A Chicago Yankee in Queen Elizabeth's Court

So anyway, as I was saying about Canada…

Canada is the 2^nd largest country in the world, and is also one of the more sparsely populated. At 30 million (roughly the population of the ten or fifteen largest cities in the US), there’s lots of room to spread out. Admittedly, much of it is uninhabitable unless you are born with seal skin, but even so, the cities I’ve visited have been obvious cosmopolitan centers (centres!), but in a way much different from their U.S. counterparts.

However, it’s not all sunshine in the Land Up North. In fact, per my last post (below), in some instances, it’s barely sunshine, or at least rarely. Anyway, I’ve put together List 2: Other Things To Know About Vancouver, for when our friends and loved ones cross the border and visit us in the Land of Rain.

The Traffic

1. Vancouver doesn’t have the gridlock that chokes Chicago, but it’s still the 3^rd largest city in Canada, and so there’s traffic everywhere. Cars are smaller, and there are more cars than vans or SUVs, but they have the right of way in all situations. This includes people. Stay on the sidewalks until the little white man says it’s ok to cross. I mean this. Unless you are already more than halfway across the road when the ‘don’t walk’ sign comes on, stay put. Pedestrians are optional here. If you’re stuck in the middle of a boulevard, deal with it. It’s better to get wet than to get flattened.

2. Don’t ever assume that it’s safe to cross the street, even on a red light. Vancouver, like Toronto and Ottawa is a walking city, meaning it’s easier to get around on foot or via bicycle than it is in a car. This is obvious, and it puts a crankiness in Canadian drivers that appears when they turn the ignition and vanishes as soon as they exit the car.Always look both ways, a couple of times, before leaving the curb.

Once in the street, keep your head moving in a constant left-right-left-right motion until you’re back on the sidewalk. Be prepared to stop or sprint as needed. Don’t expect to get any love from the public transportation, either. Buses lurch through the streets like dragons on Red Bull. Stay clear. These are awesome, low-key folks, but man, nobody likes being on the roads. It is always best just to let them pass.

3. NEVER JAYWALK! I have yet to see a local do it, and the few bicyclist who have attempted it have gashes in their gear to show how unwise this idea is. There is plenty of time to get to your destination. Find an intersection and wait your turn.

4. The rule above has one exception-the pedestrian crosswalk. Move with confidence in these spaces. They’re traffic oases, and cars will stop for you, no matter their speed as they approach. Don’t dawdle and don’t stray from the white lines, but otherwise, go ahead and cross without a light in these spaces. They’re rare, but they exist, and they are respected.

Food & Drink

1. Learn to love sushi. You’ll starve to death otherwise. We love sushi, and had planned to eat every beyond-the-condo meal at a different sushi restaurant. We did that, and I’m glad. But I admit that if we hadn’t been raw fish maniacs, it would have been much tougher to stay on our WW program. The Vancouver magazine noted that sushi restaurants are as plentiful as sea urchins in a kelp bed. This is accurate, and also something of an inside joke to uni eaters. Learn the joke. Get used to real wasabi. Grow to love sticky rice.
   

2. Get comfy with eating in restaurants you’ve never heard of. Chains don’t exist in Vancouver the way they do in the U.S. I saw 1 Burger King, 3 McDonalds, and a Denny’s, though I think that was shut down. Most eateries are café style, boutique type foods, and while that’s interesting, they’re still about the ‘shovel food in ‘em and get ‘em out so we can turn the tables’ variety. Thai, Russian, Vietnamese (lots of Pho here), French, and tapas are available, but everything is golden brown and swimming in le fries Francais. Maybe there’s a reason that Vancouver walks everywhere-it’s required in order to stay thin. And, speaking of thin…

3. Prepare to feel fat. Vancouverites of all varieties (indigenous, citizens, foreign nationals and students taking up the good stools at the coffee shops) are skinny. Not terrifyingly so, but thin enough that overweight people stand out. Canada is like the U.S. was in the 1970s, before obesity hit epidemic proportions. Everyone was more or less normal body weight, everyone was more or less active, and it was pretty tough to find accommodations for the obese.

Canadians don’t appear to discriminate, but there are so few heavy people that there isn't room for them, as it were. I would have felt like a whale in that city if I had gone before I started losing weight. Heck, I would have felt that way anytime before about 10 pounds ago. The whole country is taut, thin, and euro-looking. I adore them for it, but I recognize also that it’s only because I kind of look like that now. It would have been another thought entirely if I'd needed a plus-sized anything.

4. Become a hunter/gatherer of hot items. This is surprisingly difficult, considering how cold rain is (again, see post below). I was constantly looking for something steaming. Even the green tea at the sushi places, normally too hot to hold the cup, was alarmingly tepid. And by the way, leave your coat on when you go into any place. These people are so outdoorsy that they leave doors and windows open regardless of weather. I nearly froze to death in Yale Town, because despite the 45 degree temperature and the torrential downpour, the waitress kept propping the door open. Even when the customers would close it (or attempt to close it a little) as they left, she would skip right over, haul the thing wide open and kick the stopper in place. The restaurant was not hot (it wasn’t even warm, as evidenced by the shivering clientele), everything was wet from the rain, and the last time I checked, most sushi is served cold. Yet, there she was, and the few of us who remained mostly shrugged it off as a local custom we didn’t understand, held our chopsticks in quaking fingers and finished up as quickly as we could. If we’re going to freeze, we might as well be moving. That way, we have a better chance of raising our core body temperature and keeping warm(ish).

Architecture

1. Not only is Vancouver the City of Glass, it is also the City of Balconies. Every high rise holds its own set of “get outside” patios that pepper the buildings like shingles. Maybe it’s that the weather is balcony-friendly so infrequently that residents can't risk waiting to ride the elevator down to the lobby before they're out in it. The sunshine might not last that long. So, no matter the size, style or fitting of the building, they all have balconies. Even the Westin Hotel had balconies. I find that fascinating, considering that the windows would not open. So, it’s unsafe to let some fresh air in, but perfectly all right to lop yourself whole-body into the atmosphere. Sure. Ya-hey, right?

2. All hail the scaffolding, awnings and general protrusions on the sidewalks. All storefronts have some form of umbrella-like structure in front of their display windows. Makes sense. If I risk a soaking by stopping to view the snow boot collection, I’m moving on. BUT if I get a little boost for my umbrella, I might just take a moment, browse the selection and step inside, letting my ‘brolly’ rest in the stand for a minute.

And speaking of that, Vancouver appears to be exempt from window steaming. It seems to defy physics that it’s so wet and rainy outdoors and so dry inside, and yet I never saw a single fogged up window. It must be akin to the roads in St. Louis, MO, that have some substance that keeps them from melting in the heat (but, by the way, makes them wildly slippery to drive on in the rain). I never felt at risk of losing my footing, despite the rain and the hilly terrain. So, the sidewalks are ski-proof and the windows are fog-free. Oh wait; maybe it’s because they keep the doors open.

Final musings

Pee before you leave the country. If you heed only one piece of advice, make it this one. Public restrooms (called washrooms) are completely absent. Even in places where you’d think they’d be required, such as a food court, they don’t exist. Signs are everywhere, ‘no public washroom, sorry’. Even in the places they did exist, you had to buy a coffee, AND a pastry, leave your laptop and all your cash behind the counter, count to 10 in French and then backward in Mandarin, and pledge that you would not tell anyone in the U.S. that you were permitted to use the can. Maybe it’s a green-country, save the water thing, or maybe it’s just not done the way we do it here. But oh my, both Howard and I nearly succumbed to racing behind a dumpster more than once. It is painfully difficult to find somewhere to relieve yourself of recycled coffee. Emphasis on the painful part. Take a port-o-let with you, build up a steel bladder, or risk dehydration. There really is no other way.

Other than that, the place was perfect. I’m still wearing my Canadian-flag embroidered Vancouver Fleece everywhere, forsaking the beautiful leather jackets Howard bought me earlier in the year. I shunned sushi until today, worried that after having local fish for a whole week, eating the ‘imported’ variety would disappoint me so badly that I could only do sashimi out of the country. And, I’m working to get DS to a Walgreen’s, so that he can get his own passport, and then, come spring, when the winter is over and the rain has gone, we can travel through customs as a threesome.

A the E(xpatriate Hopeful)

Singin' In The Rain

I am a roller coaster hound, and Cedar Point is my Motherland. Whenever I go, I eschew most of its offerings in favor of scream-ripping roller coasters. I’ve done other things at The Point-gambling, midway, shows and (now) a sprint through the gauntlet of Fried Stuff on Sticks. I even went to the beach once (Cedar Point is on the shores of Lake Erie). But since I barely make it there anymore, and I suspect that eventually my age will catch up with me, and I won’t be able to board the brain-battering rides, I spend the bulk of my time doing what I love--catapulting down clackety, man-made mountains, screaming and waving my hands in the air.

There is, however, one ride at Cedar Point that I avoid entirely. I think it’s called Water Canyon. In case you didn’t catch the hint of its theme in the array of pictures and wood-carved graphics stating, “You WILL get wet on this ride”, know that Water Canyon’s sole mission is to douse its riders until they are wringing wet and shivering. It’s tempting, to some, on searing hot days, but it has no appeal to me. I didn’t do the Wet T-shirt thing during Spring Break, and so I’m not about to put myself in a place where thousands of strangers can comment on the fact that I still wear plain white skivvies.

It’s interesting to me, then, that I would choose just such a Water Canyon for my honeymoon. Howard and I ticked through cities worldwide, our only real criteria being that we would go somewhere that neither of us had ever been. That proved tough with Howard’s 20-year travel career and my own smattering of ‘I Have To Get Away From You’ excursions peppering my past. In the end, we decided that we should head to Canada. I adore all things Canadian, as does Howard. Moreover, he has a bit of lingering Anglophilia going on from his years spent living in England. So, we turned our eyes north in search of a honeymoon destination. Toronto, Ottawa, Calgary, Montreal, and Quebec City proved too cold for our liking, and so we shifted west, to the great Pacific/Canadian Rockies beauty that is Vancouver, British Columbia. Someone once told me that Canada is the California of North America. If that’s so, then British Columbia is the California of Canada, and Vancouver is the California of B.C. What’s not to love about the left-most west coast in our hemisphere? Vancouver, here we come.

Not just Vancouver, mind you, but Vancouver in the Rainy Season. Vancouver on the lip of a 5-month drizzle/shower/windless hurricane that leaves the whole of the city looking as if it has just spent half a year on Water Canyon.

I did this on purpose-we want to move here someday, and I wanted to try it out when the weather was crummy. It’s easy to plant your mental roots in a town where the sun soaks your face and the cyclists smile as they zoom by. It’s quite another to commit to a metropolis when you can’t feel your feet and you’re wondering if perhaps snow isn’t all that bad.

I checked in with weather.com a few days before the wedding and noted that our entire vacation would be 50 degrees and rainy. Well, ‘a few showers’ on a couple of days, ‘rain’ on a couple more, and ‘wind with possible storms’ to round it out. That’s ok, I consoled myself. I’m on my honeymoon-I don’t need to be outside the whole time. I knew the weather would be like this. I wanted it that way. Howard wanted it that way. We are here to acquaint ourselves with the dark side of the Monsoon.

And so we did. We arrived to overcast skies, giggling at the “Please Queue” sign at the taxi stand and swooning over the courteous customs agent (seriously, he was really nice). We rode to our condo in ‘scattered showers’ and when we lifted the blinds in the living room and took in the floor-to-ceiling view of Grouse Mountain, Stanley Park, and the Vancouver Rowing Club, I noticed slanting water streaks on the windows. “Look, honey,” I told Howard, “it’s raining.” Howard looked out the window, we ‘oooh’d together as a seaplane descended toward the bay, and he smiled. “It’s not so bad. Let’s go out for some lunch.”

We headed toward Robson Street, and the rain trickled along, snapping into spontaneously-formed mini-puddles. I smiled as I watched the little water dance. How charming. The rain here has its own personality.

Well, yes, it does. But not in the way I imagined.

I thought I could handle the rain and that I wouldn’t need any special training or accoutrement to manage it. Oh, the hubris of the 4-season dweller. First of all, rain is wet. Yes, that’s obvious, but racing through a downpour on your way from the parking lot to the mall is entirely different from walking for miles in a steady, silver fall. Eventually, rain soaks through coats, hats, mittens, shoes, socks and skin until there is no reprieve until said skin goes numb and there is no more feeling to feel.

Second, rain is cold. Noting a ’50 degrees and rain’ on the weather channel says nothing of the fact that 50 degrees is the daily high, and that the rain may not allow it to get that warm, or if it does, that it won’t matter, because you’re so far removed from relief when the ‘high’ is reached that you wish it would go away. Fifty degrees just might thaw out your hands, and then they’ll freeze anew when the next shower begins. Which, it will, any minute.

I added something extra to my Going Out There clothing every day, and yet somehow, I was never quite warm enough. I lopped on a euro-looking hat and stretchy gloves on Day 1. That helped until they got wet, and as both were knit, mostly all they did was keep the water close to my flesh. On Day 2, I layered up, donning both of my colder-weather sweaters underneath my rain jacket. Again, it did help, but somehow the rain managed to jump up under my coat and seep through the hems of my sweaters, causing thigh-level coldness and wet. Moreover, on that day, we wound up on a main street where the puddles ran together to make rivulets, attacking my shoes completely and my jeans up to the shins.

On Day 3, I opted to discard all decorum and wore everything I brought, plus spent the day in search of Vancouver Fleece. Apparently, all the locals wear it. I knew this, but shrugged it off before I arrived. Why wear fleece in the rain? It’ll only get wet. Well, maybe regular fleece shrinks and soaks in the rain, but Vancouver Fleece is rain proof. Howard and I noticed at once that we were warmer and dryer. Howard acquired an oilskin duster as well, and he was so dry that he walked around without an umbrella. I really envy him.

If I were moving there immediately, I would invest in better clothes. Being there without a rubber wardrobe is akin to visiting downtown Chicago in January, wearing only a London Fog. Surprised we’re still contemplating a move? Don’t be. The Vancouverites, while not as effusive as I’d expected, are pleasant, friendly, polite, and urban in a Not-U.S. way. I love it. I hope Howard does too. I’ll love it more as soon as my waterproof trousseau is complete. As soon as I get up the nerve, I’m having a maple leaf tattooed on the lone dry spot on my body…wherever that is.

And so, for those contemplating a vacation up here, or for loved ones who wish to visit once we emigrate, I’ve composed this helpful list of things to know about urban downpours.


Bring enough money to buy waterproof everything. Spend the time to get things you really love. You’ll be wearing them a lot.

Carry your umbrella everywhere, even if it’s sunny. Trust me, it won’t last. Besides, it’s perfectly all right to carry an umbrella when it’s not raining. Likewise, it’s just fine if you want to open your umbrella and walk under it once the rain has stopped. In typical, ‘ya-hey, do what you like’, Canadian fashion, it’s also perfectly all right to carry your closed umbrella during a rain storm. I saw this more than once, and I am still in awe.

Don’t worry about having space to walk around in a sea of umbrellas on a crowded street. Folks are very generous with umbrella space, and that runs counter to how I expected it to be. I figured that umbrellas would be at a premium here, and everyone would jostle for “brolly space” and huddle under their own hoods. Not so. In fact, there are so many umbrellas that you could walk around downtown and stay reasonably dry, since there is no real space where an umbrella is not opened and in use. In typical ‘we all share’ west coast fashion, even the panhandlers stay dry. “Orphaned” umbrellas are left outside, opened so folks can see they are usable, and then, when someone happens by who needs one, they pick it up with a smiling nod and carry on.

Choose your umbrella with care. Size is not so important as function, and it will be with you a lot. And don’t worry about making an Umbrella Statement-they are not only practical here, they edge on the Medically Necessary. Think of them as a Canopy For Your Exposed Skin. But, go ahead and splurge on something fun. Black is the most popular color, but there are plenty of primaries, patterns and silliness in the nylon to make the sidewalks interesting during showers (which is always). Women don camouflage umbrellas, men hold pastels, and even share those pastels with other men (and even do so when both are heterosexual. Color matters not, but good sense does.)

If approaching someone on the sidewalk who is walking under an umbrella, as you are (this will happen so often you won’t notice it), tilt your umbrella slightly to the outside. Your partner will do the same, thus covering you both slightly and preventing an umbrella collision and risking a tear in either’s fabric. While it’s fine to carry a destroyed umbrella (I saw one that was little more than a bike wheel covered with a lonely, sad dishcloth), it’s always better to take special care of your rain guard. Respect your neighbor’s umbrella, too. You never know when you might have to share it.

Avoid puddles. This is harder than it sounds and seriously important. It’s hard to say when you’ll next be somewhere warm and dry enough to de-shoe, and so you’re stuck with a little bit of rain forest against your feet until further notice. It really is worth walking on the curb or sidling perpendicular to the foot traffic, if it means your feet stay out of the off-road lakes.

Become addicted to coffee. There are 2 chains here-Starbucks and Blenz (the Canadian Starbucks equivalent, but nicer, neater, and cheaper). The neighborhoods also have local haunts, most with wireless access and an array of fun, local food (such as the rhubarb muffin and peanut butter/chocolate chip cookie I saw yesterday in SoMa). Coffee shops are warm, dry, and serve hot things. There’s little else that needs explaining. Plus, they have the largest umbrella stands and that’s important. It’s rude to drag your soaking umbrella into any establishment, and so every place has a stand. Leave your umbrella there, taking care to shake out the excess rain (outside!), and then fold it up and put it down. It’ll still be there when you leave. Everyone has their own.

Next up: Traffic and Food/Drink, followed by Ode to Mooseland or some other such Canada-phile post. I have lots & lots to say about this Land of Water.

Oh, and P.S.-all that pre-wedding weight loss disappeared. Despite walking my feet off and eating only egg whites and sushi, I am sitting at 149 pounds. Very annoying. Clearly, the U.S. makes me fat.

A the O (Canada)

Goin' To The Chapel

So, let’s talk about the wedding.

It took nearly 9 months of planning and 24 years of wishing, but it happened at long last. On October 13, I married Howard Rosen, the man of my dreams. In the course of myriad decisions surrounding said Event, he became my husband, my partner, my very best friend, my (other) maid of honor, and my son’s Daddy. Excuse me, our son’s Daddy.

In the midst of making all my dreams come true, I managed to dip down to a svelte 144.875 on Saturday morning. I haven’t seen 144 since the 1970s, and wow, that was cool.

I don’t expect the weight loss to last. I was running around like a madwoman all week, shunning my usual shy ways and smiling and talking more than I usually do, which apparently burns all kinds of calories. I was also picking at my food, rather than eating it, so my guess is that the 2 pound loss is a wedding present to myself, and now I will have to spend the rest of my life knowing that I weigh more “now” than I did On My Wedding Day.

Of course it meant that my gown, which was sewn to my body 3 weeks before was now sliding down off my sad little shrunken rack, and so I spent the evening hitching it up in a most unladylike fashion. I also discovered during the cocktail hour that I was stepping on my dress whenever I moved, and so I had to hold my breath during the whole of my first dance with Howard. That was interesting, but surprisingly very easy, since I was so nervous, I wasn’t breathing anyway. Sometimes I can be very lucky.

The evening had its moments, and while most of it was spectacular, a few things need to be showcased. One guest intimated that I should consider a Jugs “refill”, since I’d lost so much of my décolleté in the slide down the scales. Another hinted that I should consider an Octopus-ectomy, so I could show off my new body, rather than having to shroud my Mommy Tummy with beads or low-slung jeans. She actually thought I chose my gown in order to camouflage my midsection. It saddens me that some people are so unhappy with themselves that they would assume I’d be just as self-critical, and would welcome their ‘friendly’ advice.

These teeny pieces aside, the evening was a delight. The men all looked dapper, the women beautiful, and despite a little Chuppah Hiccup at 5pm, the room glowed with color and light. My heart thumped so hard as I waited for my turn in the processional that the silver beads on my gown jumped with every breath. I was sure I would faint from anticipation, and then, when I turned the corner and stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, joy and elation overwhelmed me. I saw Howard at the front, and while I sensed the people around me, my eyes focused forward and my mind shrank to Right Now. Forty weeks of plans, problems, decisions, and splitting endless hairs and bills with Howard, and it all melted away in that moment. Here I was, at the top of the aisle, and at the end was the destination I’d yearned for the whole of my adult life.

My darling boy sat with Lynda the Nanny-Goddess and her amazing husband, Karl. DS smiled and was quiet throughout the whole of the ceremony. I know this only from talking to Lynda, since I didn’t see him. I was looking for him in the front row and worried that he’d want to jump up and get married, too. He stood with us during the rehearsal and even walked with me during one of the practice processional runs.

I feared it was a mistake to include him in the dry run, but I couldn’t stop myself. Howard and I had talked to him about getting married for months, and whenever we brought it up, he’d always say, “I want to get married, too.” So it seemed mean not to include him in the rehearsal. Even so, including a 5-year old in something and then asking him to sit silent and invisible the next night borders on the cruel. But he was an angel throughout, and then, when it was over, he fell asleep at the head table, with his head on my lap and my fingers stroking his hair.

It, like nearly everything else that night, was perfect.

In the end, just as Howard predicted, it didn’t matter that some folks no-showed and that some folks posted that I would have preferred stay home. It wasn’t My Night (I didn’t want that), and it wasn’t anyone else’s either. It was elegant, beautiful, and when it was over, I had Howard as my Husband For Life, and DS had an in-house, at-home Daddy.

Wow.

In the array of parties and hoopla that surrounded the rehearsal and the wedding, I managed to get chided for abandoning my blog readership. My new Aunt, “Queens” was most vocal. “You’re going to start blogging again, right?” Another friend huffed at the lack of material the last 2 months. "I'm not going to start working at the office, you know. Post up, baby. Wedding's over. Come on already."

Well, promise made, and promise kept. I may be the happiest woman on the planet, but there’s all kinds of things to skewer in my new role as "now, what's your new name again?" Married life may mellow me, but the sharp-tongued gal lives on. A Rosen by any other name, and all that.

The honeymoon is officially over. It's time to get back to work.

A the R(eturning to Regularly Scheduled Ranting)