Canadian Friction

If you keep putting yourself out there, trying to enjoy life as much as you can, you’re going to get met with some friction.

In the summer, I’d put myself out there by driving solo across the country, by hiking deep into the mountains, by exploring distilleries and art galleries. This fall I’d started at a new school in a new city, complete with boat parties, cultural potlucks, sunsets on the beach, and many happy hours.

Both seasons had gone about as smoothly as could be expected. Not once in my roadtrip’s eight weeks did I fall behind schedule, despite mudslides and a flat tire. Not one week at school passed without meeting new people and hearing new perspectives, despite a brief covid scare.

But fall had ended. With final exams over, I began the winter by flying to Canada to ski with classmates.

I woke up to a clear morning, threw clothes in my suitcase, called an uber, and pulled up to LAX departures just over an hour before my flight. Upon entering the terminal I met with a massive line at the Air Canada checkin counter. “They’re hand-checking everyone’s vaccination cards and negative tests.” Made it through just in time for boarding.

Secure in my window seat, we pushed off high into the sky, I doing little but staring out the window at the Channel Islands, at Santa Barbara, at San Luis Obispo, at San Francisco. We passed Mt Shasta, headed straight for Crater Lake, which I’d visited over the summer and was excited to see from these heights. But all of a sudden came cloud cover, obscuring my view all the way to Vancouver. Our plane set down amidst whitecaps at grey twilight.

After customs, (and being cordoned off for random covid testing), I sat down in one of our school’s shuttle buses. “Totally missed the duty free, otherwise I woulda gotten booze.” “What about food?” “Yeah, it seems like there’s some chips and stuff at the news stand, but otherwise nothing till Whistler.” We held firm for the three-hour drive, while another bus “staged a mutiny” and got their driver to pull over for booze.

It was snowing as we alighted in Whistler Village. I dumped my stuff in the room then nourished myself with a fried chicken sandwich & Jack Daniel’s, only then considering the night ahead.

It was “wig night” — the first of four consecutive theme parties. We got damp waiting in line for a bar that allowed just 25% capacity, so we went to another that required two forms of ID plus a vax card and tried to make us remain seated at our table rather than get up and socialize.

“You’d think Canada would be chill - but no! - they’re a buncha hardos. Lotta Canadian Friction so far this trip.”

The most exciting thing I did the rest of that night was try on Alex’s wig. I was tired and ready to rest for the days ahead.

The next morning — after a blue sunrise and a homemade breakfast by Chef Caldwell — Joe, Alex, and I walked over to the village, where massive lines clogged its main street. We opted for the shortest we could find, starting our day on the Fitzsimmons Express.

Through deep powder I followed the skier and the snowboarder as they led our way down, across, and throughout Whistler Mountain. Joe said “It’s frustrating, because I know I’m not in my best shape for these conditions. It’s fun, but I’m not quite able to make the moves I want to make.” Barely able to keep up, I silently nodded my head in response.

A few hours later we decided it was time to refuel at lunch, and thus began our first sojourn at Longhorn, the apres capital of the world a small town in British Columbia.

We posted there for quite a while, drinking beers, taking goggle selfies, and deciding to spend the rest of the afternoon in the hot tub rather than on the mountain. Nestled near the trees, snow melting in the hot water, the tub made us feel as if in some cute village in the Alps.

Upon stepping out, we began preparations for Theme Party Round Two: Onesies.

After a couple beers with two couples, we dined at the same place I’d eaten fried chicken the night before. Why there? Well, it was directly across from the elevator to our rooms.

One elk risotto and a few chocolate orange sazeracs later, it was still too early for the bar crawl portion of the night. So we met friends at Black’s and spurred our energy with espresso tini’s.

Then we were off. Buffalo Bill’s quickly followed by Apres Apres. There we met with the return of the fück shades. I saw penguins, giraffes, cheshire cats, and many candy canes.

I liked Apres Apres and so didn’t leave with the rest of my bar crawl group, staying to meet the next one. We danced a bit, only to be admonished by the staff: “No Dancing in BC!” Well then.

The next morning, I headed up Blackcomb Mountain in a group of five.

While waiting in a chairlift line, we saw people holding up their arms and/or poles. Then a bird landed on a man’s outstretched finger, and we understood, lifting our own arms up.

Skiing-wise, I was again the slowest of the group. I followed them to 7th Heaven, a lift that hadn’t been open the day before. It took us high up Blackcomb, where the wind raged and ice covered a stone figure at the top. I went to a hut to use the bathroom, but found it buried up to the top in snow, with a lone man trying to dig it out.

Felt like we were out in the wild.

It was freezing, of course. And cloudy. As we started down, my goggles fogged up, so I put them on my forehead and followed the others down a bowl of fresh powder, squinting my eyes and laughing as my heart jumped.

Then it started snowing. Squinting would no longer avail, so I put my foggy goggles back on, and when the others dropped out of sight ahead of me, all I could see was white — and thus I wasn’t prepared when the ground unexpectedly curved up instead of down. My skis caught in the snow, sending me down face first as I twisted sideways, feeling a pop in my inner thigh.

I got up slowly, gingerly skiing down to the others. “I think I pulled something.” “Oh no.” “Yeah.. it’ll be fine though. I’m just gonna take it easy all the way down from here. You guys go ahead.”

I inspected my leg for swelling, but it wasn’t too bad, and I found that so long as I didn’t make sudden turns I could ski normally enough. So I took the long way down the mountain, alone in the snow.

Back at base I dumped my ski things back in my room then headed back to the gondola, up the mountain to meet a group for lunch. We chatted until the restaurant closed and — bellies full of poutine — downloaded to Longhorn.

I got seated to the left of two DJ’s playing loud house music from an elevated booth. “……this is Longhorn apreeeeees!!!!” they said as women shot champagne out of super soakers. I decided I’d had enough. Wasn’t apres supposed to be chill?

So I sat alone in our suite, sipping whiskey and reading, until the others returned and we prepared for theme party three: 80’s night.

Back at Buffalo Bill’s we played a little darts (where I somehow hit bullseye), played some pool (where I couldn’t hit it straight to save my life), passed around pairs of sunglasses, and (yes) did some Dancing in BC.

I took it very slow to start the next morning. My leg felt good enough to ski, but I wanted to go it alone at my own pace. So while the rest of my room left for the mountain, I walked through the Olympic Village, past a snowmobile + fondue store, and ordered myself a hearty crepe.

Full of food & caffeine, I headed to the mountain for the final day. Unlike on the first two days, the sky was very clear. On Whistler I took a run or two, sticking to greens & blues and stopping many times to soak in the views.

Then I got on a gondola whose cable, (not unlike a tightrope), stretched from peak to peak, from Whistler to Blackcomb. I flew across the mountains.

Spent the rest of the day taking laps around Blackcomb. Springboard, Espresso, Sunset Boulevard. Back in the village I returned my skis and went to grab some tacos, soon joined by Shana, Caroline, and Caldwell. Joe texted us “I got sucked into Longhorn” so I replied the only way I knew how, with a Pit of Sarlacc gif.

The final theme night, denim, didn’t feature much of a party. Just dinner. After all, most were leaving the next day, some on 3am airport shuttles. With negative covid tests required to fly back into the USA, many were taking the at-homes, and thankfully all were testing negative.

After a long dinner at Black’s, we went one last time to Apres Apres, this time in a small group. I told of my plans to spend Christmas in Paris with my family; I’d be spending a few days in Vancouver and then flying out. “You should be fine.. as long as you stay safe there’s no reason not to go. You can’t be scared of traveling abroad forever! Who knows how many variants there could be!”

A quick stop at Garfs notwithstanding, the night ended soundly.

I woke to another clear day, and on the drive out I could see what looked like a string connecting the two peaks. That thin string was the gondola I’d ridden the day before.

I spent some of the ride down to Vancouver reading, but much of it just staring out the window and thinking. I saw mountain rocks towering over the side of the road, an evergreen forest wreathed in mist, streams running out from the trees down a wall of granite, a frozen lake, green hills cradling a pool of blue, evergreens pressed upon by a heavy sky, moss clinging to vertical stone, sun peeking through cloud cover to reflect in pale gold upon the lake — pale gold at first but then bright gold as we turned the corner and the sun flashed boldly down. As we approached the city it was a blur of greens reds yellows and browns with every shade between. Crossing a bridge into Vancouver, we found ourselves in a forest, and I thought how on earth are we in a city right now?

“I felt like I had proof that not all days are the same length, not all time has the same weight. Proof that there are worlds and worlds and worlds on top of worlds, if you want them to be there.” – Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

After being dropped off downtown, I walked to the harbor to meet up with my roommates for the next few days. A tasty salmon bowl by the harbor restored my flagging spirits.

That night we went to the Canucks game. Another group of classmates that were also staying the extra few days in Vancouver met us at the entrance.

The Canucks went down 3-0 early to the Blue Jackets, but made it 3-1 in the second period, and while the local fans were still a little bummed, we couldn’t have been more excited as we made it on the jumbotron.

Early in the third the Canucks cut the deficit to one and the crowd really started to get loud, reaching a crescendo when the home team tied it up, and then breaking said crescendo as they scored the game-winning goal at the end of regulation.

The next morning, two days before I’d fly to Paris, we took a shuttle to the Capilano Suspension Bridge. We bounced our way across, later learning that it had once withstood (and even broken) a massive falling tree whose force upon collision exceeded that of a truck. Then we walked through the rainforest to moving water, some installed lights, and the sounds of nature.

It was cold though, and I wasn’t feeling my absolute best. In fact, I’d had a headache the past few days, and felt slightly congested, but figured those were the normal outcome of cold weather & hangovers.

We ate a late lunch that day at Sen Pad Thai at Granville Island Public Market. Then I felt pretty tired, like I needed to lay down. Didn’t help that we’d gone until 3pm without eating lunch. Upon returning home I took a three-hour nap.

We were going to go out for Indian food that night, but received the news that someone in our group had tested positive for covid. Well then. We popped beers, as if they’re the best cure we could find. Then I really wasn’t feeling well and laid down in bed. Could it be placebo? A fever & chills soon started and lasted all night.

I woke up expecting the worst. My flight for Paris was tomorrow, so it was finally time to use my one at-home covid test.

It was positive.

I holed up in my room the rest of the day, roommates leaving food at my door. My family decided not to go to Paris without me and cancelled the trip. One by one, my roommates got tested and flew out. Somehow none of them ended up getting it.

I, of course, couldn’t go anywhere, given the US’s aerial re-entry policy. I tried to find a rental car so as to cross the land border, but no company would allow international dropoffs. So when I checked out of my airbnb the next day, the day I’d been supposed to fly to Paris, I walked instead to the Day’s Inn where I’d booked a room for the next week or so.

As I’m checking in, they asked me to sign one last paper that affirmed:
“I have not knowingly been in contact with anyone who has tested positive for COVID-19 in the last 10 days”
“I do not have any COVID-19 symptoms”
“I have not tested positive for COVID-19 or am not waiting for the results of a test”

I couldn’t bring myself to sign that. “Hey so.. I have been in contact with someone who had covid.” “Oh.. then you can’t stay here.” I started to get lightheaded, the world swirling before me. “I swear I won’t leave my room.” “Nope, this has been our policy since the beginning of the pandemic, we really can’t have you.” “…” “…” “Where do I go?” “Let me see. I think the Ramada is taking quarantine cases... Yep they have a room for you at a slightly higher rate. Will you be walking or would you like us to call you a taxi?” “I’ll walk.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I checked into the Ramada, overhearing the man and woman at the next check-in counter: “Can we stay here then?” “No, he’s banned for life” “Whaaaaaat” “Every time you come here you trash our rooms” “But that was three months ago!”

Finally I made it to a room of my own, to a week of takeout food & solitude.

I dreamt dark dreams, but felt fine within two days, all symptoms gone.

I planned not to mess around with the flights, who’d require proof of recovery. Rather, after satisfying the CDC quarantine guidelines, I’d take an Amtrak bus across the border to Seattle and then fly from there.

On the day of the winter solstice, a friend who’d also tested positive texted me that Amtrak would be requiring negative tests. I freaked out: fruitlessly looking at car rentals again, checking the prices of an uber to Seattle (~$400 USD), gauging how long it would take to walk to the border (~11.5hr), and calling Greyhound. None of these came to much, so I tried getting on with a doctor for a note of recovery, but two hours later was still stuck in the virtual waiting room. I gave up to do yoga, but halfway through the session the doctor called me back and produced a note.

Note in hand, I figured I could now fly out. Never mind that Amtrak ended up confirming they wouldn’t require neg tests — that could be my backup plan.

I arrived to the airport early the next morning. The mobile upload of my recovery documents didn’t work, so I hoped the check-in desk would set things right. After a little deliberation and confusion about quarantine policies (“this note doesn’t work. it’s 14 days after a negative test” “no… it’s 10 days after the symptoms started”), they let me through. I breezed through customs and onto the plane, and then we were off.

I touched down in Denver to connect to Chicago, just in time for Christmas, which for the second straight year we’d spend in isolation from my cousins or grandparents. Oh well. At least I’m not spending Christmas stuck alone in Canada. I looked back as my plane crossed the midwest, small lakes glinting in the sun like stardust in my wake.

Whistler was a flurry of activity with scarcely a moment alone, Vancouver featured long hours alone with virtually no way to socialize. The whole fall had been a neverending social frenzy, and I tried my best to keep push push pushing that into the winter, to Paris. But the world pushed back.

I slept well every single night I was in Canada, except for the first covid fever night. It didn’t matter whether I’d been with people or not, whether I’d been drunk or sober — each night refreshed & rejuvenated me in a way I hadn’t felt since arriving in LA.

I won’t stop pushing. I’ve still never been to Paris, which is a bummer. I’ve still never been to Asia or South America. I want nothing more than to travel the world. Yet instead of taking a pre-business school trip around the world, I took one across the country. Instead of Christmas in Paris, I spent the holiday season in full quarantine followed by a bubble.

Some things you can’t control, such as whether you’ll feel good in the morning, where you’ll be tomorrow or next week, when you’ll see someone next. It’s not up to us to control, only to push — to keep asking for, to keep planning for the best. Someday it might actually happen.