Vancouver Canada British Columbia

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OTHER STORIES BY FRANKIE D

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Destination: British Columbia
From the vibrant city life of Vancouver to the breathtaking beauty of this province's wilderness, British Columbia offers unparalleled opportunities for adventure.
By Frank DiScala

Adventure: A bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome. Source: Dictionary.com

We begin this story with an adventure.

I start the day at 5:15am, rushing out of bed to catch a 7:30am flight out of Newark Liberty International Airport (EWR). I race down the stairs, two heavy bags in tow. Carrying heavy bags and running down the stairs forces me to lean forward over my moving feet and legs, causing my head to protrude forward in a charging position; perfect posture for nailing a beam with the noggin. At 200lbs, with 50lbs of luggage, I could barely remember my name after I hit that sucker.

I continued my race to the awaiting car where my friend Matt Snow was patiently waiting in the twilight to take me to Newark Airport. While I remembered my name, it wasn't until I was over the George Washington Bridge that I discovered I hadn't remembered my passport. Which brings up an important point: You need your passport if you are flying into Canada. Luckily you don't need it if you are walking, running or driving across the border.

Arriving at Newark Airport to fly Alaska Air to Seattle, the calm attendant confirmed my fear that I couldn't fly to Canada without a passport. However, he kindly offered up what he called an "easy alternative." He suggested I fly to Bellingham and rent a car to get to Vancouver. Phew! No problem! He quickly and helpfully rerouted my flight. But my problems were far from over. He didn't tell me that there were no rental cars available in Bellingham. Granted, how would he know? He also failed to mention that I would need more than just a driver's license to get into Canada.

BORDER CROSSING
When I arrived in Bellingham, I found a taxi driver who "thought" he could take me to Vancouver. He apologized for me to the row of people that I had cut in front of, in my blind panic to get to the only cab at the airport. I climbed inside the taxi and took a long, deep breath of stale cigarette smoke. I didn't mind a bit. I was finally on my way! But upon realizing that the line at the border was two hours long, he nonchalantly informed me that I would have to wander across as a pedestrian. From there, I could take a Canadian taxi to Vancouver. Simple!

The border queue was 10 blocks long. How would I carry my stuff that far while negotiating a line of practically parked cars on the highway? Easy, Larry said. He would take me through the back roads, I could scamper through a private backyard and get to the parking lot for the duty free shop, then walk three blocks across a lawn with a flag on it to the border. Always up for an adventure, I was ready. "Sounds good," I said. "Let's do it!"

The lawn was bumpy but the owner either wasn't home or didn't mind an American with a bump on his head charging across his property to the border. Probably happy to get me out of the country. Crossing the lawn with the flag and Customs is a whole other story. I like to dress "nicely" when I fly, to give the passenger alongside me the impression that I am clean. That means wearing a sports coat, which is warm even when it's cold. Especially warm if you are running. Away, that is, from Customs guards.

I hurriedly sneaked past the Customs booth, dragging my rolling bag. I had purchased it on sale, half-price actually, not knowing at the time that the reason it was half-price was because it didn't roll properly. The wheels were too close and with the slightest bump it sort of teetered, then flopped on its side like a broken Weeble.

"Hey, where are you off to?"

"Canada!" I hollered over my shoulder and kept going.

"OK, but be sure to stop at the Canadian Customs."

I kept the pace and didn't look back. Canadian Customs? I slowed to a walk. I thought I had made it. Little did I know that I had to cross another border guard. But as long as I was going that direction, he didn't seem to care.

"Greetings," I said, with a big smile as I walked into the pedestrian door, past all the cars awaiting the Customs officials.

I looked around and noticed that I was the only non-guard in the room and the only one smiling. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Can I see your identification please?" This demand came from a 20-year-old kid wearing a Kevlar armored vest, a badge and a black graphite Glock 9-mm pistol.

"Yep," I say, handing him my Costco card to try and lighten the mood.

"THIS is you?" he asks with a strong French accent. He didn't seem like a funny guy. I don't know why he would be so concerned. Seems to me the last time Canada was targeted by terrorists was in the 17th century when the First Nations people were nearly exterminated by the French during their successful effort to separate them from their land and furry creatures. I wanted neither.

"I'm just here to visit," I said and proudly forking over my proper driver's license. He promptly handed me a sheet of paper with three items listed. He produced a pen and circled number one.

"Do you have a passport?"

"Yes. But I forgot it when I bumped my head."

"You bumped your head?"

Forget it.

"Yes, but I left my passport at home. That's why I'm running across the border like a refugee. Because otherwise, I would have just flown in." And I proceeded to explain all that had preceded this unfortunate encounter.

He circled number two. "Do you have a birth certificate?"

Of course I have a birth certificate but it's not on my person. "Why not," he asked, eyes narrowing. Because I forgot my passport. Why would I remember my birth certificate? But I don't say all of this. I explain.

"Well, it's just one of those things. Once I forget one thing, I start to forget more things. You see, first I forgot my passport, which, incidentally, had I remembered, would have rendered the need for my birth certificate, well, unnecessary."

"And so you have a ..."

Nope. Left that baby at home, too.

"OK. Let me see. You are here for work?"

"Yes." Wrong answer. Never say you are here for work. As I was about to find out, that was akin to saying that I worked for Al Qaeda.

"What are you coming to Canada to WORK for?"

"Because I WORK for a travel website. I am here to WORK on a travel assignment. I WORK to try to bring people in America and the rest of the world, awareness of a location they may not know about. You see, it's to benefit your country and your economy. I am WORKING as a travel journalist!"

"Why do you need to WORK in Canada? Why can't you do your WORK in the USA? Don't you think a Canadian can do your WORK?"

Actually ... he was doing a pretty good job convincing me of that. Not to mention, as far as morning commutes to work go, this one was ridiculous.

"Well," I continued to explain, "that's the point of being a travel writer! To TRAVEL! In other words, travel writers have to travel in order to be able to write about a place they've traveled to."

The conversation circled tiresomely for another 20 minutes while he checked me out on his computer. Twice. Then he asked me how I get paid and when I said that I didn't, he let me go. Luckily, Larry, the nice taxi driver, had arranged a Canadian cab to take me to my hotel in Vancouver and the Canadian cabbie, a Pakistani named Frank, was cordially waiting outside. I had escaped.

Just when you think you can't be surprised again in North America, something pops up and makes you feel small. Welcome to British Columbia. If you don't feel good here then you just might be dead. Get someone to check your pulse.

Living outside of New York City gives plenty of diversity and more than enough excitement -- most of which, lately, has come in the form of road traffic. But with all the movement in the NYC area, nothing really seems to breathe "new and coming at you." It's more like "new and bigger ... but I'm not sure why." Developers lob McMansions, obliterating not-so-charming '60s ranch houses. Which is fine, but do we need two on a lot that once held one? One announced the inevitable: change. But we Americans know that more is better. Bigger is better. Faster is better. Isn't it?

BIGGER? MORE? BRITISH COLUMBIA!
Vancouver is shocking. It's old and it's new at the same time. It's rich. Evidently, money has been flowing in for decades upon decades and lately, in stacks from Asia depositing a sense of exhilaration compounding the happiness infused by a booming economy and multiplied again with the undercurrent knowledge that the 2010 winter Olympics are pounding their way toward Whistler. British Columbia has beastly mountains and giant trees, swirling fjords and icy, glaciated waters dripping down from ice fields and glaciers. Grizzly bears, black bears and cougars casually share logging roads. Its rivers are gorged with salmon and five varieties of trout. And it's got room to grow. It's intelligently accessible via the largest ferry system in the world. And the people are getting it done. And they look hip. And I never heard a horn honk once during my stay. Maybe they are just less pressured here. Maybe they get enough fresh air and just maybe, the roads are more balanced and there's just less traffic than on the east coast of the USA. I don't know. Come with me and decide for yourself.

START IN VANCOUVER
You probably won't get Johnny Jet to make a few phone calls for you and hook you up in the Opus Hotel (a top-shelf hipster hangout), so treat yourself and call long in advance for reservations. Doors might not be pulled from their hinges because you're not walking into the finest restaurants with Kasey Wilson, famous food and wine critic, but, listen up: we've done the hard paving for you. Going to the B.C. wilderness? Do it right.

LIVING LARGE AT THE OPUS
It's impossible not to feel important at the Opus Hotel. Surrounded by youth and beauty, the elegance of the Opus Hotel envelops you in a feeling that says, "This is the place to be at this point in history." Everything is in order here ... and cutting edge. Contemporary furniture, colors and fixtures adorn an ancient building teased into one of the most comfortable hotels in the city. Mushroom jazz and low lighting set the tempo, consuming me and immediately, I was prepared to chill here for more than just a night. But I wouldn't get more. There would be no Opus or anything even remotely resembling it where I was going.

Location: Bingo! Smack-dab in the heart of Yaletown, formerly warehouses, now haute cuisine and tight blue jeans. Check out the lobby (and click here for an up-close look at the rooms.) From the linens to the amenities (L'Occitane) you get what you pay for. And you do, incidentally, pay. But trust me, you're worth it. Pamper yourself. Click here for rates and reservations. Opus Hotel Vancouver, 322 Davie Street, Vancouver BC, Tel: 604-642-6787.

OPUS RESTAURANT
Before I left the magnificent city of Vancouver I had to eat, right? So why not begin right in the hotel? With linens this good the food can't be bad right? And Kasey Wilson is one hell of a cuisine tour guide.

Like seafood? Go no further than the food in the modern Elixir bistro. Dungeness crab soup served by, guess who? Bill Clinton! Kidding. The chef himself! I'm not a food or wine critic and I can't even stumble through this one, but I know good food. This crab soup spoke to me. It said, "Dis boy can cook ... don't let a single drop go to waste. Oh, and tell your friends."

Next, we meandered to bustling restaurant, Coast. Kasey's wizardry melted right through the table linens and storm troopers ushered in staff members to pamper us and attend to our dining requirements. Don't expect this service, but what the heck ... go with me for a minute. Chris, the sommelier, voted best in B.C., can pick wines to match your food. We had a tower of cooked and raw Pacific coast delicacies including geoduck, clams, bearded scallops, shrimp, oysters � chilled and on ice.

Kasey had a bite or two and I suspect that she thought that I had zero manners because after the day I had had border running, I wasn't going to let even a bite of scallop get away. We talked, I ate and talked, usually with my mouth full of sea urchin or some other fruit of the sea. More wine came and then when the food was gone, so were we. Coast Restaurant, 1257 Hamilton Street, Yaletown, Vancouver, BC, Tel: 604-685-5010.

Off to the next one. This time, it's Blue Water Cafe & Raw Bar.

My neck began to hurt as soon as we walked into this bar. How much they have to pay the beautiful models who decorated this bar, is a point of interest. It's worth it. Think they really pay 'em? Dunno.

Anyway, we had tempura fish something or other that could have served three people. Just go there. It's an experience. Top chef kind of thing. Young, bustling yet deliciously happening. Blue Water Cafe & Raw Bar, 1095 Hamilton St., Vancouver, BC, Tel: 604-688-8078.

THE BAR AT THE OPUS
Ladies and gentlemen: If you are single and are in Vancouver, please divert your eyes from the profiles of married people on Match.com and enter the Opus Bar. If you are female, bring a cattle prod. The men look a little shy. But there are plenty of trendy singles for all.

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