The Journey North But Also West

Oh, Canada. The second stage of this northwestern adventure required voyaging first north then west then south in an inverted fish-hook of a journey ending on an island in another country altogether. Destination: Vancouver Island, specifically Victoria and even more specifically Metchosin. But one thing at a time.

First, we had to cross the border, a remarkably easy affair considering we smuggled contraband north with us. The Canadians have forbidden American fruit from crossing over, but the produce-sniffing dogs missed the bag of apples in the backseat of our car. Within a few moments we were through the checkpoint and beyond America. Besides the signs declaring Maximum Speed (no Limits in Canada) in kilometres per hour and the AT&T icon on my phone reverting to the original Bell, there were few signs of the divide, as though the earth divided along our precious invisible lines doesn’t care much where they’re drawn.

On our way to the coast, we drove past Vancouver (the city) from the southeast. I can’t speak to the quality of the city up close, but I’ve never seen a city sit so perfectly from afar. Behind a vast stretch of new-growth farmland, downtown Vancouver shot up like a bumper crop without any suburban prelude, just abrupt glass and steel towers loitering along the harbor. Beyond the city, mountains loomed, dwarfing the man-made skyline just as it diminished the fields closest to us.

The next stage of the journey was the ferry-crossing from mainland Canada to Vancouver (the) Island. The level of demand for these crossings is measured by the number of sailings one must wait to drive on without a reservation. For example, you might hear one Canuck say to another, “Yeah I heard on the radio there’s a four sailing wait from Tsawwassen already, and by this evening, could be up to six sailings.” Undertaking a multi-sailing wait isn’t for the faint of heart. Once you get in line, you’re in that line until your car is on a boat. Spending the night in the driver’s seat is not unheard of.

The day we set out for the island, the sailing count rose each time we spoke to someone new. Four sailings, five, seven. The last number I heard was eight, but that could have been sarcastic. Fortunately for us, there’s another option. Simply park your car in one of the not-so-convenient long term lots and walk onto the ferry. The sailing-wait is only a concern when you must be attached to your vehicle, and thankfully we could be free from that tether.

Just before the long causeway out to the ferry terminal, we left the car in a lot shared with a waterpark. We waited for a shuttle there, next to the slides, and watched people. An aging punk staggered by in a cropped white shirt, ripped black jeans and cat-paw gloves. He clutched a quarter-pint of whiskey in his paws and he sung old Fall Out Boy songs to himself as he crossed the parking lot. Another man, so old and shrunken his hat hardly cleared noon on the steering wheel, ran a van into a parked car. He was one of the shuttle drivers. Nobody seemed to mind, and when the mayor happened to walk by on the way from the waterpark to his car, he laughed and waved it off. This sounds like fiction but I swear that at most it was collective hallucination. After another shuttle (with another driver) picked us up, we made it into the ferry terminal, and a sandwich and a few hands of cards later, we made it onto the ferry itself.

As we sail through the San Juan Islands, my girlfriend pretends to read while she naps next to me, and the Red Sox are beating Canada’s Blue Jays on the ferry TVs, let me take a minute to share some Canadianisms.

In an attempt to learn about their bizzaro-American culture, I’ve done my best in recent months to ingratiate myself to a Canadian, making her draw maps of their provinces and territories and pronounce words like bag and milk over and over. She’s been a very good sport about it. With this espionage under my belt, I feel qualified to act as cultural junction between the Canadian and at least the flatlandish American. Bear with me, for some of this may be widespread news and some may just be novel to my brethren in Deep Ignorance about these matters.

Some Information About Canada:

Canada is big. But it’s also small. For all its verticality, most people live on one lateral, the one highway (Highway One) in the nation which runs from coast to coast. As far as this observer can tell, every major Canadian metropolis sits along this highway and as close to our shared border as possible without risking immediate contamination.

Despite this geographic alignment Canada isn’t quite the monolith we often assume it to be. The culture of Vancouver Island, at least, differs dramatically and I will focus there, since it’s the only part where I’m even remotely qualified to have a perspective. The national fervor for hockey, for example, doesn’t really exist there. This makes sense, as the temperate weather of the island prevents winter from existing for the most part, and ice hockey shouldn’t exist in places without natural ice to play on.

Other stereotypes hardly apply to these Victorians. They drink milk from proper jugs or cartons, not the fabled bags. The accent is mild, “aboots” are rare, though “eh”s surface occasionally. I went my entire visit without sighting a real moose (though I saw a cartoon and stuffed one) or even one Mountie. But it must be noted that this observer has caught his thoroughly Victorian girlfriend and partner in cultural exchange enjoying a maple-flavored, maple-shaped sandwich cookie with an enthusiasm that dispels any doubt that the occupants of Vancouver Island aren’t Canadian at their core.

Finally, Vancouver (the city) is not on Vancouver (the) Island. So far, this has been news to every American I’ve told. The island was labeled in 1792 and the city, once called Gastown, was renamed to match in 1886. The primary city on Vancouver (the) Island is in fact Victoria, and that is where we left the ferry, headed for Metchosin, and we return to the past once more.

A village west along the southern coast of the island from Victoria, I’ve been told the name Metchosin means something along the lines of “smelly whale”. A bit of research reveals the etymology, originally a Salish word smets-shosin meaning “place of stinking fish/smelling of fish oil”, so my sources are reliable. My flatland origins emerged once more when we arrived. Strong breezes off the Pacific just a few kilometres away rushed through conifers taller than all but the oldest of trees back in Oklahoma. The sound was insignificant to those who knew it well, but I stood and stared upwards for a long time. It’s a beautiful shushing sound that cools the land so thoroughly sweaters must be dug out for mornings and evenings.

In Metchosin: approximately possible three right turns, a cafe slash pizza place, a market, a cookie stall that’s done well on TikTok, and a grey-pebble beach full of driftwood where one must imagine the namesake whale was once and forever stranded. Here, I attempt to prove to my girlfriend’s family that I’m worthy by proving I can ride a bike (a fundamental skill that I haven’t used in over a decade). I can, it turns out, still ride a bike. The old saying holds true. The rest of my time in Metchosin, I’ll keep to myself.

When it comes to national holidays, the Canadians seem to borrow ours, adjust the angle and English slightly, then set them down declaring them to be new events. They have Thanksgiving, but it’s a long weekend in October. I presume they have Halloween, but they probably disperse locally grown produce instead of bars of corn syrup, and I bet it’s in August. Three days before our Independence Day, they have Canada Day, their own patriotic holiday where they celebrate their superiority to us in nearly every political regard. (Turns out, their socialized medicine doesn’t include dental. That’s still private, at present. Who knew?)

We spent Canada Day in downtown Victoria, which features a beautiful waterfront and a parliament building that puts every legislature in America to shame, topped with a dozen varied domes of oxidized copper. A few notes from the day:

Victorians have the best day-drinking tradition I’ve ever encountered. To open a day of boozing, a round of shafts are ordered. Shafts are what espresso martinis aspire to be when they grow up. One parts vodka, coffee liqueur, and Irish cream to two parts espresso, over ice. Once the drinks arrive and are handed out, the race commences wherein you must finish your shaft (using a straw) without stopping. Delicious, cold, strong. Perfect start to an afternoon.

Canada Day is sort of a festival. Food trucks line the street before the Parliament buildings, a soundstage features local artists, and though a fireworks display is held, there’s a larger focus on community. The occasional rebel in all black walks through the crowd with a “Fuck Canada” sign and nobody takes issue, a true sign of healthy and democratic society.

We find a spot on the grass and watch a musician finish her set with a rather depressing, bilingual opera about how we must all do something about climate change before it’s too late. Everybody agrees, but also, everybody’s sitting on the lawn enjoying a light buzz and thinking about where to acquire a soft pretzel. There will be time for policy later.

There is one more story to tell from Canada, but it deserves its own letter because this one has rambled on long enough.