Can't Handle Pynchon
Why learn German? Why? German? Why? Why German?
People have been asking me that a lot lately... why German? I didn't think learning German is that out of the ordinary... there are, as far as I know, a whole lot of people who learn German as a second language... look at the popularity of the Goethe Institute, for instance... the market is there.
About five years ago, I had mentioned that I wanted to learn German... Csaba (who speaks English, Hungarian, German, Danish, Spanish, and some Russian) told me that there is absolutely no reason to learn German, as every German with whom I could possibly want to speak with would speak English... and that if they didn't speak English, I probably won't want to speak with them (why did he learn Danish, I might have asked). I was too busy with learning Russian at the time anyway and so put off the German thing...
But I keep hitting the wall each time I try to read Rilke... I've read over ten different translations of the Duino Elegies... and re-read Gass's _Reading Rilke_... and I've come to the conclusion that I have to learn German... but no one seems to accept this as a good enough reason...
And but so the other night while at work, just as the Sean is going on about how there's no use for German in Tofino, we pull up behind a motorhome with German plates-- just German plates... the post 1994 EE style German plates... German plates in the front, German plates in the back... with no indication of any registration in the Americas. People were camping in this motorhome on Main Street... Sean knocks on the door, and this old couple who opened the door spoke only German! Aha! and what, praytell, did you say was useless? I directed them to a campground in international pidgin, and gave Sean a knowing look... German is uber useful in Tofino.
Now... how did a German motorhome with only German plates make it to the streets of Tofino? Surely, they did not import it for my benefit (though there really was no more dramatic way to prove a point than to plop down a German motorhome (complete with unilingual German occupants) right in the heart of downtown Tofino)... how did it get here with those German plates? How do people who speak neither English nor French manage to get *that* into Canada? Well, if I spoke German, I would have found out... but as it was, I'll probably never know.
So... the adventure has begun... I am learning German. The only odd part about it is that I can't seem to say anything in German without making a Dr. Strangelove face (baring teeth and all) and using a Dr. Strangelove voice...
As for everything else, I finally managed to get my brakes on the Aerostar fixed. The lights had been on for a while, but everything seemed to be working okay... and as it turns out, I wasn't exactly in mortal danger... but I should definitely have gotten it looked at earlier. The mechanic remembered me from June 2007... and asked me what I did with my Pathfinder. You see, a year ago, I drove to Tofino with a couple of friends visiting from Toronto, and somewhere on this side of Sutton Pass, the car started leaking water under the glove box everytime I made a left turn... I took it to the only garage in Tofino and this guy fixed it (unblocked the AC water egress hose whirlygig with a compressor) and didn't charge me anything for it, but allowed me (upon some insistence on my part) to buy him a tuna burger... at that point in time, I was a tourist here... in fact, it was during that trip (June 1-5) that I got an offer on my apartment in Burnaby for the full asking price... and a week and a few days later... I came out for a job interview and ended up buying the place I'm in now... and now a year and a month and five million changes later, he remembers me and my car as if very little time has passed... which, actually, is sort of true... which makes it sort of cool...
And... I've had excellent luck with the B&B guests for the last few days... there has always been at least a few people that I really like... it's taking the edge off my misanthropy.
Yes, I'm now on Dave Egger's _A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius_... I'm taking a pass (for now) on _Gravity's Rainbow_ ... it's just a bit much for me right now... maybe September will be better for it... The last time I felt this overwhelmed by a novel, it was Joyce's _Finnegan's Wake_... (I was just informed this evening that there's a David Eggers who was a pro surfer at some incredibly young age and rose and fell and is now in his thirties and no longer surfs... but the guy who told me also said that he lives with his father in Florida or something of the sort... which means it can't be the same Dave Eggers... (I just googled it... different dudes... born the same year, two months apart! Hah!))
I should sleep. (how's that for an abrupt ending?)
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen?
Facebook can eat up time... and I've had no time with which to feed this monster for a while now. And seething homicidal rage is also not conducive to expression, unless it be violent and physical.
But here-- I'm back. Decisions have been made, and plans are in place. The domino tiles will tumble. Things are looking up. After reading Jean-Paul Sartre's "Huis clos" on the ferry last month, I managed to get through two books *in* Tofino. These are the first two books I've read within the town limits-- "The Virgin Spy" by Krista Bridge, and "The Inheritance of Loss" by Kiran Desai. Up next is Thomas Pychon's "Gravity's Rainbow," then Dave Egger's "A Heartbreaking Work of Straggering Genius"... and at some point, maybe I'll get back to Vali Nasr's "The Shia Revival."
And maybe I'll even learn German... because aside from the fact that Rilke is super cool (Rilke's got cachet!)... I'm suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to be able to know German... much like I felt about Russian five years ago... no plans to ever "use" it... I just have to know it... now! and well!
Of course, learning a language is going to be more difficult now that I don't have the encouraging moments of urgency I used to at the airport (what could be better than a perfectly indulgent native speaker who is so grateful for the help that he/she would be willing to accommodate my every linguistic handicap?)... there is no shortage of German speakers in Tofino... but unless I set out with ropes and things to capture one, there will be no help.
I have stopped searching for profundity. The new order is vacuity and insipidity. Misanthropy has been so provoked that passive distaste has turned into active rage... and I've decided that the best way to deal with it is to not... but rather surf more, eat lots of fish, read, and learn to read German.
Wirf aus den Armen die Leere zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.
Facebook can eat up time... and I've had no time with which to feed this monster for a while now. And seething homicidal rage is also not conducive to expression, unless it be violent and physical.
But here-- I'm back. Decisions have been made, and plans are in place. The domino tiles will tumble. Things are looking up. After reading Jean-Paul Sartre's "Huis clos" on the ferry last month, I managed to get through two books *in* Tofino. These are the first two books I've read within the town limits-- "The Virgin Spy" by Krista Bridge, and "The Inheritance of Loss" by Kiran Desai. Up next is Thomas Pychon's "Gravity's Rainbow," then Dave Egger's "A Heartbreaking Work of Straggering Genius"... and at some point, maybe I'll get back to Vali Nasr's "The Shia Revival."
And maybe I'll even learn German... because aside from the fact that Rilke is super cool (Rilke's got cachet!)... I'm suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to be able to know German... much like I felt about Russian five years ago... no plans to ever "use" it... I just have to know it... now! and well!
Of course, learning a language is going to be more difficult now that I don't have the encouraging moments of urgency I used to at the airport (what could be better than a perfectly indulgent native speaker who is so grateful for the help that he/she would be willing to accommodate my every linguistic handicap?)... there is no shortage of German speakers in Tofino... but unless I set out with ropes and things to capture one, there will be no help.
I have stopped searching for profundity. The new order is vacuity and insipidity. Misanthropy has been so provoked that passive distaste has turned into active rage... and I've decided that the best way to deal with it is to not... but rather surf more, eat lots of fish, read, and learn to read German.
Wirf aus den Armen die Leere zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Experimentations with Alcoholism
When we first moved to Canada, we had a neighbour across the lane that was (I did not realize at the time) a dedicated alcoholic. She was friendly and generous, and almost always wore jeans and flannel shirts. She had a withdrawn teenage son who was only ever seen in ripped jeans and various band t-shirts. I believe she was a single mom. She mowed the lawn with one hand and held her can of budweiser in the other. At ten years old and having trouble pushing our lawn mower with all my weight, I was impressed by her strength.
Today, as soon as I got home from work, I decided to recreate that scene. It's performance art of a sort... all for my own benefit, of course. I downed a couple of Strongbows and mowed the lawn. It was not at all challenging, not even when it ran out of gas and I had to figure out how and where to get more gas without driving. I therefore concluded that I was not drunk enough. I downed a third strong bow and slashed away at carton boxes with an Olfa box cutter (made in Japan and available at your local co-op hardware) in preparation for the first day of curbside recycling in Tofino (yes, you'd figure a place like Tofino would be all about recycling... but tomorrow is in fact the first day). I slashed away mercilessly at the carton boxes with the blade fully extended and managed to get them all into the little blue bags. I didn't find that sufficiently challenging, and therefore concluded again that I was not drunk enough. And so I got started on the 4th Strongbow... and sorted out my recycling for refund, which has been accumulating for months. The third activity was less demanding... and had to be, mainly because the webs between the fingers of my left hand were all bloodied from what I assume must be papercuts. I'm done sorting now... and still neither challenged nor drunk. If it were not getting dark so quickly, I believe the thing to do would be to start on a 5th and grab a ladder and start cleaning my windows on the top floor.
Many of you will of course point out that Strongbow is in fact not strong at all, and that I really should be drinking something else if I wish to engage in a truly "jackass" style tableau... but the fact of the matter is that I have no Unibroue left... and am not sufficiently willing to drink the other left over drinks from the party on Friday... all my red wine is either undrinakable or far too expensive to get drunk on... so... I guess I fail. Alcoholism requires much dedication and foresight... neither of which I have in abundance, especially now that mould has begun consuming brain matter and filling the void with its progeny within my skull.
Yes, I am bored. No, alcohol is not the answer.
Okay then. I will now read Revelation in Russian... either that or watch Têtes à claques...
When we first moved to Canada, we had a neighbour across the lane that was (I did not realize at the time) a dedicated alcoholic. She was friendly and generous, and almost always wore jeans and flannel shirts. She had a withdrawn teenage son who was only ever seen in ripped jeans and various band t-shirts. I believe she was a single mom. She mowed the lawn with one hand and held her can of budweiser in the other. At ten years old and having trouble pushing our lawn mower with all my weight, I was impressed by her strength.
Today, as soon as I got home from work, I decided to recreate that scene. It's performance art of a sort... all for my own benefit, of course. I downed a couple of Strongbows and mowed the lawn. It was not at all challenging, not even when it ran out of gas and I had to figure out how and where to get more gas without driving. I therefore concluded that I was not drunk enough. I downed a third strong bow and slashed away at carton boxes with an Olfa box cutter (made in Japan and available at your local co-op hardware) in preparation for the first day of curbside recycling in Tofino (yes, you'd figure a place like Tofino would be all about recycling... but tomorrow is in fact the first day). I slashed away mercilessly at the carton boxes with the blade fully extended and managed to get them all into the little blue bags. I didn't find that sufficiently challenging, and therefore concluded again that I was not drunk enough. And so I got started on the 4th Strongbow... and sorted out my recycling for refund, which has been accumulating for months. The third activity was less demanding... and had to be, mainly because the webs between the fingers of my left hand were all bloodied from what I assume must be papercuts. I'm done sorting now... and still neither challenged nor drunk. If it were not getting dark so quickly, I believe the thing to do would be to start on a 5th and grab a ladder and start cleaning my windows on the top floor.
Many of you will of course point out that Strongbow is in fact not strong at all, and that I really should be drinking something else if I wish to engage in a truly "jackass" style tableau... but the fact of the matter is that I have no Unibroue left... and am not sufficiently willing to drink the other left over drinks from the party on Friday... all my red wine is either undrinakable or far too expensive to get drunk on... so... I guess I fail. Alcoholism requires much dedication and foresight... neither of which I have in abundance, especially now that mould has begun consuming brain matter and filling the void with its progeny within my skull.
Yes, I am bored. No, alcohol is not the answer.
Okay then. I will now read Revelation in Russian... either that or watch Têtes à claques...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
The best gesture of my brain is now less than just about anything
It's not a fluttering eyelid so much as it is a rapid blink of incomprehension. There's been a whole lot of incomprehension as of late... but I have just been informed by my closest and longest standing friends that my mental capacity has been reduced to 3% since moving to Tofino. They had originally given me 5%... but I lost another 2% when I used a double negative and an incorrect verb and that verb with incorrect tense, aspect, and mode. Another friend called me this morning, and put me at 4% of full capacity. The extra percent was for recognising that I am suffering.
I will have to decide quite soon what to do about the job thing. Any input?
Shall I return to my Herman Miller (which was brand new as of April last year, and, I've been informed, has been sitting empty since July) or shall I continue to get slapped around like a two year old in a third world orphanage? Or maybe I should start a cleaning business on top of this B&B thing? It's far less demoralizing to clean other people's toilets... and pays more.
If the world is going to end soon, and we're on the last bit of the ride, it's probably more important to have clean toilets than to try to create a semblance of law and order... so I guess that's the way I'm leaning. Though I must say, the Herman Miller was a excellent chair... and the whole social responsibility thing does eat at my conscience... and but if you take that and apply the think global act local thing to it... it takes me right back to the third world orphanage.
The Oracle of Gary's kitchen said I'll have an important decision to make next month... and I guess I'm asking for opinions?
"S'il veut vous demander conseil, c'est qu'il a déjà choisi la réponse." J-P S. Mais qu'est-ce que j'ai déjà choisi?
It's not a fluttering eyelid so much as it is a rapid blink of incomprehension. There's been a whole lot of incomprehension as of late... but I have just been informed by my closest and longest standing friends that my mental capacity has been reduced to 3% since moving to Tofino. They had originally given me 5%... but I lost another 2% when I used a double negative and an incorrect verb and that verb with incorrect tense, aspect, and mode. Another friend called me this morning, and put me at 4% of full capacity. The extra percent was for recognising that I am suffering.
I will have to decide quite soon what to do about the job thing. Any input?
Shall I return to my Herman Miller (which was brand new as of April last year, and, I've been informed, has been sitting empty since July) or shall I continue to get slapped around like a two year old in a third world orphanage? Or maybe I should start a cleaning business on top of this B&B thing? It's far less demoralizing to clean other people's toilets... and pays more.
If the world is going to end soon, and we're on the last bit of the ride, it's probably more important to have clean toilets than to try to create a semblance of law and order... so I guess that's the way I'm leaning. Though I must say, the Herman Miller was a excellent chair... and the whole social responsibility thing does eat at my conscience... and but if you take that and apply the think global act local thing to it... it takes me right back to the third world orphanage.
The Oracle of Gary's kitchen said I'll have an important decision to make next month... and I guess I'm asking for opinions?
"S'il veut vous demander conseil, c'est qu'il a déjà choisi la réponse." J-P S. Mais qu'est-ce que j'ai déjà choisi?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
First Breakfast Note of the Season
I wrote a number of notes last year while guests were having breakfast. That was mainly because that was about the only time I had during which to write anything at all, and I didn't have time to respond to any e-mails other than those for reservations. I've since had an entire winter of mental atrophy, yet the habit of writing notes stuck. Like most technological advances, it allows one to be lazy and lulls one into believing that one is indeed making or maintaining real connections to others.
Well, I've discovered that a lot of peole like Yeats... so that's something.
The point of this note is just to acknowledge that this is the beginning of yet another season of serving breakfasts and working 19 hour days. I shall be quite near death by the end of it. But in the words of cs., when if not now?
I wrote a number of notes last year while guests were having breakfast. That was mainly because that was about the only time I had during which to write anything at all, and I didn't have time to respond to any e-mails other than those for reservations. I've since had an entire winter of mental atrophy, yet the habit of writing notes stuck. Like most technological advances, it allows one to be lazy and lulls one into believing that one is indeed making or maintaining real connections to others.
Well, I've discovered that a lot of peole like Yeats... so that's something.
The point of this note is just to acknowledge that this is the beginning of yet another season of serving breakfasts and working 19 hour days. I shall be quite near death by the end of it. But in the words of cs., when if not now?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Dressed for Sunday Night at the Purple Onion
The Whale Festival is on in Tofino. I'm not entirely sure what the whale festival is about, aside from the fact that it coincides with school and statutory holidays, and takes places in a town that seems to have something to do with whales. Tonight, there is a Whale Festival event called "Martini Migration"... which has nothing at all to do with whales, but rather involves (so I've heard) an entire town pouring into the community centre (which resembles something like an elementary school gymnasium, minus the basketball hoops and with lower ceilings) and getting drunk on "martinis" made by various restaurants in the area, who are all competing, I suppose, for the title of "best martini."
I had heard that this event is extremely popular, and that tickets sell out within hours of their going on sale. Knowing this, I had no desire to be there. As it turns out, however, the tickets were not impossible to get, and a co-worker offered to sell me a ticket. I still wasn't all that enthusiastic about it... but seeing as I live in Tofino, I felt that I should make some sort of effort to partake in the social going ons of this town...
I was told that this is one of those rare events in which one gets to "dress up"... last time I was told this, it was the Mermaid Ball... to which people showed up in togas and gumboots, I kid you not... this calls into question the local definition of "dressing up"... and I sure as hell wasn't going to show up at another one of these events dressed for Sunday night at the Purple Onion.
I was assured that people actually dressed *up* for this... in real clothes... not togas and gumboots and pirate costumes (I don't get the pirate costume thing... they seem really popular here). I was also assured that this event was a good place to "hook up"... which, given the nebulousness of the unintentionally long-term yet evidently meaningless entanglements of the past year or two, seemed like an opportunity to, at the very least, move along.
I could go through and describe the ordeal in detail, but it is as depressing for me as it would be entertaining for you, and I'm not feeling particularly altruistic at the moment.
Well. That's that then. Now I'm quite committed to never going to another social function in Tofino. Expectations are to be re-adjusted. Equilibrium is to be achieved between working and surfing, and the ultimate goal of a quick and painless death shall be constantly brought back to the top of the list. I only wish that, by the time it is my turn to croak, I play the flute as well as Schopenhauer did on the day of his death at age 72.
The Whale Festival is on in Tofino. I'm not entirely sure what the whale festival is about, aside from the fact that it coincides with school and statutory holidays, and takes places in a town that seems to have something to do with whales. Tonight, there is a Whale Festival event called "Martini Migration"... which has nothing at all to do with whales, but rather involves (so I've heard) an entire town pouring into the community centre (which resembles something like an elementary school gymnasium, minus the basketball hoops and with lower ceilings) and getting drunk on "martinis" made by various restaurants in the area, who are all competing, I suppose, for the title of "best martini."
I had heard that this event is extremely popular, and that tickets sell out within hours of their going on sale. Knowing this, I had no desire to be there. As it turns out, however, the tickets were not impossible to get, and a co-worker offered to sell me a ticket. I still wasn't all that enthusiastic about it... but seeing as I live in Tofino, I felt that I should make some sort of effort to partake in the social going ons of this town...
I was told that this is one of those rare events in which one gets to "dress up"... last time I was told this, it was the Mermaid Ball... to which people showed up in togas and gumboots, I kid you not... this calls into question the local definition of "dressing up"... and I sure as hell wasn't going to show up at another one of these events dressed for Sunday night at the Purple Onion.
I was assured that people actually dressed *up* for this... in real clothes... not togas and gumboots and pirate costumes (I don't get the pirate costume thing... they seem really popular here). I was also assured that this event was a good place to "hook up"... which, given the nebulousness of the unintentionally long-term yet evidently meaningless entanglements of the past year or two, seemed like an opportunity to, at the very least, move along.
I could go through and describe the ordeal in detail, but it is as depressing for me as it would be entertaining for you, and I'm not feeling particularly altruistic at the moment.
Well. That's that then. Now I'm quite committed to never going to another social function in Tofino. Expectations are to be re-adjusted. Equilibrium is to be achieved between working and surfing, and the ultimate goal of a quick and painless death shall be constantly brought back to the top of the list. I only wish that, by the time it is my turn to croak, I play the flute as well as Schopenhauer did on the day of his death at age 72.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
George's South Island Adventure
George is an old dog. I don't know how old he is... but I'm sure he's quite old. He is, in fact, old and crazy... which is why I can't leave him with anyone... and which is why I took him on a surf-camping-trip.
s. and I packed up the newly acquired aerostar (which has been named "Steve"... because he's a Ford and therefore American... and Steve has always been, to me, the ultimate American name) and drove down to Jordan River. Steve is the best surf vehicle ever... it held two people, five surfboards (11', 9'1", 7'8, 6'6", 6'4"), two wetsuit bins, a dog, and all the camping gear and food required with room to spare... all of this *in* the car, nothing on top.
We were meeting s.'s friend Anatole, and Anatole's friend Miranda at Jordan River. It was to be a foursome of two non-couples.
I had never met Anatole, and s. had never met Miranda. On our way there, I mentioned that I know a Miranda who cycled across most of Russia by herself... alone... on a bike... with no support... the plan was to go from Vladivostok to Moscow... including a stretch of Siberia known as "the land with no roads"... she made it to the foothills of the Urals before her visa ran out, narrowly escaping death and fates worse than death on various occasions... and the Miranda I know is about to go off to cycle from Cairo to Capetown.
All s. knew about Anatole's friend is that her name was Miranda and that she took up surfing while hanging out with the surf press in Australia. The Miranda I know also took up surfing in Australia while in the process of "becoming a writer"... well, it's a small small world... because three years later, there we were, meeting at Jordan River through people we didn't know.
We logged almost 1000kms for this surf trip... and surfed only twice (s. and I, anyway... I think Anatole and Miranda got in a session before we arrived and after we left)... I didn't catch a single ride... but did managed to get bruised all over from the rocks. Paddling out was easy... but experiencing the pissing contests that were Sombrio and Jordan River just wasn't all that worthwhile. s. and I agreed that this surf trip was perfect, in that the camping part was fun and friendly, and, most importantly, in that it taught us to love Tofino all the more. We love our beach breaks. We love our closeouts. We love the impossible paddle-outs. We have a home break... and it's perfect. (well, I have one, anyway... s. is moving back to Vancouver, or at least that appears to be the plan right now)...
And, unexpectedly, George had an excellent time on this trip. He joined us in every single one of our misguided surf checks... and ended up hiking to what we had hoped were secret surf spots along the Juan de Fuca trail. He navigated terrain that I would never have expected him to... steep trails, large boulders, fast moving creeks... but s. and Anatole were George's personal cheerleaders, encouraging him at every questionable juncture to make the jump, or the climb, or whatever it took. George had a totally awesome time. George loves the aerostar, too... he slept outside one night, and the next night, in the aerostar with me and s... and there was enough room for all three of us to stretch out.
s. and I won't be going to South Island again anytime soon... but the trip was still sort of perfect. We confirmed that Schopenhauer was right... and I got a chance to catch up with Miranda.
Time for bed now. Got to go out to my favourite beach break tomorrow morning at 7AM and catch a whole lot of rides before it's time to go to work.
George is an old dog. I don't know how old he is... but I'm sure he's quite old. He is, in fact, old and crazy... which is why I can't leave him with anyone... and which is why I took him on a surf-camping-trip.
s. and I packed up the newly acquired aerostar (which has been named "Steve"... because he's a Ford and therefore American... and Steve has always been, to me, the ultimate American name) and drove down to Jordan River. Steve is the best surf vehicle ever... it held two people, five surfboards (11', 9'1", 7'8, 6'6", 6'4"), two wetsuit bins, a dog, and all the camping gear and food required with room to spare... all of this *in* the car, nothing on top.
We were meeting s.'s friend Anatole, and Anatole's friend Miranda at Jordan River. It was to be a foursome of two non-couples.
I had never met Anatole, and s. had never met Miranda. On our way there, I mentioned that I know a Miranda who cycled across most of Russia by herself... alone... on a bike... with no support... the plan was to go from Vladivostok to Moscow... including a stretch of Siberia known as "the land with no roads"... she made it to the foothills of the Urals before her visa ran out, narrowly escaping death and fates worse than death on various occasions... and the Miranda I know is about to go off to cycle from Cairo to Capetown.
All s. knew about Anatole's friend is that her name was Miranda and that she took up surfing while hanging out with the surf press in Australia. The Miranda I know also took up surfing in Australia while in the process of "becoming a writer"... well, it's a small small world... because three years later, there we were, meeting at Jordan River through people we didn't know.
We logged almost 1000kms for this surf trip... and surfed only twice (s. and I, anyway... I think Anatole and Miranda got in a session before we arrived and after we left)... I didn't catch a single ride... but did managed to get bruised all over from the rocks. Paddling out was easy... but experiencing the pissing contests that were Sombrio and Jordan River just wasn't all that worthwhile. s. and I agreed that this surf trip was perfect, in that the camping part was fun and friendly, and, most importantly, in that it taught us to love Tofino all the more. We love our beach breaks. We love our closeouts. We love the impossible paddle-outs. We have a home break... and it's perfect. (well, I have one, anyway... s. is moving back to Vancouver, or at least that appears to be the plan right now)...
And, unexpectedly, George had an excellent time on this trip. He joined us in every single one of our misguided surf checks... and ended up hiking to what we had hoped were secret surf spots along the Juan de Fuca trail. He navigated terrain that I would never have expected him to... steep trails, large boulders, fast moving creeks... but s. and Anatole were George's personal cheerleaders, encouraging him at every questionable juncture to make the jump, or the climb, or whatever it took. George had a totally awesome time. George loves the aerostar, too... he slept outside one night, and the next night, in the aerostar with me and s... and there was enough room for all three of us to stretch out.
s. and I won't be going to South Island again anytime soon... but the trip was still sort of perfect. We confirmed that Schopenhauer was right... and I got a chance to catch up with Miranda.
Time for bed now. Got to go out to my favourite beach break tomorrow morning at 7AM and catch a whole lot of rides before it's time to go to work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
