A penthouse, concierge, and spandex

Let me tell you, if I had a dollar for every time I woke up to thousands of spandex-clad women cheering outside of my window…

There’s a first for everything.  Apparently, there was a marathon in the city that day.  It was sponsored by Lululemon, a women’s exercise clothing company headquartered in Vancouver.  We learned later that the race drew people from all over North America, and we saw people wearing their race numbers all over town.

But we were on vacation, and 7am was for suckers.

After a couple more hours of sleep, we went to the 19th story for the penthouse breakfast.  If I had a dollar for every time I started my day with breakfast in a hotel penthouse…

We were very disappointed to find that they didn’t even leave out spagetti noodles for us to use in our coffee.  What kind of place is this?

Full, well rested, and very happy we weren’t currently running a marathon, Aimee and I headed downstairs to ask the concierge for advice on where to visit. I was getting dangerously comfortable with luxury travel.

But it actually was great to have a concierge to talk with. Aimee and I had done a bit of research ahead of time, and we knew that Stanley Park was a must-see. It’s a city-defining space that dwarfs New York’s Central Park. Stanley Forrest may have been a better name.

But after chatting with concierge for a bit (and declining her offer to set us up with a private car, then a rental, then a taxi--“Do the city busses run there?”), I think the concierge started to understand who she was dealing with. And out of the blue, she said, “You know what, I like you. You look like my son,” and she handed us a pair of free passes on one of those open top tourist busses.

Yes, one of those. Aimee and I wouldn’t have signed up for one of these in a million years, especially once we found out what they normally cost. But a free pass to tour a city that was bankrupting us by the minute? Sign us up!

It was time to change into our birkenstocks, and hang some cameras around our necks. We were going on a bus tour!

But it actually was a lot of fun.  Most of the Vancouver facts that I’ve been dropping into these stories came from listening to the bus driver as he took us around the city. We learned a ton.

The best part was that we could hop on and off the bus at several points around the city. First stop: Stanley Park.

I can’t believe that this was the only photo I took of the park. And this isn’t even the park; we’re looking out across the bay at one of the nicer neighborhoods in Vancouver. The park itself is a 1,001-acre urban green space with botanical gardens, miles (well, kilometers) of walking trails, and several cultural museums. We could have spent days there.

But there was more to see on the Big Bus Tour of Vancouver, and the next stop was Granville Island.

Now, I should point out that whenever we asked a local about Granville Island (even our concierge), they responded identically: “Yeah, well, um, I guess you should go there. The tourists always go there.” So we knew exactly what we were getting into, even before we saw this little gem of graffiti.

Canadians are so polite.

Granville “Island” is really just some repurposed space under a freeway. I have the distinct feeling that some developer bought the land in the 70s, and everyone thought he was crazy. Then he put up a bunch of cottages and retail space, and ran a few ferries to the docks.  Now an urban blight was an urban gold mine.

The farmers market was the main draw, but it was the kind of market where farmers were really more of an abstract concept.  But Artisan Cheese and Imported Dried Fruit Market doesn’t have the same ring to it.

So we hung around the island for about an hour, until we realized that we couldn’t afford anything. Then we took a ferry back to the mainland where we couldn’t afford anything.

Conveniently, the ferry dropped us off in the Davies District, which was another area that we wanted to check out. The Davies District is Vancouver’s version of San Francisco’s Castro District.

Gay districts are an under-appreciated gem on any traveler’s agenda. Plenty of cheap, healthy food, lots of alcohol, and an always-friendly crowd. This one was no exception, so we plopped down for lunch and a drink. But we couldn’t stay for long, since the last Big Bus Tour of Vancouver left at 5.

Don't tell anybody, but we had a pretty good time on that bus.

Brother, Can You Spare a Rolex?

The downtown Marriott was smack in the middle of the Gucci district of Vancouver. There were designers stores everywhere, and the glass walled executive towers and vacation condos screamed big time money.

We later found out that this district is favored by the upper echelons of Chinese society. They like to keep most of their money overseas, in case of major social upheaval in their country. It’s apparently a pretty common practice among Chinese business people, but it sure makes it tough to find a meal that doesn’t require a second mortgage.

We wandered all over town to find some lunch. I had asked Andrew the hotel clerk for his recommendations, but he usually talks with a whole different kind of person. His meal suggestions were absolutely useless to anyone who doesn’t have at least two airplanes.

We always had the Thai place from last night to fall back on, but we knew that there had to be at least two places in Vancouver to find a sub-$20 meal.

We eventually stumbled on a hostel that had a pub attached to it. Our kind of place. We stayed there for what must have been two hours. We were really enjoying ourselves, but I think that deep down inside, we both knew that there wasn’t anything else in this town that we could afford. Another round, please.

But Aimee had an excellent idea. “You know what’s free? The library.” It was a pretty brilliant plan, even if the library didn’t look like this.

This is a library, people. Pay your taxes. We could have this.

On our way back the hotel, we stopped in a liquor store and grabbed an emergency bottle of wine. Not going out for drinks that night was an easy way to save $50. Not getting a drink wasn’t an option. We were on vacation.

We walked all over Vancouver that day. Partly because it's the best way to see a new city, but mostly because it's free.

We got back to the hotel just before dinner time (aka the granola bars we packed from home time). Our activity for the evening was hanging out at the hotel pool. But don’t worry, we put the wine in a water bottle. After all, this isn’t the Patricia Hotel, Pub, and Brewhouse.

Father Knows Best

You know, I’m not being fair to the Patricia Hotel, Pub, and Brewhouse. After all, our room did come with free breakfast. It was in the bar that seemed too dingy to drink a beer in the night before, but free breakfast is free breakfast.

And there was coffee.

Well, dehydrated coffee particles and hot water, but that still counts.

And they were considerate enough to leave out some spagetti noodles for us to use as stirrers. That’s got to count for something.

As we were making our coffee/cup’o’noodles, another guest leaned over to me and said, “Man, this place is a shit hole.” He must have talked with my dad. “But I couldn’t find anything for less than $300, and there’s no way that I could get my wife to stay in a hostel.” Well, I guess he didn’t talk with my dad. Aimee and I consoled the guy, and certainly weren’t going to mention that our next stop was one of the nicest hotels in the city.

As we sat down to open our miniature boxes of Raisin Bran, Aimee leaned over to me and said, “This is the most expensive campsite ever.” That’s why I married her.

But alas, it was time to leave. We were going to miss the Patricia Hotel, Pub, and Brewhouse. At least until we got to the next place.

So we checked out of the hotel, and even though we knew better, we decided to walk to our next stop. But the neighborhood didn’t seem quite so rough in the morning. At least nobody got peed on.

Our destination was the Vancouver Marriott, compliments of my dad’s frequent flyer miles, and our walk took us through Chinatown.  I can't imagine that actual China is much more authentic.

As we walked, I planned how I was going to talk our way into the hotel. Since my dad used points to book the room, it was under his name. I figured that they wouldn’t turn us away, but I might need to have a story to tell them as to why my passport says Myles, but my real name is Bill.

Aimee watched the bags as I went up to the registration counter. I couldn’t imagine that many guests in a $350/night hotel check in wearing a hiking backpack and a duffel bag, and I needed this to go smoothly. I gave the desk clerk my dad’s name, and he immediately shot to attention. I wasn’t expecting that, but maybe I should have. My dad travels a lot for work, and he has spent enough nights in Marriott hotels to qualify for their Super Mega Premium status. That means that they’re supposed to look like they’ve been expecting you all day, and they never, ever would offend you by checking an ID. Isn’t that convenient.

“Welcome, Mr. Stone. It’s a pleasure to have you stay with us tonight.”
“Thank you, uh, Andrew.”
“I upgraded you to a harbor side view, sir.”
“Uh, of course.  That's to be expected.”
“We host a private breakfast for our elite club members on the 19th floor.”
“Yes.  Keep going.”

And this is the part that I just couldn’t make up. Completely unprovoked, my new friend, Andrew, took out a map. He marked where the hotel was, and he drew the best way to get down to the water. Then he scribbled over a small section of the map and looked up at me.  “Mr. Stone, every city has its areas that aren’t so great. I would strongly suggest avoiding this part of town.” I looked down at the map, and guess what was smack in the middle of this no-man’s land? The Patricia Hotel, Pub, and Brewhouse.

“Pfft. Please, Andrew. I’d never.”

So Andrew gave me the room keys, and I made a beeline for Aimee before he could change his mind. We grabbed our bags and made our way over to an elevator that was bigger than our entire room at the last place.

And then came the room. Oh, the room.

Yeah, I think we’re going to be alright. And the view really sealed the deal.

Thanks, Dad.

Actually, you have to pay extra for that.

The hotel was only a couple of miles from the bus station. We didn't have much luggage, so we decided to walk. We made our way through Chinatown and some other neighborhoods that clearly weren't the best that Vancouver has to offer. But it's Canada, so even a bad neighborhood is relative.

Our hotel, of course, was right smack in the middle of Vancouver's rough stretch. But the outside of the hotel didn't look too bad. We walked into the quirky little lobby and the unmistakeable crowd of an international budget hotel. There was a German family in the corner, a group of camera-toting Japanese tourists, and a few worldly couples that were just a bit too old to stay in a hostel. I had a sudden flash of self realization. After all, I'm not German or Japanese.

The clerk at the desk had the type of personality that made the crypt keeper seem like Lucile Ball. He did his best to sell us on the "very popular" blues band that was playing the hotel bar that night. It was an honest try, but I was going to have to take his word for it. He gave us a map of the area and our room key, and we headed upstairs.

It was surprisingly hot in Vancouver that day, and as we rode the tiny elevator up to our floor, Aimee said that as long as the room had A/C, we’d be fine. As I put the key in the door, I joked and said that you have to pay extra for that. Turns out you have to pay extra for that. This was going to be interesting.

For some context, I booked the room on an online travel site. I didn’t know anything about the place, except that the photo of the front entrance seemed nice enough.

There was no brewhouse.

But the real reason I booked this place was because it was, hands down, the cheapest option in the city. And it wasn’t actually all that cheap. It was $80, but the next cheapest option was at least twice as much. A few weeks before we left, I casually mentioned the price to my dad, since he occasionally travels to Vancouver for work. Without missing a beat, he said, “Man, that place is going to be a shit hole.”  I said, “For $80, that’s a pretty nice shit hole.”  He just nodded slowly and said that he'd use some frequent flyer miles to book our other two nights in Vancouver. I gladly accepted the free nights, but I didn’t believe him.

I should have believed him.

Yes, that’s a toilet in the closet.  But the room wasn’t even that bad. Aimee and I had both stayed in worse. The real issue was the neighborhood. To illustrate the point, Aimee was fairly certain she got peed on as we walked to dinner.  There were people sleeping on the streets down every alley, and a chaplain was passing out bananas, muffins, and bibles.

Little did we know, but we should have accepted the muffins. Aside from the three blocks of condensed homelessness, Vancouver was crazy expensive. We didn't have much of a plan for dinner, and we wandered from place to place trying to find something that would cost less than a hundred dollars for the two of us. Seriously.

By 9pm, I was pass-out hungry, and I have no idea how Aimee was keeping it together. She knew that one of us had to stay strong.

We finally found a little hole in the wall Thai restaurant, and almost knocked the door off its hinges on our way in. It was no Pok Pok, but it was easily one of the most amazing meals of my life. And that was based on nothing more than my first bite of rice.

Walking home, we noticed how European the place was. There were designer stores on every corner, and there were even kids lining up to get into some shitty disco. It was like a more polite Paris.

As we got closer to our hotel, we saw someone huffing crack using a butane lighter and tin foil. It was good to be home.

On the road again

This is what we woke up to.

It was worse than a hangover. What were we thinking?

I think I may have actually eaten one that morning, but I wasn't happy about it. When I offered some to Richard and Shelly, they just shook their heads.  

But there wasn’t much time to linger on bad decisions. We had a train to catch. We were heading to Vancouver by way of Seattle, and our train left the station before the sun did.

Lunch was a quick stopover in Seattle. We had a couple of hours to kill, so we wandered over to Pioneer Square, a quirkily little urban park.  

It was great excuse to stretch our legs and soak up some sunshine. And we actually still had our box of donuts with us. I couldn’t bring myself to leave them behind, but I was exactly one half donut away from projectile vomiting cotton candy.  

We noticed some college kids passing out flyers across the park, and we offered them our box of donuts.  It made their day.  And ours.

Back at the train station, I realized that I had actually booked a bus from Seattle to Vancouver. Amtrak runs both, and drunk on donuts the night before, I apparently couldn't tell the difference. But it didn't matter, it would get us there all the same.

The bus ride itself was entirely pleasant. I furiously hammered out emails to get caught up with work before I shut my phone down in gloriously international airspace. Aimee slept.

When we pulled up to the border, Aimee and I both noticed how clean it was. And the border agents were some of the friendliest that we had ever encountered. I think their uniform insignia said something like, "To serve and live up to our stereotype."

A mother and daughter got held up a bit because they didn't have all of the paperwork to take a child across international borders, but even that didn't take too long. We were all back on the bus in no time.

Vancouver is just over the border, so it didn't take too long to reach the city. We cruised through some residential neighborhoods on our way in, since there wasn't a direct route into downtown. Vancouver, in all its progressive glory, doesn't allow freeways to pass through the city center. It made our trip a bit slower, but it's one of the reasons that Vancouver is known as one of the prettiest, least polluted big cities in the world.

An hour or so later, we pulled up to the bus station. Our first hour in the country didn't disappoint. Friendly, clean, and easy to get around. Welcome to Canada!

Keep Portland Weird

A few days before we arrived in Portland, my uncle had sent me an email about a concert that would be going on when we were in town. The band was called Vagabond Opera, and they were billed as "Bohemian absurdist cabaret, exploring numerous Euro musical traditions with an operatic heart and a punk soul". It took all of about one second to decide to go. After all, when in Portland…

Before the concert started, we had some time to tour the adjacent rose gardens. Aimee stopped to smell them.

The concert was great, and the crowd was better.

This is a real place. It exists, and people live here.

After the concert, we headed over to a pretty amazing ice cream shop. We had to kill some time before we met up with one of Aimee’s old peace corps buddies. Also, ice cream.

We met Aimee's buddy at another Portland brewery and had a great chat. He told us how he had recently gotten engaged in a central Mexico eco-lodge while Aimee and I wrote down the address. We talked for a couple of hours before we remembered how early our train left the next day.

But before we headed home, we had one more stop to make.

Sunshine and insulin

With unseemly amounts of fair trade cane sugar coursing through our veins, it was time to get outdoors. Thankfully, Portland has plenty of that, too.

And that photo was just from a rest stop. The real destination was Multinomah Falls just a bit further down the road.

The main waterfall of Multinomah falls is a deservedly popular tourist destination, but we weren’t going to start our hike there. Richard and Shelly are avid hikers, and they knew an alternate route that would take us through the back of the park and end at the top of the waterfall. It was perfect. We were able to have a surprisingly quiet hike through one of the most visited parks in the region.

We happened to time our visit with the tail end of thimbleberry season. These berries are a big deal, and we were apparently pretty lucky to see so many of them growing everywhere. We stopped to pick another snack every couple hundred feet or so.

And even though we could have easily subsisted on thimbleberries alone, we did actually pack a lunch. We found a great little spot to stop and eat along the trail.

As we were packing everything back up, we noticed another hiker up in the canopy. Look closely.

We didn’t stick around long enough to see how it ended, but we didn’t hear any helicopters flying overhead that afternoon.

As we made our way further down the trail, the pitch got steeper, and we started to see more and more people.  That meant that we were pretty close to the main waterfall.  But if there was any doubt…

Susan doesn’t seem like much of a hiker.

We kept on climbing. Before long, we could hear the rushing noise of a big waterfall. Almost there.

When we got to the top, there was a small wooden platform that hung out over the top. Not for the weak of knees.

If you look closely, you can see a small bridge about half way to the parking lot. That’s how we were making our way back down.

And this is from the bottom looking back up. You can see the same bridge.

It was an incredible hike through a beautiful park, and it was exactly what we needed. It probably only worked off half of a Triple Chocolate Penetration with Coco Puffs, but it was a good start.

Portlandia

If you haven’t seen the TV show yet, you should. Or to see a stranger, more over-the-top version, just go to the actual place. Portland is a weird, wonderful city. It’s the kind of place where there are more food carts than restaurants, more breweries than people, and where brandishing a plastic shopping bag can get you killed.

And speaking of food trucks, we couldn’t imagine starting our visit any other way. We met my aunt Shelly at the train station, and she suggested that we grab lunch at Portland’s famous block of food carts. It wasn’t a hard sell.

End of blog. This photo says everything there is to say about Portland.

Well, not really. Portland is easily stereotyped, but there is way more to the city. Our next stop is a great example.

With a belly full of some sort of Thai chicken bowl (delicious), we walked a few blocks through downtown to a relatively nondescript building that was surrounded by an even less-descript white plaster fence. But inside that fence was one of the most amazing urban gardens I’ve ever seen. It was the Portland Chinese Gardens, was well worth the stop.

The gardens are curated by a team of experts in Chinese culture, with the help of a small army of volunteers. Pretty incredible.

Our last stop for the afternoon was Powell's Bookstore, the bookstore to end all bookstores. It spans an entire city block, and goes up four stories. It is massive, local, and well stocked. We could have spent all day there. But thankfully, my uncle Richard called to say that he was heading home from work. We left before we could blow what was left of our travel money.

We ate like royalty that night. Portland has a well-deserved reputation for excellent food from all over the world. We started things off with a stop at the nearby bicycle-themed brewery, or as it’s also called, a Portland. And of course, you can’t drive to a bicycle-themed brewery.

We were all really impressed with the beers, but they were nothing compared to our next stop. Dinner was at Pok Pok, a local Thai restaurant that has been written up in every paper from the New York Times, to the Bangkok Thaimes.

That was a bad joke, but it's still true. The restaurant is internationally famous, and for good reason. The place is set up like it's in rural Thailand, with outside seating under a thatched overhang. But we'd have to wait a bit before we could sit down. Pok Pok doesn't take reservations, and there was an hour wait on a Tuesday. This was going to be good.

We killed some at Pok Pok's sister bar across the street. Again, not a hard sell.

The bar looked like the kind of place where well-to-do Thai business people might mingle with expats in a neighborhood outside of Bangkok. In fact, it was pretty reminiscent of Tim Hatfield’s South Pacific “sporting club". It featured whisky cocktails that are apparently pretty popular in Thailand. Also pretty popular with me.

Now, it might have been probably was the whisky talking, but the meal we had that night was easily one of the best of my life. There was some type of pan-seared duck, a spicy veggie dish, plenty of rice, and several things I couldn’t pronounce. Seriously good stuff.

And even though Aimee and I were debating who would wheel the other one out, there was still room for dessert. There is always room for dessert.

Enter Voodoo Doughnuts. The idea for this place undoubtedly came to the owner after Bob Marley amounts of weed, but it totally works. Think of the weirdest, wildest donut you can imagine, then fill it with peanut butter and top it with Cap’n Crunch. Seriously.

This is probably the only donut shop in the country that is busier at 11pm than 7am, but it’s hard to tell, because the place is open 24 hours a day, and always packed.

As we waited in line, a retired 20-something from the Keep Portland Weird crowd hurled jokes at the line from his perch on a power box outside the donut shop. It was kind of like a roast of everyone in line as they walked past him. It was moderately uncomfortable, surprisingly funny, and very Portland.

When we turned the corner to enter the place, it was surprisingly overwhelming. There was neon everywhere, disinterested hipsters to take your order, and more donuts than I have seen in my life.

With the line growing longer by the minute, and more donut styles than you could eat in a year (without getting diabetes), it was surprisingly hard to come up with an order. Richard and Shelly already knew what they wanted. They’re too thin to be regulars, but this was hardly their first trip. Aimee and I, on the other hand, pretty much just pointed to the first things we saw.

I think this was the point when we got home and Aimee realized she ordered a Triple Chocolate Penetration with Coco-Puffs on top.

Getting used to this

Our second day in Eugene was as idyllic as the first.  It started off with a sampling from Master Donuts (we might as well continue our donut tour of the Pacific Northwest), and a trip over to Armitage Park.  The town has no shortage of river parks, but this one is a favorite of Alicia and Isaias.  For good reason:

And a nice, lazy morning was followed by a nice, lazy afternoon.  After lunch, we headed back to Isaias' fishing spot along the Willamette.

I wish that picture was posed.  I was as confused as I looked.  Fishing isn't exactly a way of life in the deserts of Southern Arizona.

An hour later, I was still coming up empty, but at least I had the look down.

Isaias claims he caught something, but I'm convinced that he brought a sardine from home.

And just for some context on fishing in rural Oregon, this is what a grocery store magazine rack looks like in Eugene.  Mind you, this isn't the magazine rack of a gun shop or an outdoor outfitter.  It's a grocery store.  If we ever move here, I'm going to need a lot more fishing practice.  And apparently a gun.

But it was the perfect taste of being outdoors in the Pacific Northwest, and a nice teaser for what was coming up for us in Canada.

This place is weird

And I mean that as an absolute complement.  We love Eugene.

This was one of the better mornings of our lives.  People up here take their coffee very seriously, and Alicia (Aimee's peace corps friend and our current host) made us one of the best cups of our lives.  But the real treat was not the coffee, it was where we drank it.  With our mugs filled and our eyes slowly opening, Alicia and her husband, Isaias, invited us down to the riverbank that happened to be 100 yards from their front door.

And this was not just any river bank.  This was the wide, wandering Willamette river.  Seriously beautiful.  Aimee and I wondered how anybody could go to work in these conditions.

As we walked along the river, Isaias told us fishing stories, and it sounded as if he had lived his whole life along the banks of the Willamette.  But he hadn't.  Alicia and Isaias met in the small Nicaraguan town that Alicia was sent to as a Peace Corps volunteer.  Isaias grew up there, and he moved to Oregon with Alicia a couple of years ago when they got married (she grew up there).  The last time we saw them both was in Nicaragua, and Isaias was clearly right at home.  But flash forward a couple of years, and Isaias is wearing his Oregon Ducks cap with a fridge full of IPAs, while telling me about how the fish are biting in the Willamette.  He seems to be fitting in just fine.

His fishing stories were actually pretty enticing, and we made plans to go back out the next day.  But first, we needed some Kombucha.  When in Rome...

If you haven’t heard of Kombucha, you’re not alone.  And really, there’s no reason that this stuff should exist.  It’s rancid tea.  Really.  That’s how you make Kombucha.  You brew a batch of tea, put some extra sugar in in, and leave it on the counter until it gets infected and the sugar ferments.  So when Alicia suggested that we head downtown for a cup, Aimee and I agreed, but mostly out of politeness.  And also because her food recommendations so far had been absolutely amazing.  This was breakfast:

But back to Kombucha.  The shop felt like a craft beer bar, with a rotating crop of styles, and some growlers on the wall.

And the big surprise was that we liked it!  I've had some less-than-appealing batches of Kombucha in the past, but true to form, Alicia didn’t dissapoint.  The Kombucha I picked was a light, slightly fizzy green tea concoction, and it was actually pretty tasty.  The fermented character was pretty mild, and it really just tasted like a less-sweet, more-acidic soda.

But the real treat that morning was walking around downtown Eugene.  Of course, “downtown” is a relative term in Eugene, but it was a great place to wander around.  It's made up of the bars, restaurants, shops, and batmobiles that you would expect from a Pacific Northwest college town, and Aimee and I felt right at home.

But as fun as the morning was, it just got better from there.

Alicia and Isaias drove us to the wine country just outside of Eugene.  We had lunch and wine at the King's Estate winery.  It tasted as good as it looked.

We spent the evening sitting in their backyard, with Aimee and I fawning over life in Eugene.  I mean, Alicia and Isaias even had their own fig tree, just in case the paradise analogies weren't obvious enough.  This was our kind of town.