23) SUNSET ON THE COAST

Thanks to all my friends out West for such a fantastic trip!

22) SUMMER IN THE CITY

I spent most of last semester in the dimly lit microfiche room at Library and Archives Canada, delving into the newspapers of late 1950s Vancouver. Douglas Jung, the first Chinese MP in Canada, was the focus of my inquiry and by extension the development of Chinatown. There was a palpable raw energy in the neighbourhood at that time: Chinese were finally allowed into professional schools, thanks to the lobbying efforts of WWII vets like Jung and his friends, and there was an optimism that characterized the opening of local libraries and public parks, and of course the jubilant victory celebrations on Pender Street the night Jung was elected to Parliament for the first time.

I ventured to the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Gardens in a vain attempt to recreate the Chinatown of my newspaper fantasies. Now located on the cusp of what is referred to as the poorest postal code in Canada, I was faced with warnings from friendly beat-cops on patrol and by the reality that East Vancouver is truly a forgotten place filled with people whom the rest of the nation has chosen to ignore. Seedy hotels, prostitutes in tattered lycra outfits, and drug addicts and alcoholics splayed on the sidewalk in the mid-afternoon sun were my signposts, leading me away from the shiny glass and metal towers of the business district and toward the dingy streets of Chinatown and beyond.

Besides my ridiculous disappointment that the 1950s Chinatown of my newspaper research had vanished, I found that the Sun Yat-Sen gardens ,which required $7 to view, were adjacent to public gardens of the same name which were free (and far superior in my estimation.) Nonetheless, it was an important side-trip in my larger journey which has kept me far from reality for the better part of the summer.

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The Chinese influence in Vancouver is unmistakeable nowadays, especially with the influx of Hong Kong residents over the past decades. I was lucky to sample some of the positive cultural imports these new Vancouverites brought with them; namely, the arcade with games like Dance Dance Revolution and the photo booths which capture images and print them on all manner of stickers and trading cards.

There is a video of me dancing like a fool with unwieldly limbs flopping about and a silly grin plastered across my face. I hope it never surfaces to see the light of day . . . .

Finally, there was a trip to the the Richmond Night Market for food and meaningless consumerism. Del let himself be subjected to traditional Chinese remedies - the flaming glass cups placed on his back which left sizeable red welts which will apparently fade in a few days. I played in safe with my pork dumplings on a stick and a bag of mini sugar donuts.

21) LOST ON A BICYCLE IN VANCOUVER

The bus trek through the Rockies from Canmore to Vancouver was no less exciting than any other of the previous legs of my journey westward. For fifteen hours, I sat huddled against the window beside Eliz, an Iranian from Little Tehran in Los Angeles who had just returned from six months in Nepal and had acquired all manner of strange illnesses which necessitated him rushing to the bathroom frequently and groaning with misery in the intervals between dashes. There is little to tell about the B.C.

interior, besides the correlation between the immens

e natural beauty of a community and the extreme dismal nature of the coffee served at their 24-hour gas stations.

By 3pm I was finally in Vancouver and skillfully navigated my way to the downtown core to see my host Matt (from my high school days). That night, we ate at a restaurant on Kitsilano beach and watched the sunset as a stage show of hula dancers entertained the throngs. We played frisbee on the beach and I darted in and out of the waves with abandon.

The next day, Matt lent me a bicycle and I began a solo cycling sight-seeing tour of the Greater Vancouver Area. Starting every morning from the UBC point, I headed along the beach trails to Granville Island for non-stop munchies, and then to other parts of the city depending on my stamina. Although I believe myself to be of a fit-persuasion, nothing prepared me for some of the hills I was required to surmount, and by the end of the day I shamelessly pushed my bicycle up the steepest parts.

Vancouver is known as a celebrity-watching city, so I was thrilled for my very own run-in with a television star. On Granville Island, I whacked Eric
McCormack (of the now defunct television show Will & Grace) with my bicycle helmet. As he was bending over a baby-carriage at the time, he was rather startled by the jolt and spun around. I apologized profusely. He accepted my apology. For a moment, I thought I might whip out my camera and take a paparazzi style shot and then dash for the exit, but decided it was better to leave the man alone.

As the years pass by, more and more friends are leaving the East Coast and heading to the Pacific. This final part of my trip is not only about sight-seeing but about catching up with Montreal friends like Del and Kija.

20) ROCKY MOUNTAIN RENDEZ-VOUS

The most desolate place on earth is the Saskatoon train station at night. With my train delayed for 2-4 hours (ultimately clocking in at 7 hours behind schedule), I bunkered down for the night with the other dozen or so passengers, on the sloping grey plastic benches.

During the night, my hunger overwhelmed me, and as there is no concession stand, no vending machine, only a water fountain, I called a taxi to take me to eat. Naturally, it was the same cabbie who had taken me to the station in the first place, and so Mansur and I became good friends, as we circled the unlit streches of road that separate the train yard from the bad neighbourhoods, and the bad neighbourhoods from the urban civilization of all-night strip malls.

After a sleepless night, I boarded the train ready to sleep; however, Steve (the oldest bicycle courrier in Toronto who just turned 69) had other ideas. A vegan since the 1960s, and avid cyclist who has biked across Canada twice, the director of a low-income housing complex established to helprecovering drug addicts, Steve was a non-stop chatter box, who slurped from his packets of miso soup that he ate from plastic origami bowls.

As the wheat fields faded into the distance and the scrub of Albertain cattle country overtook the landscape, I was rather saddened to leave the flat prairies behind.

Mat collected me from the station, and we spent a couple days seeing the sights of Edmonton - like that international landmark the West Edmonton Mall, with its array of garish lights, screaming children, flamingos encased in glass sanctuaries, indoor theme park, ice rink, movei theatre with mechanical fire-breathing dragon.

Eventually, we set off for Jasper and our camping trip down the Icefields highway.

Despite all my travels, I have never experienced anything quite like the Rocky Mountains. Snow-capped peaks, glacier water streams, endless forests carpeted with silky moss, four-legged animals that skulk about the brush. With my red bear bell and purple safety whislte, I was the most fashionable camper in the forest!

On the second day, I broke the tent. Well, I broke a pole, which Mat says occured most likely due to age and wear-and-tear, but as a non-camper on my first outdoor excursion, it was embarassing to be the one to break the tent.

There were so many beautiful vistas, I cannot even begin to describe them individually, and not until the end of the trip was I even able to distinguish the differences in the mountain ranges.

After a stop in Lake Louise during a storm with HAIL, and then Banff, we arrived in the little town of Canmore on the Bow River.

18) LUCKY 214

We were drinking coffee in a public square, when we noticed a cavalcade of well-heeled Saskatoonians thronging past us. In the land of denim and plaid, it was quite a sight to see leather briefcase toting men and swooshing skirts on women. Intrigued, we followed them inside a local storefront and to our amazement stumbled upon a bankruptcy liquidation auction in process for one of the high-end stores on the downtown strip.

I have a pentient for shopping, the thrill of the hunt, yet nothing prepared me for the odyssey of the fashion auction. For EIGHT HOURS, we hunkered down and watched the locals bidding on bins of Hugo Boss ties and Versace suits. Befriending Sarah, a back-row bidder, and incidentally the best friend of the wife of the son of the auctioneer, we learned first hand how to score the best items.

There were coat racks, and framed posters, thousands of belts, socks, pants, shirts, ties, shoes. Items were first sold individually by size, the top bidder receiving the option to purchase the entire lot, or select items from the group before the second bidder had a chance to scan the merchandise and so on and so forth.

It was probably during a round of jeans in the 44" waist group, with no end in sight, that I went home to change and escape the bone-chilling air conditioning. I returned to find Ameera thrusting her little number 214 in the air with abandon, a pile of loot propped up on the chair before her. As the night dragged on, and cartons of food from the local Chinese restaurant 'Ding Dong,' cups from Starbucks and wrappers from A&W amassed on the floor beneath the fold up chairs, the professionals sipping from flasks of soup and unpacking sandwiches from coolers, that the camaraderie snowballed into outright enthusiasm and a little community was born from the depths of hunger, fatigue and a collective passion for consumerism. There was cheering and clapping, and advice on colour and size. Never had the act of shopping, even in the open market, ever been so communal; never had the validation of a purchase come from so many, so loudly, so immediately.

As $500 shoes were selling for $15, Ameera clambered upon a table and thrust herself into the melee to fight for gifts for her husband's pending birthday. My own big purchase of the night, a $1300 alligator bag bought for $100 produced a swarm of bidders who had missed the luggage round during a smoke-break and tried to ply their bartering skills to deprive me of my shopping glory - all no avail.

By midnight, with a box brimming with finds ($4000 of merchandise for under $400), we reluctantly headed out into the street. Joe, the auctioneer who had been at his microphone since 9am, without a bathroom break, without anything more than a few sips of coffee, was still full in voice, rolling the escalating prices off his tongue, a seamless string of numbers and words, the song of a true salesman: "Do I hear 15, 15, 15, that's right I said 15, to the gentleman in the back, 20, 20, 20 do I hear 20, street value of $400 dollars look at those colours, thank you at 20, and now 25, 25, 25, who doesn't want this for a Christmas gift, it might look good on you sir, thank you, at 30, 30, 30, and remember folks absolutely everything can be sold on e-bay at a profit . . . ."

17) BIG SKY COUNTRY

16) SASKATOON'S PUBLIC ART & JOURNALISTS WITH A WEBCAM

15) YARIS AND CRAIK

Saskatchewan is known as "Big Sky Country,' yet without the help of our little Toyota Yaris, (possibly the smallest car on the market, possibly also available at Toys R Us ) we never would have seen what all the fuss is about: endless fields of canola, wheat, flax, untamed grasses that stretch to the horizon on all sides.

With dwindling populations and poor agricultural yields, communities are banding together to encourage tourism, mostly through the construction of 'landmarks' : giant sculptures to lure drivers away from the monotiny of the highway and into the coffee shops and if possible motels that cluster along the main artery between Saskatoon and Regina.

But sadly the novelty is fleeting (eg. the giant tea kettle and cup in Davidson) and in communities like Craik, with a dwindling population of 400, the need for a long-term strategy that supercedes the current rusted 'Buffalo Hunter' statue is evident.

The development of an eco-village was the first step, but a solar powered restaurant hardly seems enough to sustain an entire town. Then along came Joe Turgeon, the potential saviour of Craik, much to the skepticism of the locals. The North Dakota farmer brought with him an imported hay-bailer and an entrepreneurial dream. Following a southern U.S. building trend, Turgeon wants to bring flax houses to Craik. Instead of timber, the frames are entirely fabricated from bales of flax.