The BC Life

Time passed, fish swam, the ferry cruised, I slept and grew a beard that an Alaskan would have been proud of.

Then I arrived.   Stumbling on solid ground, I shrank under Vancouver's looming skyscrapers shrinking under Vancover's looming-er mountainscapes capped with snow. My contact was Joe, son of freind of family who fix roof and windows good and go by name of 'Ladderman.'

Joe turned out to be a bit of an inspiration to a dirty urchin of a traveller like me. Round-the-world trips and excellent adventures were a tried and tested past-time to his fast-paced life. India, Tibet, Asia, Australia, you name it. He showed me his journals creased with use and crammed with thoughts and artwork of sights and scenes. I gazed morbidly at the camel leather book of my travels. The last entry somehwere in New Zealand said, simply, 'rain.' And that was all. Fucking poet.

His small but cool apartment was perfect. Kitchen, TV, playstation, graffiti, hamsters, shower, bed and a fluffy white dog. The essentials of life. The moment I was in the door I made myself at home quicker than he could say 'make yourself at home.'

Vancouver is a peach of a place to live. In a grand scale of peachi-ness the City would win a prize for being a ridiulously oversized peach of a place to live. Joe summed it up for me: 'You could be skiing down a mountain in the morning and  playing beach volleyball by the afternoon.' Peachy.

I was given a grande exspectacularr tour in Joes jeep-thing. Polatrically-opposite to New Zealands souless cities, Vancouver certainly had a vibe going on. In fact, from what I could see the town had more vibe than Herbie Hancocks well-tuned vibraphone.

For a city, it was pretty green. A few huge parks dotted the waterways where oh-so-very-english cricket and croquet lawns were trimmed to perfection, rubbing shoulders with a not-so-english giant totem park.

Granville island, a living breathing market place was a pleasant clash of colour, creed and culture. You could buy your veg and an exotic spicy chicken foot in the same room. Then there was downtown, uptown all around town. The tour was especially cool because it was informal. There was no 'to your left you will see blah blah blah.' But stuff like 'don't go down there, that's where the fags hang out.' a couple of drives down the crazily drug infested 'East Hastings Street' and a trip to the racetrack. Important places like that.

During my stay i was indoctrinated. My team, life and religion now revolves around the Vancouver Canucks ice-hockey team. They were in the running for the Stanley-Cup which they hadn't won for about a hundred years, give or take. They lost. Don't tell Joe.

I was also taught the art of poker. This started when I said, 'poker's just a game aint it?'

Apparently not. Oh God no. When we weren't talking about poker we were talking about poker. Turns out it's pretty interesting and somehow Joe's making fat profits from online tournaments.

I am now a converted player. My style was 'loose aggressive.' A dangerous style that normally loses money. In fact I was looser than the screws in President Bushes head and more aggressive than Russel Crowe's drunken mood swings involving airborne telephones. I need to be tight, tight like the belt of an American in LA. So sayeth Joe the poker mentor.

Above all his open, positive outlook possessed a youthfulness that my jeriatrich raving has all but destroyed in me. Bugger.