Written by
Many people might wonder what it is I dislike about Vancouver; after all, Canada is pretty much our brother… well, maybe not. Perhaps our sister? Maybe just our "special" second cousin to the north…
At any rate, I loathe Vancouver. I have felt this way since the first time I was here in the early 90s; 1992, to be precise. November 5. As I corralled my bags and wrestled them into the back of his cab the middle eastern driver began (in heavily accented English) to regale me with the virtues of Bill Clinton… a wonderful man, by goat herding standards. After listening to the tale of idol worship for the sax blowing, white loafer wearing, snake oil peddling Clinton for what seemed an eternity, I tried to change the subject… "Who is the Canadian PM these days?" He was stumped.
This is what normally happens to me in Vancouver; every time I am there I am magnetically drawn to people who want to tell me in depth what's wrong with America. Interestingly enough, I have made the acquaintance of many Canadians in the US who behave in the same fashion. ("You know what's wrong with America? You Americans spend too much money on defense! You should be spending your money on your people, not on defense!" The correct response to this, by the way, is "You're absolutely right! From now on buy your own damn M-16s and ammo and planes and tanks and MREs… and the next time the Germans are occupying France, YOU take care of it! You win a cold war, and then lecture me on how to save humanity, ok?) I have never attempted to tell any Canadian how to conduct his affairs. I always figured if you are a citizen of another nation you have a right to elect your own officials and live as you see fit. Further, I avoid questioning Canadian law and custom, even when it makes no sense.
Today is one of those makes no sense kind of days. It began at 5:30 am… on a cruise ship. I rise and haul my assorted luggage odds and ends to the deck where I am frisked by the company I work for; they want to make sure I'm not smuggling silverware or cheap towels. (It would seem this is a problem… I have never seen anyone caught trying to steal company property. I have seen plenty of cruise directors steal material, but that can't be pulled from a duffle with an embarrassing "AHA!") after my luggage was thoroughly rifled, I was graciously allowed to repack it… then off to Canadian Customs. I'm working a run from Vancouver to Alaska; total amount of time on Canadian soil on any given week? 5-6 hours. Today is different, though; I'm leaving. I pass briefly through Canada enroute to Texas. Total time in Canada? About 2 hours. I'm headed to the airport. I have my ticket and passport in hand when I get pulled from the line for a "special" inspection.
My bags, which have already been x-rayed and hand inspected twice, are x-rayed and hand inspected again. My digital camera is turned on and my private photos are scrolled through. (Nothing but ice floes, an eagle, and a few sleepy Alaskan towns… sorry Gord. Fresh out of kiddy porn.) When that gambit fails, my shaving kit is dissected and each of my over the counter and prescription meds are handed to me for show and tell. I explain the use of my blood pressure medication,(I only take it when I have to go through Canada), why I have ibuprofen, ("why do you need such a big bottle of it?" Because since I arrived I've had a pain right about… oh never mind…) and for some reason my bottle of baby aspirin elicits the greatest suspicion. ("What do you need baby aspirin for?" By way of helping you through a similar ordeal, don't tell them, as I did, that you are "medicating your inner child".)
All this accomplished was to annoy, irritate, and delay me unnecessarily. While I endured this inquisition a veritable parade of humanity passed through Canadian customs unscathed; residents of India, Pakistan, Russia, the Philippines, Indonesia, Micronesia, Polynesia, Amnesia, and Milk of Magnesia. Each received a jolly smile, a wave, and a helping hand with whatever ticking pasteboard box they carried into the heart of Canada's answer to Hollywood.
The van driver had the speech pattern and lack of volume control that denote a serious undiagnosed head trauma. He babbled nonstop all the way to the Vancouver international airport, decrying the actions of the Illuminati, telling us how George Bush was directly responsible for all the ills of the world, and trying unsuccessfully to sell us vitamins. When not handing out pamphlets to hawk herbal remedies, trying to enlist our aid to stop the new world order or complaining about Chinese air pollution causing birth defects in British Columbia he went about the business of making risky turns and precise sudden stops that propel heavy baggage from peoples laps into the back of other peoples heads. By the time we arrive we all display the speech pattern and lack of volume control that denote a serious undiagnosed head trauma. I tell him I never buy vitamins because "YOU CAN'T get the darn THINGS through CUSTOMS!"
The Vancouver airport is a tastefully decorated institution of higher irritation. I approach the ticket counter with my ticket and passport in hand. All seems in order… until it is discovered that I didn't check in online. I have no seat assignment. The ticket agent seems at a loss. She isn't sure what to do, so she enlists the aid of two other ticket agents, who fetch a manager. The manager tells me they aren't sure how to proceed, so I chime in with a not so cheery "ASSIGN me a SEAT and please let me GO HOME!" Nothing doing. The manager gets on the phone with the office, which is mostly closed on a Sunday but partially open because they know the van drivers in Vancouver will be hauling their ticket agents to the airport. After forty minutes of being on hold the manager is told to assign me a seat and let me go home. Why didn't I think of that? Now comes the game show portion of my flight experience; a little test of skill they call "weigh your luggage". I place my bags on the scale individually and find that one of them weighs 52 pounds. I am told the allowance is 50. I counter with the international flight defense, explaining that 70 pounds is the maximum for an international flight, and I am, after all, flying to another frigging country. Nothing doing. The manager is a geography wiz with a future in politics… she explains that, as everyone knows, Canada is part of North America… and so is America! As such it can't be an international flight. (Really! It happened!) I pay 25 bucks for the privilege of not being forced to open my bags yet again and hand her the van drivers card. She looks like an excellent candidate for vitamin sales.
American customs is next, after a brusque forced march through a duty free shop no mans land and a tangled tens-a-belt admission line worthy of space mountain. My customs officer speaks with a thick Ricky Ricardo Cuban patois that unnerves me, but he waves me through with a minimum of hassle. Once inside the secure portion of the airport I am trapped with all my fellow country men in an area that is officially US territory and has a raft of convenience and magazine stores that all accept American money… and give only Canadian change. We also have a Tim Horton's coffee and sandwich shop on our side, along with a terrible deli and a Chinese restaurant of dubious quality selling food none of us wants. On the Canadian side of the airport we yanks are treated to a view through the inch thick bullet proof glass of a Burger king, right next to a Cinnabon… we gape and drool as the odors of the food we crave waft through the gaps in the glass partition, longing for these icons as fervently as Gatsby longed for that green light. A native (aboriginal?) mask of a crow mocks us as we nibble tentatively at our gristly all dark meat and connective tissue chicken salad sandwiches, our pockets a-jingle with useless change.
i HATE vancouver.