iffy when it comes to mechanics... regardless, I am now capable of performing an oil and oil-filter change, AND an air filter change. Yay me.

I may get another mural contract in Penticton, which would allow me to soak up a little more of what I consider a "REAL" summer. Ain't no party like a lakeside party! I mean seriously-- there are lakes and boats and beaches and campfires, and many many golden-brown and happy people. What else could I really want? Hmmm. I'll have to give that some thought... because what I want, I get! Nothing can hold me back!

How cool was that?

The reunion was a blast. There were the initial butterflies as Tamara, Brad and I walked into the restaurant; but a spicy Caesar and a conversation with Mike Shaver later, it was all copacetic. (Mike tutored me before the Math 11 final, securing my grade of 52%, thereby allowing me to pass and eventually get into university. He doesn't remember this.)

There were three main topics during the night:

1) Where are you living and what are you doing? (This one was a little pithy for me, so I usually answered, "I'm a gypsy.")

2) Do you have any kids yet? (Directed at me, this one was met with wild laughter.)

3) Are you on Facebook?

Yes folks, proof positive that I am part of the media generation. My admission that I don't have a website with any of my art on view-- and that I am in fact not in possession of a computer-- was met with tsks of disapproval. Do I have any excuses in this day and age? Not any good ones, I guess.

One of the things I suddenly craved today was a cup of the perfectly roasted, toasted and hot-hot-hot crafted cups of coffee that I could invariably find at any Mr. Donuts in Japan (Or 'Misdo' as they were cutely shortened to). I suppose these random cravings are the backlash of a traveler's life; I have one friend who refuses to eat any Thai food because nothing can measure up to real Thai food, another who hates the smell of flowers because of the instant aching desire he feels to be in Hawaii when he smells them.

I'm getting emails every other day from Japanese friends, innocently asking me when I'll be back, and how long I plan to stay... I can't really answer, so I dodge the question and type merrily about the weather or the wildlife I've seen in BC since my return. I don't doubt that it was time to leave Japan. I do doubt whether I've really 'come home'.

Fehhh. Let's get to the core of this matter.

Jobs, work, careers. That's what's occupying about 50% of the 10% of the part of the brain that I actually use these days. (The other 50% is busy with Misdo coffee, my Speedboarding boyfriend, oatmeal cookies, Facebook, money, oil changes, The Secret, burning the Man, laundry...) I have an interview today. I'm feeling far too cocky about it. Like-- I'm fab-u-lous. Who wouldn't want me working for them? And if they don't want me-- well, that's OK too. I've got this sort of lackadaisical belief in serendipity, and I envision a jillion open doors before me. I trust that eventually, I'm going to walk through the right one. It's just this hanging back, this study of the doors and their myriad possibilities, this sense of homelessness-- that's what's getting to me, if anything is.

I'm not really hurting for cash, nor for a place to lay my head at the end of the day. I've been abundantly blessed with family, friends and support groups (thank you, thank you!) who have opened their doors (and their refrigerators) unto me as I go through this gypsy phase. I'm endlessly grateful that these people are giving me what I really need; time to figure out what it is that I really want. But here's the question for you, dear reader: Do You Know What You Really Want? I know I want to be happy, and luckily, I can be happy no matter what I'm doing, where I am, who I am with. It truly is my great talent, my best habit. But when I try to define beyond that-- What Do I Want-- I'm not sure where to go with it. Am I looking for material things, or ephemera? I mean-- what is there really beyond happiness that I could desire? So now-- is the question before me-- What Do I Want That Will Bring The Greatest Happiness to the Most People?

By gum, I think that's got it.

Back in Aldergrove now, this little Fraser Valley oasis of sunshine. I can see why mom and dad are often at their wits end(s)... Prince Rupert and Port Ed definitely would have the upper hand in a Canada-wide sogginess competition.

Yesterday I insured Kurosuke, my big black beast of a 1981 Oldsmobile Station Wagon. Right now she's a big black poop beast too, as when I left her hear in Aldergrove I unwittingly parked under a nest of baby pigeons. Their target practice has kind of given my car a reverse Dalmatian effect. Charming. Anyway, no point in washing her this morning, as I'm sure I'll be collecting a variety of insect corpses on my drive up the Hope-Princeton highway. I'll hit the Spray-n-Wash when I pull into Penticton.

Today is the day I embark on the journey that will lead me to what I consider the first major milestone of true adulthood. My first high school reunion. Of course, I'm primed for the usual 'surprises'-- people fatter, thinner, unrecognizable due to surgery. More hair on the guys faces, and less on top. What I'm not prepared for is the feelings that seeing these people will evoke... will it feel like high school all over again? Will it be melancholy or just ridiculous? Are we all really twenty-eight years old, inside and out? I doubt it. Best to go into this fearlessly, just be myself and have fun. That's the best I can do in any situation, every time and everywhere anyway.

My cousin Christopher prompted me to join Facebook, assuring me that it's safe and easy and fun, blah blah blah. So I joined... all of a sudden I'm in touch with people from elementary school, high school, OUC dorms... random characters of every description can find me and 'poke' me and message me and 'write on my wall'... I'm finding it all a little overwhelming, actually. I'm a neophyte when it comes to the concept of internet communities. I can understand the appeal of keeping in touch when we are all living such widespread lives, but I sometimes think that the internet forces us into clinging to weak connections. There is a natural rhythm to relationships-- sometimes we ought to meet, befriend, and then drift away from one another. We might better appreciate the meaning that a brief encounter imparts.

Then again, I did join. And I do like seeing what everyone is up to. Consider the subject dropped.

I'm still in Prince Rupert-- Port Edward, actually, if I'm being correct about it. Port Ed is the north coast equivalent of Kaleden, BC. Meaning that there is an ancient general store, a miniature post office, an elementary school, a volunteer fire department, and not much else. Houses. Deer.

It has rained every day since my arrival. That, coupled with a bad cold and the fact that our family dog kicked the bucket last summer, means that I've been spending an inordinate amount of time indoors. So I haven't really been enjoying those houses and deer as much as I might like.

Now I'm at the internet cafe in Prince Rupert-- the closest BIG CITY (pop. 15,000?), which is still a good 20 km. away from Port Ed. Mom dropped me off here on her way to her 'Nifty Fifties' walking club.
Mom: "Thirteen times around the gym equals one mile! Want to come, Endrene?"
Me: "Uh. Let me process that information. Hmmm. No, that's ok."

Mom's curious whether I'm considering looking for a job here in Rupert. Uh. Let me process that information. Hmmm. No, that's ok.

Not that this is a bad place. The people are friendly, the seafood is to die for, and the scenery is stunning. But this is a remote place. A remote, wet place. It's hard to get to, too. The ferry that I came up on-- the new ferry-- has been dubbed The Northern Misadventure, and has already been removed from the fleet for refits. A return flight to Vancouver can run anywhere from $500 to $700. And the bus or train can take upwards of 30 hours to get to where I'd want to go.

Gee, seems like I have my nose pretty well turned up.

At any rate, it's good to see my parents. I'm probably going to be in the Okanagan by mid-May, and definitely in time for my 10-year high school reunion. Can you believe that it's that time already? In the meantime, I'm enjoying cruising the province for a suitable community, and I'm checking out my options as far as jobs and further education go... lots of doors wide open. I'll wander the hallways for now.

I was thinking about giving this blog up when I returned from Japan. I think I thought that my life in Canada would somehow lose some of its intensity or magic somehow... you know, become less noteworthy. Less interesting. Well, let me tell you, every life is just as rich and complex as you expect it to be. And as I am always expecting excitement and diversity, that's what I get.

You can count on the Law of Attraction that way.

The bus ride from Courtenay to Port Hardy was beautiful and comfortable-- two seats to myself, a good book, and nine black bear sightings. The best was the mama and the three yearling cubs... they graze on the grass by the side of the highways when they come out of their winter slumber. I guess the roughage gets their digestive tracts-- uhh-- functioning again.

I was 'adopted' by a fast-talking 17-year-old high school drop-out from the Yukon named Amanda as soon as I stepped off the bus at my port of departure. She eyed me up and down quickly while smoking her cigarette and wrapping herself in a giant fuzzy 'Scarface' blanket.

"You alone?"

"Uh... yeah..."

"Good! You wanna hang out with me? You can share my blanket! Do like Scarface? I hate hanging out alone! It's SO-o-o-o boring..."

I was entertained by Amanda's boundless and far-ranging chatter from when we got to the terminal at about 4pm until we finally boarded the ferry at about 7:30pm. We got rolling at 8pm. Only two hours late... Amanda instructed me on everything from where to put my suitcase to the benefits of apprenticing as a car mechanic. Oh, the boundless knowledge of the newly adult! She managed to boss another passenger, a speed-boarding sweetheart named Nathan, into joining us. (Speedboarding is a kind of freakishly dangerous skateboarding, from what I could gather. He had the gimpy knee and broken collar bone to prove it.) He and I hit it off, and ended up chatting for most of the trip, especially when we accompanied Amanda out on the frigid decks of the ferry for her frequent smoke breaks. Sleep was long in coming, as the boat was swarming with exuberant kids, heading back to the tiny coastal village of Bella Bella. We stopped there at 3am, and our ferry (the newest in the fleet, I might add) suffered a power failure. We were immobilized for three hours. The boat was still, and the kids were gone- that's when I slept. At 7am, a kind native woman told me that due to the delay, breakfast was free until 8am- FREE! I roused my travelling partners and headed to the cafeteria. Mmmm! Ferry eggs and soggy toast! Saltysalty bacon! Glad it was free.

Nathan's native mother was born in one of the tiny little coastal communities on the Inside Passage, now mostly abandoned and slowly sinking back into the little bay. What was it called-- Butedale? We stood together and admired it from afar as the ferry slowly passed it by.

Now I'm in Prince Rupert, also known as "The quaint little drinking town with a fishing habit". Don't laugh. It's true.

I've been here for two days, and can see why people stay, and why people leave. It's infinitely beautiful here when the sun shines. The fishing is good, and the people are friendly. The rent is low. But jobs are hard to find, the economy isn't so hot, and you need a fifty-dollar permit to paint your house. Litter is a big problem, as are drugs, and yes, drinking. It's a saltysalty town.

Anyhooo--- I'm at the internet cafe (when am I not) and my aunt just came in to fetch me-- the Shepherd wagon awaits me. Off I go. Until next time...

Namaste (and wish me luck)

endrene

I'm still on Vancouver Island, currently in Courtenay. I've marked a couple more things off of my 'to do in Canada' list.
I've been to Coombs to see the goats that live on the roof of the crazy everything-international-nut-bread-and-doohickey hippie store (but the goats were off the roof at the time; they're waiting for warmer weather).
I've eaten: crabs, prawns, goats' cheese, REAL bread, chocolate with chili spices from Denman Island, and MORE real bread and MORE real cheeses. Did I ever mention how one time in Japan I bought "Blue Cheese" and it turned out to be dyed-blue Camembert? It's a Camembert nation, cheese-wise.

Ryan and Jess and I have been having a blast-- although I suspect I'm having the biggest blast, since I don't have to go to work. Last night we went out on a long rocky finger of sand and driftwood called Goose Spit and had a bonfire. We roasted smokies and marshmallows for s'mores (on almond cookies instead of graham wafers-- I highly recommend this!!) and they even set up a little Easter hunt for me! A week or so late, but who cares! It was absolutely fun, AND it involved chocolate! We watched the sun go down and admired the myriads of blues and purples that hazed across the sky. We moved in a little closer to the fire. I asked them what it was like to be married (my current favorite question for married couples-- the variety of answers is astounding). They were both very enthusiastic. In the end, Ryan managed to sum it up nicely: You may not know when it's the Right Person, but you definitely know when it's the Wrong Person. So don't waste your time with the Wrong Person.
Good advice, I think.

Tomorrow I'll be boarding the ferry bound for Prince Rupert. I sure hope I have enough warm clothes...