Great White North

Ashley’s friend Catherine is visiting us for two weeks, so we decided to take a short three-day trip down to Seattle. I’d always thought of Seattle as a cousin to Vancouver, but most of the times I’d visited in the past I hadn’t stayed long enough to really get a feel for the city. This time, I got a better opportunity to really see the city.

One of the first things that always strikes me when I cross the border into the US is the immediate presence of African-Americans. What I can’t figure out: where are all the black people in Canada? Vancouver is less than three hours from Seattle, yet you’d be hard pressed to find any black people in the city. Did the trail of the Underground Railroad arrive at the US-Canada border and Harriet Tubman said “Right, far enough.”? It’s weird.

We visited the usual tourist traps: the Space Needle, the Museum of Flight, the original Starbucks store and the Pike Place Market. We skipped the Experience Music Project this time, mostly because it’s a trip unto itself.

If nothing more, I at least learned the secret of that episode of The Simpsons where Springfield gets a monorail: Matt Groening, the show’s creator, went to Evergreen State College in Olympia, just outside Seattle. The Seattle Monorail, a leftover from Seattle’s 1962 World’s Fair, runs from the Seattle Center to its terminus in downtown Seattle, a mere 1 mile away! Everybody sing:

I swear it’s Springfield’s only choice,
Throw up your hands, raise your voice!
Monorail!
Monorail!
MONORAIL!

Though at first glance Seattle appears to be similar to Vancouver, on closer inspection it seems like every large American city. Huge multi-lane highways feed into the center of town, yet there’s still horrendous traffic congestion at rush hour. The city empties out after 5 o’clock, with the possible exception of the malls in the downtown core. Not a lot of people seem to actually live near downtown.

Maybe Seattle isn’t Vancouver’s cousin. More like an uncle, twice removed.

I. Am. Sore.

I went skiing at Cypress Mountain yesterday, the first time I’ve gone skiing in nearly ten years. And today, I am in a world of pain. Alright, “world” might be an exaggeration, but I’m at least in a small island, possibly a Pacific continent which I won’t name here, of pain. I don’t understand how ten years passed since last I went skiing. I guess with going to university and travelling, it got lost along the way.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed skiing. As a kid I joked about the almost pathological addiction of my father to skiing. He’d wake me up on Saturday winter mornings at an absurd hour, a gleeful grin on his face:

There’s fresh powder on the hills, let’s GO!

I think he enjoyed skiing just to spite me and get me out of bed early on the weekends. It was a 20-minute drive from our house to Kimberley Ski Resort, located in the sleepy town where my father worked at the local hospital. The fact that the hospital was only five minutes from the ski hill only fed his addiction, allowing a determined skier to hit the hill several times in the same work day: before work, at lunch, after work, and after dinner. And my father was a determined skier.

Mostly, I remember riding the chair lift with him, which he jokingly reminded me counted as “quality father-son time”. It was as if he were attempting to prod some omnipotent sky-bound referee to keep an accurate score.

I missed that yesterday.