The Inglenook

Pentax ME, 35mm

I don't know how to summarize this trip. All I know is that when I was standing on the sky train in Vancouver, completely drenched, hood up, eating a street market apricot, I decided that I never wanted to stop this. I always want to do things I've never done. Some stories from British Columbia:

Landing in Vancouver (first time flying), giddy and restless. Midnight breakfast at Denny's and yelling in French from the hotel rooftop garden and ignoring the POOL CLOSED sign.

Falling in love with strangers on every mode of public transportation.

In Coombs, I found my new favourite restaurant. It has goats on the roof. And ice cream. And a market. And a piano to play. I was so stoked, I left my shoes there.

The first night on the marina in Comox, Chloe and I looked for starfish with two kids we didn't know. I think we were giddier than they were.

Around 1am, I pushed open my porthole. I could only see night, but I sat in my blankets and listened to the guys play their guitars for at least an hour.

After the first day of sailing, we jumped off the boat to swim to Savary Island and I remembered a second too late: salt. I had never been so thankful to taste something so terrible.

One night I went for a kayak around the mountains after we had anchored in Tenedos Bay for the night. At dusk, in a moment of complete silence - "THIS IS THE DARK KNIGHT!!!". Apparently the guys had snuck a walkie-talkie in my kayak and decided to have some fun.

"Anvil Lake needs a mythical creature and we don't know what to name it. Will you help us?" Chloe and I spent a good portion of that evening standing on the pier, brainstorming and laughing with three boys we had never met. That same night, we met a lady who lived in a remodelled school bus on the top of a small mountain.

There was the night of mistakes and forgiveness and and pinot noir and phosphorescence. And then the night of tired laughter and lessons in s'mores and pinot grigio and stargazing. It was when we anchored that I felt anything but.

On our last day of sailing, Spencer played The Lumineers on his guitar and told me to sing. I did. Loudly. Terribly.

WHALES. Near Cortes Island. I will never forget it.

We spent a night in Victoria at a 1912 home turned bed and breakfast. This night was particularly terrifying and wonderful.

We were early for our flight back home, so Chloe and I snuck into the Fairmont to kill some time. I sat down at the grand piano in the lobby and just stared at the keys, too scared to play. "Psssst," I looked over my left shoulder. A middle-aged cowboy (in the full getup) cupped his hands around his mouth rasped, "Dooooo it." I laughed. And then I played. Chloe said the guests couldn't stop smiling. And now I have a good story about how I got kicked out of the Fairmont in Vancouver.