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)
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)
posted by Former Fat Girl Gone Skinny | 8:44 AM
1 Comments:
Well, sounds like a perfect land for dutchman! After all, The Netherlands is the wettest country in Europe, and most of us are always prepared for rain.
My sister, on vacation in Australia, where her travel goup was suppsised by a thundershower, walked to her backpack, and took out her dry clothes. After all, doesn't everybody pack their stuff in a garbagebag, to keep it dry inside your pack?
Well, apparantly not, and she was regarded with lots of envy, beeing the only one with dry clothes\stuff in the entire camp....
It does sound like you enjoyed it in Canada.
Can't wait to see the pictures.
Post a Comment
<< Home