I battled with myself on a Monday afternoon at the beach near my hotel. “Was I having fun?” I asked myself continuously. The answer: I don't know. What is 'fun'? I guess it depends who you are. Some people find eating a large tub of Haagen Dazs a real treat, others really enjoy skateboarding, others get a kick out of hearing themselves speaking; but are we always having fun doing these activities? Is it fun when you’re sat getting a coronary heart bypass because you’re an obese man, meant to be enjoying the prime of his life, only you ate too much ice-cream? Is it fun, I mean, constantly fun skateboarding? Never one day were you just think, 'Man, I can't be fucked today. I'm going home to watch Simpsons.' Never a single moment where you've realised you are actually talking so much you are boring people and you have to stop and take a quick reality check?
'Fun' for me ultimately depends on how you feel and whom you are with, for example: You buy your girlfriend some Haagen Dazs, take it over to her place and eat it with her, watching a movie you hate but deal with, and then later she calls you 'her Daddy' and it's all smiles – that sounds fun? You had fun right? Now imagine you buy that same cookie-dough ice-cream but you eat it alone, in your room, depressed because your girlfriend gave Mental Dave a hand-job and you couldn't find a spoon because you’re a fucking loser so you had to lick, suck and slurp the whole sub-temperature treat out of the container like a knob. That's not fun at all.
Or you go skateboarding with all your friends at your favourite spot, the weather is amazing, everyone is stoked, you land a new trick, catching the eye of an emo girl who takes you round the back of the aquarium for a blow-job, and it's amazing – that’s a fun, pleasurable day, one I'm pleased to say I did experience during my youth. On the more painful end of the spectrum, imagine you go skateboarding but none of your friends turn up ‘cause they aren't your friends at all – they think you're a dick. You turn up, approach the staircase at full speed but then some chavs appear out of nowhere, give you a fucking good kickin', take all your shit and draw a cock on your head in permanent marker. That's not much fun. We don't enjoy this.
The only exception to the 'how you feel and whom you are with' rule is if you add mind-altering substances in to the mix. If you were drunk during the 'kickin' or the 'depressed ice-cream' moments, you were probably still having a shit time, but it hurt less; much less. So after dragging my ass off the beach, wiping the tears off of the photo album my wonderful sister took the time to make me, and drinking a small bottle of tequila alone in my room at the hotel, I went out and I was not coming home until I had fun – my kinda fun.
At this point I wish to inform you, the reader, that I was in Cancun over 10 weeks ago now and due to how messed up I got, there at least 3 days of week 2, of which I have absolutely no memory whatsoever. Anyways, on with the fun shit...
I fell into a bar called Snr. Frogs, clad in my favourite tie-dye vest and the skinniest jeans I could find. A foam party? - I fucking hate foam parties. I made a beeline to the smoking area once I'd received my cocktail. An English couple took a shine to me and came and sat down, big mistake. I stood up, clipped the table, and poured three gigantic, sugary cocktails all over the boyfriend. He was pissed off, so off they fucked. I was bangin' seven-gram rocks, that's how I roll - winning. An Australian gentleman approached me – perhaps he could be my friend?
“You remind me of Russel Brand.” he said.
“Fuck off.” I slurred back with venom.
Not that the friendly remark offended me in any way, given the sex symbol status of my apparent doppelgänger. I was just bored of hearing a long list of names of people I supposedly looked like. This was in fact the 3rd time I'd had the 'Russell Brand' comparison and it was starting to piss me off, as I tend to think I'm perfectly rad by myself. Other notable comparisons included, Jon Lennon, Ringo Starr, Jesus Christ (fictional of course but it still counts), Kings of Leon, Blake from Workaholics (fictional but more real and better looking than Jesus), David Guetta (I have no idea who he is either) and I'm sure there were others I've forgotten. I see myself as more of a 'Method Man' truth be told, but what can you do?
So anyways, the Australian chap and I didn't become friends either – my bad. I waded through foam trying to get out of the club; this was not my kind of 'pit.' This foam shit doesn't bounce in the mosh-pit. I slipped and fell – drenched. Now making friends was going to be even more difficult. Nobody likes a soaking-wet, drunk man. Plus a girl had fucked with my hair and it was all woo-woo and wouldn't go back to normal, I could have cried – instead I drank. I drank and I drank and I drank in a weird little bar until I had dried off a touch, and finally mustered the courage to visit another club – the name of which I have totally forgotten (despite visiting it 2-3 times during my stay).
I remember seeing bright lights and I immediately noticed there were less Westerners partying in this club, which I viewed as a good sign; I preferred partying with the locals I'd discovered. I popped into the toilet, a man sat outside... a dodgy man...
“Cocaine?” he said glumly, as if speaking to me were in itself an inconvenience to his life.
“No thank you.” I slurred. “Poopy.”
(He didn't get the joke). I attempted to open the door and he kicked it shut.
“Cocaine.” he said once again, with more venom.
I realised in order to use the only available W.C I would have to buy drugs... Oh well! It was forced on me, I had no choice!? I purchased drugs, did what needed to be done in the lavatory and returned to the dancehall with renewed vigor and a rather tasty lip flavoured-sandwich – my lip. Another Australian approached me, we became friends for a few minutes but then he asked,
“Are you gay ‘cause like, I'm not,” In a serious, slightly scared tone.
This wasn't the first time in my life broader-shouldered, more naturally testosterone-fuelled males had questioned my sexual orientation and typically I wouldn't have cared so much, but due to the cocaine, I decided to move away from him, perching myself at another table with 2 well-dressed Mexican guys (maybe I am gay?) who had just purchased this crazy cinnamon-fire drink that seemed to be gathering a LOT of female attention (oh no, definitely straight). Marco and Roberto offered me a drink from this crazy ornamental fire-extravaganza and that was that – I had made friends! We partied pretty hard that night, one of my favourite memories was watching Marco fall through a gap in a wooden bridge outside, he hung, suspended by his nuts, 50ft in the air with a strong tide passing underneath – you probably had to have been there, but I assure you, in real-time – it was very fucking funny.
We stumbled over to get Roberto's car, fucked out of our minds. I remember finding it hilarious that the security guards whom Roberto had paid to guard his car just surrendered it to us, laughing about how messed up we were. This most certainly was NOT England! We drove around listening to Bloc Party, at one point we stopped because some girls thought I was David Guetta and wanted to get a picture taken with me, I humbly obliged after Roberto convinced me it would be hilarious – it was quite funny in truth...
Arriving back at the house we were joined by some drug dealers and the man from the burrito stand who had assisted in my food poisoning epidemic the week prior.
“How was the burrito!?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“Lovely, thank you.” I replied, biting my lip.
...“Best burrito ever.”
Roberto re-entered the room with some MDMA and LSD; after a brief discussion, everyone decided in three different languages, that it was a fantastic idea to just consume it all at once and ask questions later– it was good fun (once again), I must admit and the 'questions' were long forgotten in the vast sea of intellectual tranquility! Everyone sat around for hours talking in Mexican, I was so messed up on the LSD that I actually felt like I understood what was being said much of the time, must have looked freaky as fook sat there nodding and talking to myself in English in retrospect but at least I was enjoying myself. I was, however, sweating like 2 fat-gingers making mid-afternoon love on a Greek beach. My friend from the burrito stand turned the fan on me in full force – this was to be my revenge, he made me sick and now he made me well again; order restored to the universe. I can't remember too much more from that night, we attempted to play 'Round the World' on the dartboard, but everyone was too fucked and it lasted about 3 hours so we jacked it in. Suddenly I realised it was 10.30am and I made the dramatic decision to get a cab back to the hotel as Roberto was threatening to go get breakfast – yuck!
I pulled the covers over my head that morning and I think I smiled... or maybe gurned (hard to tell). I had actually had a really good time. All it took was drug dealers, a litre of spirits, LSD, Cocaine, MDMA and probably most importantly of all – like-minded people. People are the most important thing on the planet. It's easy to forget sometimes, what with the media making it out like everyone of a different race, religion or class to one’s own is out to get you constantly, but it really is true. Good people – you are a credit to yourselves and to the world around you, and thank you for making my 'trip' (physically and mentally) a good one for the main part. Bad people – please fuck yourselves royally and without mercy.
I awoke 20 hours later on a Monday evening... I literally had no idea where, or even who I was so after booking an excursion for the following morning, I went back to bed.
The excursion was fantastic; I'd recommend it to anyone visiting Cancun if only I could remember what it was called... Oh I remember (not really, I used Google) – Rio Secreto. Basically you don a wetsuit, a hard hat and a torch before descending in to the Mayan underground water system. It's incredible down there. I floated around staring at stalagmites and stalactites. I'm not a spiritual man whatsoever but I guess it's fair to say I get a boner for nature sometimes (usually on the bus)... it just felt really great being down there, if you get the chance - GO.
My best friend had passed away the year before; part of the reason I was able to come away was because he was kind enough to write me in to his will. We used to have a secret whistle; when I was a child I didn't like the dark much, so whenever I used to go to the bathroom at night at the campsite we frequented, he would whistle to me so I knew he was there and I would whistle back. The cave echoed so when I whistled I got to hear a reply for the first time in over a year, reverberating through the pitch black, and for me, that was really fucking cool. Cheers Deeds.
One moment that did make me laugh out loud during this tour was when a religious and slightly overweight couple from Alabama took offence at something our French tour guide said when showing us around. They asked him why there was a ramp coming out of the water in the cave, he replied in the always cool sounding French accent,
“This ramp is here as we operate a shorter tour for the elderly... and for the fatties.” He said laughing.
“I don't think it's funny to make fun of somebodies weight.” replied the girl.
Jean (the tour-guide) just smirked and carried on with his day. I was standing next to the couple and the next few things they said really amused me.
“Why does he find that funny? I mean laughing at somebody?” said the girl, turning to her partner.
“It's because he is afraid.” he replied.
I immediately burst into laughter.
“He's not afraid guys!” I said, still laughing. “He is European!”
“I hope God forgives you both.” he said.
I didn't fancy a religious debate so I just chortled and carried on with my day also.
Later in the week I went back out with Marco and Roberto, we went for a meal and then effectively relived our first night out together as best we could. Once again, it was a lot of fun. I'm pleased to say, despite the fact I know parts of this blog-entry have probably sounded morbidly depressing, I DID have fun in Cancun eventually... Like I said at the beginning, I just needed to feel good and share the experience with somebody... life is as simple as you make it.
Fun - Enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure: "anyone who turns up can join in the fun".
By Benners.
Next week – Episode 5 – Cabarete, Dominican Republic“It's a Nice Vagina Yes, I'll Pay You 50 Peso to Put It Back In Your Jeans...”
EP3 'The Bad Burrito and My Introduction to Moral Dilemmas.'
The flight from Vancouver to Mexico was a relatively straightforward affair, if you don't include the fact I got delayed at Houston Airport for ten hours. I can think of worse airports to be stranded at, mainly because during the course of this trip I've been stranded at worse airports. Houston on the other hand, had plenty of bars and eateries and I was hungry and I love booze, so overall it could have been worse. Plus a girl I know sent me a picture of her vagina, so that was nice. Also the delay I faced meant I got to bump myself up to Business Class for about $40 and was able to sit out the remaining three hours of the journey in relative bliss, drinking wine and pondering my tactics for the next couple weeks. My ponderings however didn't mean I failed to notice the businessman sat next to me, looking over thinking “What the fuck is he doing here?” constantly, and I'm pleased to inform, I took great pleasure from it.
I arrived in Cancun, customs was very pleasant compared to the more 'you are a worthless piece of shit' approach they adopt just across the northern border. I shared a cab back to the hotel I was to be based in for the next fortnight with a lady from Texas called Ruth, a classy looking 50yr old... it was here I first thought to myself “I think I've chosen the wrong hotel...” And that is pretty much going to be the theme of this particular piece of writing: my bad decisions. My first week in Cancun was, shall we say – NOT as I had expected...
Now don't get me wrong, The Cancun Iberostar, which was recently purchased from Hilton, was a tremendous hotel in many ways; it was comfortable, elegant, classy, respectful and numerous other adjectives, none of which you would associate with someone like me. I had been warned NOT to stay in an all-inclusive by friends and family alike, but I think in retrospect I wanted to relax a fair bit before I arrived at my next destination and started work. So it made sense for me (at least when booking the trip) to just eat and drink and laze about as and when I saw fit. And if you like eating, drinking and lazing about in luxury then this is the hotel for you. Personally I was bored of it after the first couple days. Obviously travelling alone means I have to meet people or risk becoming socially inept... or at least, face up to my social ineptness, and if you know me well then you'll know I don't have much to say to anybody unless I'm twatted.
I tried my hardest those first few days to get drunk and make friends but it seemed the majority of the guests staying at the hotel were couples and families. The younger demographic in attendance were the typical American 'Yeah.Woo.Yeah.Woo' Cancun yuppies you might have seen on the television and prayed never to meet – they served only to remind me of how old I was. It seems at the ripe old age of 27, I had positioned myself directly in-between all other age-ranges at the hotel... and not in the sexual way I had planned. More in the sense of, 'sit-by-yourself-on-the-beach-and-try-to-look-like-you-enjoy-being-alone' ... which I hasten to add, I did not.
So the first few nights, my idea of a good time was to just drink alone all day long, eat at the beach restaurant for lunch and dinner, then drink more, and then I'd go to down to the beach at night (which was beautiful by the way), listen to Sigur Ros and try to feel inspired about my existence. Sometimes I would decide to head back to the lobby and infuriate obvious religious Americans by slurring on about Dawkins, evolution and the non-sensical, white depiction of Christ they worshipped in thoughtless abundance. However, in the main I was by myself; although the staff at the hotel were diamonds and were always happy to wax lyrical with me, which I think kept me sane.
On the third day I met a delightful Mexican chap and his family; they were holidaying from Monterrey and they took me under their wing a little bit. Alfonso and I decided we should venture in to the City with his daughter Yanela and hit up some clubs. We convinced Ruth, (the Texan I shared the cab to the hotel with) to join us and off we went, to Cocobongos.
Now I am an eclectic lover of music, the only genre I tend not to listen to, is whatever is being played in a popular club on a night out. I just don't like it, I'm not even sure why anymore, I just don't. It's quite possible I'm a pretentious dickhead, again – I'm not sure. However, if you ever go to Cancun, you would be a fool to miss out on the Cocobongos experience. It's so much more than just a nightclub. There are probably a hundred performers in the main room at times, mimicking the songs, performing trapeze and various other acrobatics... when I first walked in I genuinely thought Lady Gaga was on stage, it was only moments later when Axel Rose came out that I realised they were impersonators. Vast quantities of dry ice shoots out from the floor, crazy stuff is constantly dropping from the ceiling, it's just a mad and wonderful place in which to have a few drinks, I recommend it highly to party-lovers everywhere.
An interesting side-note: I convinced an Australian chap I met to do a Tequila Stuntman with me (the one were you snort the salt, squeeze the lemon into your eye and then stick the cocktail stick in your head), he puked – I laughed.
Alfonso, Yanela and Ruth tried to get me to leave but I refused, instead deciding to go party Han-Solo. I walked out the club, fell down the stairs and realised I should have left with them. I hobbled over to a late night restaurant and ate a burrito – this buritto poisoned me. I was out of action for the next two days, resigned to my hotel room because I didn't much fancy crapping my pants on the pristine white sands of Cancun. Bad times.
The cab ride home, before the food poisoning hit me, was a very strange affair indeed. My driver seemed lovely at first, a middle-aged, English speaking woman with long curly hair and bright smile. She asked me,
“Did you have a good night then?” politely.
“Fantastic, thank you.” I replied curtiously. “I love it here.”
A brief pause followed before she passed me back a magazine containing about ten pages of naked women.
“You like to fuck any of these?” She said...
I don’t mind admitting some of these women were very attractive and because of the alcohol intake it took me a few seconds to get my shit together and reply...
“No, thank you.” I said. “They are total babes though! Fair play!” I continued on.
She snatched the brochure from my grasp and literally turned into an evil demon. There were about two minutes of awkward silence before she passed me another brochure. The women contained within seemed slightly less attractive and I remember the brochure itself looked less reputable than the one she had given me moments earlier.
“700 Pesos, they fuck you.” She said in an irritated fashion.
Again, I took my time replying. I guess I can only compare my thought process to when one visits a supermarket in order to purchase the ingredients needed to cook spaghetti bolognese. You have the pasta in the cupboard, you came in to buy mince, sauce, mushrooms, peppers and parmesan but on route to isle six you come across a reduced priced tuna sandwich. You don't want the tuna sandwich really but it's a ten minute walk home, there's a chance you could get hungry and it only costs 36p so you decide to go for it anyways on occasion. Still, I decided even at those prices I didn't much fancy tuna...
“I'm honestly fine, just take me back to the hotel please.” I said.
She mumbled something in Mexican, I'm not sure what but I could tell it was insulting. Then she started huffing and puffing, I think she must have took a cut of the service charge if she delivered clients to the prostitutes, so I, being a drunken one-man-band, must have looked like the perfect candidate. I dealt with the silence for about another minute before piping up the courage to say the following,
“I don't really understand why you're fucking hating on me for NOT going to fuck hookers. Where I'm from, I'm pretty sure most women would see this as a positive!?”
She said 'she didn’t understand.' I knew she did, so basically for the remainder of that cab ride I just gave her fuck until she admitted to understanding, admitted I was a nice guy and then I forced her to smile at me before I got out the cab – she must have fucking hated me. I just didn't want to leave the cab feeling like the bad guy in all this, if that makes any sense? So it was important to me she respected my moral decision, even if perhaps it wasn't mutually beneficial. Anyways, I got in, more than probably masturbated (I forget) and then I passed out. I wish to point out that at this point on my travels, I was battling with some moral dilemmas about my future role as a teacher. Should a good teacher snort a big bag of cocaine, knob some hookers and then go get high back at the hotel? Probably not? This is funny in the context of next week's piece, so try to remember I said it...
I spent the next couple days confined to my bedroom in a pool of shit, ordering room service and watching the London Olympics. That burrito totally fucked me, I was to meet the chef again the following week, at a party. Keep reading if you want to find out what happened there; I assure you its nothing like what you think...
On the Sunday I awoke still feeling worse for wear BUT today was the day I had been waiting for... I was finally going to see Chichen Itza! I waddled on to the bus at 8.30am, looking like a man who feared the worst for the mint condition of his pink underpants. I probably slept all the way to the Yucatan Peninsula, awaking as we arrived at the archeological site itself. I had wanted to see these ruins for over a decade and rightfully, I was very excited. In the car-park an American man, perhaps in his early twenties, approached me and said:
“Hey, I like your hat.”
“Oh, thank you... it's Emerica.” I replied bashfully.
“I'm a big fan of like, hats.” He said, before awkward silence engulfed us both. I had no idea what the fuck to say that so I just walked off pretending to text somebody on my phone.
Anyways, I will now attempt to summarise how the experience went for me. The ruins of Chicken Pizza were undeniably impressive BUT this is somewhat due to the extensive and ongoing restoration programme currently being undertaken at the site. When it was first unearthed, even the Kukulkan Pyramid bore more resemblance to that of rubble than the form in which we see it today. It's not like the site just stood the test of time unaided, far from it. It is in a constant state of restoration. Most of the important archeological finds heralding from beneath the temples have now been moved to museums, principally in Mexico City so none of that is available to view on-site. Also, because of the restoration work and the frailty of the ancient rock, paying visitors no longer have a chance to go inside any of the temples, ascend the steps of the pyramid or really touch anything... or even go within a few metres of anything. This meant my dream of fulfilling some fantastical Fingerprints of the Gods type shit at Chichen Itza were doomed. All we were able to do was walk around, marvel at the size of the buildings, listen to the stories of the Ancient Mayans via our Mayan-descendant tour operator, get hassled to buy things constantly by children working at the site and in my case, try not to shit our pants.
Again I wish to say, it is still an incredible thing to go and see. I have long respected the ancient cultures of both the Mayans and the Aztecs as well as the Olmecs and numerous others, I have read a lot about all of them. It's just that it all felt a bit rushed and I was mildly irritated I couldn’t get near anything. I guess I understood it was a question of preservation but still this didn’t stop me from feeling disappointed, perhaps even slightly duped. I still left happy to have finally seen Chichen Itza, the fulfilment of a life goal for me, however I was equally as happy to see my pants contained no crap.
We boarded the bus and next took a trip over to the local Cenote (sinkhole) to go for a swim. This was truly a magical experience and one I would thoroughly recommend to anybody visiting the Yucatan. The water is crystal clear, very refreshing after a sweaty trip on the bus, the catfish were as large as they were friendly and the geographical aesthetics were incredibly pleasing all round. I was filled with a deep sense of heritage and entitlement when swimming there despite knowing I am no more Mayan than I am Sumerian or Catholic. It was just a cool feeling knowing men, women and children had swam, washed and most probably urinated in that Cenote for thousands of years and now there I was, doing the same thing...
Upon arriving back to the hotel I ran upstairs and did what needed to be done in the bathroom. It was satisfying, solid mass, equal distribution – I had reached the end of the burrito induced food poisoning, perhaps healed by the magical Chichen Itza... or perhaps the Imodium had kicked in, hard to tell.
So that was the end of my first week in Cancun. It's fair to say (as I stated at the beginning) it was not exactly how I had expected it to be. A mixture of my failure to grasp my own likes and dislikes in terms of the hotel environment, my failure to socialise properly and the failure of a certain burrito vendor to uphold the standards of his food had conspired to give me a somewhat boring week. I was itching to put that right the following week, and so I decided teacher training would have to wait a little while...
Thanks for reading,
Benners.
EP2 'Vancouver and the Three Sea-Shells Complex (Demolition Man).'
Before I begin, here is a bit of background information on me, Benners: I don't like talking about myself much if I'm being totally honest, which I know must seem like total hypocrisy given I'm writing about my travels in this blog and indeed, planning to talk about myself for the next few paragraphs exclusively; but I assure you, I do this firstly because I've been asked to, and secondly because, truth be told, I feel a little homesick (mainly due to the language barrier I'm currently experiencing) and writing gives me a chance to connect with friends both old and new.
So I share my tales of woe and glory with the view only to making friends laugh and occasionally, ponder the big wide world. I don't sit here jerking my dick off about it or anything. My Degree is in a writing-based subject, but you'll not find any other blog written by me, ever; simply because until now I was content just sharing my stories with my amigos.
I certainly have no intention of trying to sound "cool", or "edgy", or "weird", or anything like that; these posts are literally just about things that happened to me on my travels, how I felt about certain situations and just whatever happens to be running through my my head as I'm sat at my Mac. I am genuinely 'like' what you are reading. I would be thinking the same thoughts and doing the same stuff whether you were reading or not. There is no hyperbolic bullcrap going on, although sometimes I do talk utter shit, it's true.
...these are just my lyrical-darts, poisoning paper, my mass intellect on show for y'all to tape-a, my ragged-bone shit forged in the slums that I escape-a, I ain’t interested in beef with fools and fuckin' hata's. And some other shit...
Plus writing this blog totally saves me having to tell the same story fifteen times, to umpteen different people on FaceTwat. Copy + Paste = cheating.
So anyways, Vancouver, B.C, Canada. My first night staying at Egg and Cathy's house. As they tucked me into bed on their very comfortable settee, they told me to "keep an eye out for racoons," I had never seen one before and I was eager to catch a glimpse of them in action. I'd been awake for more than 24hrs now (thank you Pro Plus) but I remember hearing them outside, they make a very recognisable sound – it's the sound of garbage being thrown about and fought over, unmistakeable it is; though eerily similar to the music of Deaf Havana. On this occasion I was too tired to get up and look out the window, had I have known how difficult it was going to be to catch another glimpse of the elusive critters, I'd have definitely braved the two metre stroll!
The first proper day was great. Cathy (bless her soul) had a lot of uni work and marking to be getting on with, so the Egg and I were able to concentrate on the typical manly activities of drinking beer and eating burgers. The two of us ate A LOT of burgers on my trip. It was a while ago that I was in Canada but I will attempt to list my diet for the duration of my stay at this point, just because it was enjoyable and made me feel good:
- 10 XL double, double coffees from Timmy Hortons.
- 4 doughnuts (assorted flavours) from Timmy Hortons.
- 10 sausage and egg breakfast bagels from (you guessed it) Timmy Hortons.
- 3 bacon and egg sandwiches at Greg’s (he doesn't half make a good bacon and egg sarnie).
- 2 grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches curtesy of Cathy (thank you Cathy!).
- 3 bowls of chicken nachos.
- An uncountable amount of chicken wings, varying in flavour.
- 2 pancakes (blueberry syrup) from Pancake Planet (or some shit).
- 1 Cheese-Beaver thing from up on Bear Mountain.
AND:
- 1 teryaki mushroom burger from local restaurant.
- 1 Spanish chicken burger at SFU Student's Union.
- 1 barbecue ranch burger from Shadow Beer Bar.
- 2 steak burgers from A&W.
- 1 blue cheese burger from an English themed pub; suitably named 'The London.'
- 1 hotdog and 1 burger from up on Bear Mountain.
- 1 plate of pulled pork, spicy sausage, ribs and coleslaw from the greatest place I've ever eaten food from – I was stuffed half way through but continued on because it was so immense.
- At least 2-3 more burgers I've forgotten about because of the booze.
Oh and during the Olympic Opening Ceremony we had … fruit and yoghurt (the only fruit I ate all week; though I wish to point out Cathy ate fruit like a champion). I barely ate any fruit, BUT I did manage to get through at least 12 bottles of Glacial Fruit Vitamin Water to balance out the burgers...kind of. Did I mention, I fucking love burgers?
Healthy stuff as you can see! But I know you don't care about my diet. Do I sound like a nineteen year old Instagram (aka 'look what I ate for dinner tonight') motherfucker? Probably, and for that, I am sorry. And also, really frickin' hungry – I'm so tired of rice, chicken talons and fucking plantains!! The point I was trying to make was that a diet of burgers actually lead to some well timed, solid, Canadian poops; among the most consistent and satisfying I've ever had. I was definitely born to live in Canada/USA. My healthy digestive system throughout my stay is evidence of this; I wonder if they'd grant me a VISA on this basis? (Told you 'I talk utter shit.')
Where was I? Oh yeah, so the first day was a standard day looking around the city of Vancouver. What a place! The cleanest city I have ever visited by a mile. It's beautiful, I'd kill to live there.
"How can a city this size be so frickin' clean?" I remember thinking to myself. I was soon to find out.
We strolled around Stanley Park, 10km or so, it was a visually stunning park, let down slightly by the amount of rules in place. Too many fucking rules! 'You can only cycle in one direction.' 'No Smoking.' 'No alcohol.' 'Specified routes for dog walking.' 'No Littering' (fair but still a rule). Then the general public using the park had their own set of rules too. Rules contained within rules, 'Stay fit,' 'Keep running,' 'Be beautiful,' ' YOLO T-shirts are mandatory.' I began to understand how exactly such a large city was kept in such mint condition during that walk. The people of Vancouver actually give a shit about both their external and internal environment, it's hard to knock them for that, so I just accepted defeat and joined them on their quest to build a metropolitan utopia. I ate all my cigarettes.
We paused to drink vitamin water and a free coconut-juice sample we had been handed. Looking like two sweaty foreigners with attitude problems, the Egg and I were approached by an attractive female Vancouverite on rollerblades. She didn't bother with formal introductions:
“Whats your favourite, honey or jam?” she said grinning.
“I'm not sure I said.” (I'd heard the joke before).
“Jam.” she said. “You cant honey your dick up someone's ass.”
She told us another joke. which I've since forgotten, but was equally tasteless and off she skated. I stopped to admire her rhythmic strides, like any man would have. It's fair to say I fell in love for about 25 seconds, or was it a semi-on? Impossible to tell. Either way, I felt something...
After stopping for photos at those crazy 'Smiling Statues' finally we decided it was time to go to a good pub. The Egg suggested a lil' place called 'The Cambie.' I'd recommend it to anyone visiting Vancouver, simply because it had rad/cheap pinball machines, a decent jukebox, cheap lager (Cambie Draught) and a hip selection of punters from multiple walks of life. Not that you'll ever see me in there again. The Egg and I are probably banned (I'll tell you later). It was nice though.
An old couple entered the establishment, looked about, decided it wasn't their cup of tea, turned their noses up and left. I allowed myself a wry smile when they returned a few minutes later, realising it was the best establishment they were going to find for a few blocks. I've never seen two people trip-out so much about ordering a beer. I was thinking;
“C'mon! You guys are old! You can't tell me this type of thing has never happened to you before?!”
Evidently not, they regressed to their stoner years. Panicking like two flies all caught up in a spiders web. Poor bastards. In retrospect, it probably didn't help having Egg and I glaring at them either, but that's what you get when you think your better than people, non?
We tried and failed to eat the largest bowl of Nachos ever seen, anywhere. I was flabbergasted. We are notoriously BIG eaters and trust me, after a 10km walk - we were hungry! I'm not sure we even made it half way through those fuckers! Man I'd eat them straight out of a trash-can if I could right now...
Before leaving we bumped in to Chi-Pig from legendary Punk band SNFU. He was a good crack, I enjoyed his company. Real weird to see a man stopping to sign autographs for people one minute and then trying to nab cigarettes off them the next. He told us a lot of cool stories, I wont mention them here because I know an author has just compiled a book on SNFU, so if your interested in the exploits of legendary punks; go pick up the book. Or if you are a modernist, download it for your Kinder-Egg or whatever the fuck its called.
“What are ya gonna do ya dick? Punch my teeth out!? I haven't fucking got any dude!”
(God bless Chi-Pig; below is a picture of him presenting to us, his rendition of 'the worlds biggest gurn)
Later that week, Egg and I went to watch SNFU, as we had promised Chi-Pig we would, at their gig/book launch. It was a good laugh; those boys still got it! Very energetic, visually and audibly entertaining; Chi-Pig is a born performer, 'never happier than when he is on stage' (and those are his words not mine).
We met our old pal Tim at the show, we all got carried away buying each other beers so when I paused to applaud SNFU, I had to do so whilst holding three tinnies; I could only manage to slap my right arm with my left hand for fear of wasting precious beer. A girl approached...
“Hi, How are you?", she said (I was tempted to say 'You cant jam your dick up my ass' in reference to the only other girl I'd make contact with, earlier that week in Stanley Park but I maintained decorum for England).
“Fine thank you.” I replied.
“Oh my God, I love your accent!”, she said (it's true guys, this does happen quite a bit in America, even when you're from Devon!).
“Is that how you guys clap over there?”, she asked, failing to notice I was trying to consume three beers simultaneously.
“No, I'm just holding too many beers to do it normally,” I replied. She didn't hear, SNFU had started playing again. She ran with the old, 'polite smile and nod' trick, used the world over.
I had to laugh at the end of the song because I turned to speak to her again and she was slapping her arm with her hand. I genuinely found that very funny. Too impressionable for me, so off I trotted.
The more drunk I got, the more I wanted a Canadian VISA. I hadn't entered the club too fussed about mingling with ladies; I was stoked to see Egg and Tim again, two big influences on my life and very good friends of mine, and I was happy to be in their company. But later that night I got talking to another girl. She was very forward. She said she wanted to 'fuck the shit out of me.' My eyes lit-up, I could literally taste theVISA in my mouth. The only problem:
“My ex-boyfriend is here,'' she said.
Now, I'm not the kind of person who would get with somebody else’s girlfriend, but I think I speak for most of mankind when I say...
“Your EX boyfriend? Who gives a fuck!”
Granted I am 6ft 2", so typically in these situations, the ex doesn't bother me TOO much. Not this time! No sooner had I walked outside I realised The Ex, was the crazy-ass drummer from the support band, face covered in tattoos, and he wasn't going away easily! They were having a big argument, he kept getting in my face, I was standing there thinking 'oh dear, oh dear' … Egg and Tim had both journeyed back to their respective wives. This was to be the rest of my evening. I had made my bed of shite and now I must lay in it, perhaps in a freaky 3-way shit-scenario. I took the time to run back inside and sink a few shots of Jägermeister, you know – for courage! I figured this dude was going to make my life hell, but when I came back out he had vanished, the girl had convinced him to leave. So now the problem was that I had made my own life hell by being so wasted...
I'd been scared to cross roads without Egg (The chicken and The egg) practically holding my hand all week, I just couldn’t get used to the cars driving on the other side of the road, or indeed, the fact the roads themselves were far bigger than in the UK; and I wasn’t about to start now, whilst heavily intoxicated. I noticed the girl I was with had a defected arm, as if it was recently broken – this did not fill me with confidence about following her (and her bicycle) off of the pavement. This turned out to be a great decision of mine because when the time did come to cross over, she got it all wrong, almost got run-over, threw her bicycle at the car in question and called the driver and passengers, 'a bunch of fucking dicks' repeatedly. They responded by saying:
“Why don’t you care about your own life!” In a distressed fashion multiple times. Before turning to me (I'd silently crossed over during the commotion) and politely requesting I -
“Put my bitch on a leash.”
I didn’t know what to say or do, I just wished Egg was there. I shrugged, lit up a cigarette and waited for it all to be over. We had a battle getting back to her house. I was a mess as I recall, no cabs would take her bike and she was becoming increasingly irate. Yay!
I found out the next day that during all this, Egg was having a little adventure of his own. It had gotten very misty up at Burnaby and he had opted to take a shortcut across the SFU campus back to his apartment. Upon reaching the roof terrace he found himself surrounded by gorillas in the mist (well, racoons). He could make out 7-8, enough to know that being up there wasn't a great idea because they are known to be quite territorial; so he shit himself and made a beeline home a different route. Once again I'd missed the pesky critters!
Finally I made it back to the girl's house – a mattress on the floor of what appeared to be somebody else’s house. Sweet. I don't remember much apart from being handed a condom and mumbling these immortal words right before passing out.
“It's not gonna work, my dick hates me, I'm fucked...” (hows that for VISA waver?).
Suffice to say the next morning was uneasy. I caught the Sky-Train back to Greg’s, proud I'd navigated the city by myself, and after the traditional visit to Timmy Hortons for supplies, we spent the whole day watching the amazing, Workaholics (I love that show).
We ventured up to Bear Mountain the next day which was an incredible experience. So strange to stand in a city one minute, being towered over by skyscrapers, and then 45 minutes later be looking down at those same skyscrapers as if they were cement-ridden ants. The mountains of Alaska were in view, it was a great day. If you ever visit Vancouver, do not neglect the mountains and natural beauty that surround the city itself – it really is an amazing place.
During the lumberjack show, Cathy was first to notice a small disabled child wearing a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt had gotten loose and was attempting to climb the 40ft wooden pole that the lumberjacks themselves had just raced from bottom to top and down again.
“He's behind you!” She screamed like an over-zealous child during the performance of clowns at a circus:
Obviously it was all part of the show. The disabled child was actually a man and he was damn good at balancing on a 40ft wooden pole. You probably had to be there but it was very funny I assure you.
My personal favourite day was the day we ventured to the science museum. The museum itself was a lot of fun, plenty of stuff to play on if you were prepared to beat the children off the attractions first (which both Egg and I totally were) and we were fortunate enough to catch the Da Vinci exhibit which was thrilling for me. I knew he was the inventor of numerous things, but I was more impressed with how close he came to creating numerous other, more modern inventions. He had advanced prototypes for things such as cars, tanks and scuba gear – a true visionary. I was mildly disappointed to find there was not a single scrap of paper in the exhibit that Da Vinci himself had scrawled upon, let alone an invention, but it was interesting none the less.
We also stopped to admire the worlds biggest IMAX theatre and watch a documentary about time and space narrated by the sexiest of sexies, Leonardo Di Caprio. It was mind-blowing, but Egg and I were both in agreement it would have been twice as good had we have remembered to bring the last of the BC Bud.
We drank a lot that day. I was surprised to find I couldn’t smoke even in beer gardens (more rules) which made no sense as it lead to deserted beer gardens and pavements covered with wheezing, smokers. None the less we befriended an American girl who was waiting for her magician friend to finish pitching a TV programme to somebody, and got really messed up on multiple brands of whiskey. We did this for about 6 hours. Carly (our American friend) had warned us on numerous occasions that her magician pal was terrible, socially. But we (me in particular) were having such a good time with her we insisted she make him join us and show us some magic tricks back at The Cambie.
She wasn't lying. The dude sucked the vibe out of proceedings very quickly, he refused even to show us a magic trick, as he hadn't brought his cards. A magician with no cards!? Who knew!? Chi-Pig turned up and announced he was homosexual to us a fair bit, which was fine obviously, if a little awkward; I worry he thought Egg and I were a couple. The head bar wench was becoming increasingly rude when we were ordering, I'm not sure if we were being loud or whatever, but we felt hard-done-by as we were spending a lot of money. The barmen we had met at The London turned up intent on 'making out with babes,' followed by Carly's ex-boyfriend. She was very much in demand that night! It was all getting too much for her I sensed, plus the magician needed to go home and be weird alone, so she made for a hasty retreat back to her hotel, magician in tow.
Egg and I decided the bar lady was a twat and so, booze ridden and sweaty as hell, we informed her of how we felt about her service in (most probably) a foul tirade of insults and then we ran away, neglecting to pay our tab. Thus, we are no longer welcome back at the Cambie. Nice place though!
On the bus home we drove through East Hastings. A long road, longer even than this blog entry I'm writing. Funny thing with East-Hastings is (and you'll notice it if you ever go to Vancouver), two blocks of that road are totally fucked. Homeless people, prostitutes, drug users, mentalists, you name it – you'll find it segregated to those two blocks on East Hastings. The locals told me that the police were happy to leave its impoverished residents to their own business, so long as they were quarantined within that area. Tim told me that during the Vancouver Winter Olympic Games, the Canadian Government bought them all suits in order to mask them from the beady eyes of tourists and the international media.
I couldn’t help but think about Demolition Man starring Sylvester Stallone and Wesley Snipes. Stallone plays a bad ass cop, unfrozen in the future to help combat a recently de-thawed and hot headed criminal (Snipes). In the future, the modern city is supremely clean, its residents eat healthily, you get tickets for swearing, you wipe your butt with three sea shells (I never understood how it worked) and everything was perfect; metropolitan utopia. However, underneath the city lived all those who refused to conform to these rules, they were the punks, the bikers, the drug users, the simple dudes who just wanted to eat burgers whenever the fuck they liked, and similar to Vancouver, they were just fine down there so long as they stayed out of sight and thus, out of mind.
As a kid I'd have told you I'd rather have lived below ground. As an adult - and this is not to say I necessarily agree with those two blocks on East Hastings, because I don’t - but as an adult, having seen how beautifully maintained, well organised and safe Vancouver is to live in, even with all the annoying rules and regulations (which I hate to say, appear to be working!), I think I'd probably take my chances on the three sea shells and run a burger smuggling operation in and out of the underworld.
Thanks for reading,
Benners.
P.s. On my last night, I did see a couple of raccoons outside in the bins.
EP1 'Goodbyes and Hello's.'
A suitable farewell meal at a prestigious Oxford-based pizzeria. My final 'goodbyes' to my sister and her irritatingly likeable boyfriend (Sorry Will, I love you, but get your grubby hands off her you pervert!). Anyways, I forget the name of the joint but if you wish to visit, just keep your eyes peeled for Marvel comic creation – Silver Surfer; he lurks upon the roof of the restaurant, like a shining beacon of hope. I ordered a Gambit, which was very nice if not a little spicy (the Ragin' Cajun indeed!), much to my sister's disappointment as I had to keep stealing her He-man in order to restore equilibrium to my palette ( I think there's a vague euphemism about 'sucking dick' in there somewhere...).
Before leaving, as is tradition, I of course managed to embarrass us all; to my left was a life size figurine of a man, surrounded by silver. It bothered me throughout the meal.
“Who was this highly recognisable person?” I thought to myself each time I turned to steal slices of He-Man?
I couldn't bare to ask, I look like the kind of person who would just know these sorts of things i.e. I look like a twat; but regardless, I didn’t want to blow my cover as a Professional Geek in such an establishment, so I gave it a good amount of thought before mustering up the courage to say anything. As we were finishing up the meal and settling the bill I sensed my moment and went in for the kill, I was pretty certain I had it sussed, I picked the waiter who looked weakest mentally, to ensure any potential blushes were minimised -
“Is this shiny chap here to my left a tribute to Sam Beckett as he appears/re-appears in different timezones in the classic, Quantum Leap series.” I asked smugly, to the point were I'd just as well flopped my junk-out and beat-one off whilst simultaneously amending my moustache in a pocket-sized mirror I'd brought from home.
“No!” said the waiter, his eyes rolling into the back of his head in disgust.
“Thats Han Solo, frozen in carbonite in The Empire Strikes Back...”
I chose not to respond, just hung my head in shame and made for a hasty exit. I'm not sure I'd be welcomed back.
So that was my last evening in glorious England. I was aware the next morning I would be on the Delta aeroplane to Canada so I decided against getting wasted to fuck, for once, and hit the proverbial sack, it hurt my nuts – later that night I went to bed. I was to be staying with friends in Vancouver B.C for a week, ex-pats who had fulfilled their ambition of moving to a city with more options, attractions and natural beauty... or in (Greg) The Egg's case, a city containing larger pick-up trucks, the notorious BC Bud and a better selection of burgers. (The latter go hand-in-hand I was soon to learn.)
I awoke fairly early feeling a bit stressed. Despite being 27yrs old and having flown on numerous occasions to a range of destinations, I had never flown alone and I was freaking out about what to expect in terms of my baggage, check-in, possible delays, dying alone in a raft half way across the Atlantic ocean following a massive engine failure and even worse: customs officials. With this in mind I arrived at Gatwick Airport with plenty of time to spare, a decision I later regretted (you will read 'why' in my coming blog entries). The flight took off as scheduled, I did have to pay $100 to get my garish suitcase on the plane as it was too heavy (this became something of a theme throughout my travels...) but all in all it was a success. I was on my way to “Fuckin Eh – Canada” and it's true to say, I was very excited.
The flight went by without any hiccups. I watched a pirated copy of The Avengers, on my Macbook, I listened to some Richard Dawkins on my iPod and then I watched the hilarious Sean William Scott ice-hockey flick - Goon, via the aeroplanes in-flight television service. I flew on a Sunday and to be honest the activities I mentioned above are not at all dissimilar to how I would have chosen to spend the day of rest back at home anyways; perhaps I'd have smoked a few cigarettes as well but all in all, it was a standard lazy day in the sky.
My earlier fears were confounded upon landing in Vancouver, however. I deliberately wore a long sleeved cardigan to mask my tattoos from the beady eyes of over-enthusiastic (shall we say) customs officials. However, the backwards Emerica hat resting on a plateau of long, shaggy hair complete with tired eyes and a suitcase that screamed 'Search me!' was too much for their poor little minds to handle, and after I had already checked in with border control, whilst in the queue to leave the airport, with all necessary documents in-hand, I was apprehended by another customs official, who dragged me off to a side room and made it his top priority to be a total dickhead to me for the next hour or so.
I would like to note here that the International Customs policy to 'Search at Random' is a complete and utter fabrication. If you look like me and you're travelling alone to America or Canada you are probably going to get searched. If you happen to look as if you might perhaps worship Muhammed, you are probably going to get searched, especially if travelling alone or in male groups. This is not me having a chip on my shoulder either; so far this tour I've had my luggage rifled through on route to Canada, upon arriving in Canada, in Houston and in Miami. Also, not once was I allowed to pass through customs without going into the separate queue for the Minority Report-type security scanning machine. Was quite funny how on all these occasions it seemed to be myself and a selection of Middle-Eastern looking men – practically every single time. 'At random' my ass.
Back to the story. The customs official made me empty all the contents of my suitcase on to the floor. He asked where I was staying, I foolishly replied,
“Burbank, BC.” I had been awake for nearly 20hrs, I was tired and I was obviously supposed to say,
“Burnaby, B.C,” but at this point I was unaware of this.
He looked me up and down, I could tell I'd made an error. The dude practically licked his lips in anticipation of apprehending some kind of part-time rocker/drug dealer and saving the whole of Canada. I like to think he saw his name in headlines plastered across the front pages of the Vancouver Gazette (or whatever the fuck they call it). Anyway, he left the room for a minute which gave me a chance to get on my laptop, figure out I was supposed to be going to Burnaby (not Burbank, California) and prepare myself mentally for the onslaught of bullshit that was to follow. He re-entered the room, strutting about like an obese, hairy version of John Wayne...
“You got any drugs in your suitcase, sir?” (Finally he got to the point! I knew why I was there, he knew why I was there... the conversational foreplay we had been through before was all building up to this glorious moment of his...)
“Pro-Plus, but I'm pretty sure they're legal here?” I said handing over the packet, pretending to be a little shooken-up. I didn't want to act too cool. I knew guys like this would get a kick out of making a dude like me panic whether guilty or not, and so I just played the role rather than acting like Robert Downey Jr's portrayal of Iron Man I'd witnessed on the flight over.
“Have you taken any class-A drugs recently?” he asked, staring deep in to my soul.
I had a flashback of my leaving party back in Plymouth, UK. I was worried about the possibility of being drug-tested on the basis that maybe, on my bad days, I might 'look like the sort...' so I deliberately consumed LEGAL-highs that night. Gocaine and some other weird blue tablet that made me say “I don’t understand what's happening?” about one-hundred times. I wasn’t so bothered about weed as I figured, “Everyone is high these days” and I was aware it takes 3 months to leave your system and that well, it was too late for me in that respect.
“No, sir”. I responded, safe in the knowledge I had not consumed any Class-A drugs for many a month. At the ripe old age of 27, Class-A drugs and I did not get on in the way we once did during my formative teenage years. I found I no longer had the time to feel 'weird' or 'messed up' for days on end after the original high of Saturday night parties anymore. It would take a pretty special occasion to get me on those things now, but I'd never say never...
“...Then you won't mind if we take a swab sample from your mouth then will you, sir?” Replied the customs dickhead, like an ugly porno-plumber entering the kitchen of a lonely housewife.
“No, thats totally fine.” I said.
At this point he paused again, and just stared at me for a while...
“...And what about Marijuana, sir, have you smoked any Marijuana recently?” (This was the big one, he was gonna catch an international drug-user here. His eyes lit-up like he had just seen a rack of ribs.)
“No, I have not.” I again replied.
“Have you been in the company of anybody who has?” he asked;
I decided at this point to admit I had; I figured if the guy was actually going to follow through on the swab test, he was definitely going to discover I had indeed smoked weed about 24hrs earlier. So I figured complete honesty was my best shot...
“My mum smokes marijuana medicinally to help with her back problems, sir.” I continued on,
“I've been in the same room as her when she has been in the act...Also, I'm not staying in Burbank, I'm staying in Burnaby. Apologies I've been awake for almost a complete day.”
As luck would have it, the customs official, at this point realised I had just made an honest, tired mistake in getting my locations mixed up. Which is ironic really, given that moments before I'd been lying to him through my teeth and about my mother of all things! (Thats not to say my mother doesn’t smoke weed because she does, I was just lying about how I came to inhale the stuff myself).
We both went through my bags together, which was actually very romantic; after 20 minutes or so he finally gave me the all-clear and off I went to meet my friends Greg and Cathy. I was tired but also really excited, I hadn't seen them since their wedding back in the UK and I knew we were going to have a lot of fun. Also I was really stoked that the customs guy had failed to follow through on the 'swab test' threat as I would have been in a deep vat, full of crap. 'Do you know what a deep vat full of crap looks like, Randy?'
We pit-stopped at a little bar on the way through to Burbank...I mean Burnaby! We ate burgers and hot-wings and drank Shadow Beer (I think it was called) and instantly, I was reminded of why, for as long as I can remember - I'd always wanted to move to America or Canada... even if the customs officials did hate me.
“Fuckin Eh, thats a good beer, burger combo Egg!”
By Benners.
(Next week – “Vancouver and the '3 Sea Shells' complex from Demolition man.”)
