Greyhound, Canada
In January 1999 I toured Canada. That's right: January. In Canada. I wanted to see some snow, didn't I?

I flew into Toronto, and had a flight back from Vancouver ten days later. After a few days, I thought I'd head west, young man, and thought I'd see what was happening at YYZ. I went on standby and got the very last seat on a Canada 3000 flight, and only as far as Edmonton. Which I hadn't planned to visit, but, hey, I was a freewheeling spirit, man. I was crammed in to a middle seat, between a smelly old lady and a fat guy, who played an electronic Craps game for four straight hours. Oh well - I got to see the largest shopping mall in the world - a capitalistic nightmare - and walk around in -20°C till my ears fell off. Pretty town, with absolutely nothing at its centre.

Next stop: Calgary. Greyhound pulls out... 10 minutes down the road, and the bus heater ices over and fails. We pull off at a depot, get out, wait for a replacement bus for an hour. 10 minutes down the road, and the new bus's heater fails. The driver pulls over and polls the passengers: go on or turn back? It was unanimous: go on. I'm pretty sure the temperature stayed above freezing all 300km to Calgary, but that's what the coat's for.

Calgary, in winter has homeless guys living on the street, in temps of below -40°C at night. I wandered about during the day at only -25°C - what a wuss. (It didn't feel as cold as it sounds, as long as there was no wind, because there was zero moisture in the air.)

The Greyhound to Vancouver left at 1PM, and headed straight in to the Rockies - beautiful. Then it got dark. We changed drivers every couple of hours, so I knew they were awake, but still... this huge road-eating monster doing 80mph, at night, down twisty snow-covered roads through the Rockies.

I entered a Zen-like state of ... acceptance. My ego departed my body, and I resigned myself to my fate. If I was going to die, in a remote region of the Rockies, in the middle of a winter night; what a way to go, eh? Until then, there was a romantic comedy on the TV, which kept my mind away from the trees rushing past the window. I was just a prisoner, a prisoner of the white lines on the freeway. Can't wait to do it again, but if I do, I'll make sure to carry some cognac in a flask.

16 hours later, at 6AM Vancouver time, a busload of zombies staggered in the general direction of downtown Vancouver, their primal groans audible to anyone with ears to hear: "Starbucks... Starbucks..."

Length? About 800 hairy miles.
( bnt what, me worry?, Sat 31 May 2008, 1:10, Reply)