Archive for category Getting There
Marred Beauty of Santorini
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Places on October 19, 2015
Loss. It may just be stuff, but when it has been the only stuff you have relied on for the last month, the only constant things in a travel path that changes every other thing around you, it is reassuring stuff. The stuff you can count on, the pillow that is just right, the pants that fit in the color you love, the jacket with arms just the right length, the new shirt you bought in a neat store in London, camera, tablet, cellphone, the one-of-a-kind piece of jewellery everyone loves to comment on… it’s there. It supports your adventure. Until it is gone
After the loss of Justin’s entire bag due to theft in Santorini, he was left with a shirt (fortunately an Icebreaker), a pair of shorts, a pair of underwear, a pair of sandals, his wallet, and his good/ fancy camera. That’s it. No socks. No shoes. No passport. No pants. No clean underwear.
We endured a whirlwind of official encounters. Post authority police, city police, bus company. Finally make it to the hotel, after recovering the name via email on the computer of the kindly port policewoman who took quite a liking to Justin. Then Justin had to change all his passwords, inform his work of the loss of the cell phone, shut down the cell phone, and take other action to prevent the thief from accessing the data via the trusted device, should the thief manage to break the passcode on the device. Inform Gov’t of Canada of the loss of the passport.
Justin put on a brave face. We found some dinner, drank some wine, and even laughed a bit. But the silences were long, and the hurt was close. Bed time was late that night, and we were heartbroken. Stuff it may be, but as I unpacked my surviving bag, Justin sat forlornly on his side of the bed, taking out contact solution and a case he had just bought for his last pair of daily disposable contacts, the ones he was wearing. Gone were his glasses, new contacts, case, solution. His camera sat on the table nearby. My heart hurt. The person I care deeply about had been stolen from, was adrift on a foreign place. Hugs can only offer so much comfort.
Sleep that night was fitful and brief. I dreamed of running, of catching, of things slipping away from me, of falling. I woke again and again, the loss catching me anew, shattering my peace with the world.
The next day was taken over with more police encounters. Reports filed, cameras consulted. No news. No bag found. Everyone was shocked, this usually didn’t happen. The hope it was just taken by mistake dwindled. We were wounded. Gone was the delight we may have found in the island of Santorini, which is indeed beautiful. But for us, it was a poisoned beauty, marred irrevocably by the actions of just one lowly thief. To us, the island was shadowed, fanged and dangerous. Nevermind the logical thought of the risk. We were below average risk for theft now, having less stuff now. But logic doesn’t touch that primitive brain, which knows only a loss suffered, a danger present.
Justin contacted the nearest Canadian embassy, which was in Athens, a 9 hour ferry ride back the way we had just come. After learning we intended to fly out for Venice that weekend, they told us to come immediately to the embassy, the very next morning, and try to rush a temporary passport thru. We found out that a night ferry was leaving at one that morning, and we bought tickets. Goodbye Santorini.
Santorini Shock and Awe
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Places on October 13, 2015
Once more the efficient ferry system of Greece whisks us away to a new island. We depart Antiparos around 9:30 am, and just miss the small car ferry that runs between Antiparos and Paros. (the Anti part of the name means little, and often seems to end up on smaller islands next to big ones). No matter, the car ferry makes the trip across about 2 km of water to Paros, crossing depths of no more than 5 meters the whole way, and then returns. You can actually see the bottom of the sea bed the entire way across.
Once across, we discover we have missed the bus from this small ferry to the big ferry port in town proper, about 7 km away. This bus runs very infrequently in the low season. Perusing the schedule, the next bus arrives a bit too close to the ferry departure we mean to be on at 11:40. Hail a cab? Ok, get the number first from a kiosk nearby. Might as well buy a beer, too. Try to make yourself understood to the person who speaks a little english, fortunately. No, send the cab to this Pounta, not the other Pounta on the other end of the island. Ok, cab is on its way. Probably.
The bus would’ve cost 2 euro each. The cab ends up costing 15 euro, but we make it in good time. Enough time to buy another beer, and a chocolate croissant. When I was hiking the West Coast Trail last year, I would’ve wrestled a black bear for a chocolate croissant. This one is delectably flakey, warm, and best of all: stuffed with dark chocolate. The ferry is late. The queue is in the shade at least, a little covered holding pen. One person lights up a cigarette, which is pretty good odds in Greece, and Croatia. If you don’t smoke in these countries, you might as well, as everyone smokes here, in all sorts of buildings. Why, just that morning I had gritted my nostrils and mailed a package in the thick air of the post office in Antiparos. My hair still smelled slightly of smoke.
Once on the ferry, I can happily report it is smoke free. So that was a great relief. The large ferry powers ahead at a pretty good pace, and is quite comfortable inside with plush chairs, cafés, and best of all, flat padded benches. Perfect place for a sleep!
The ferry made good time to Santorini, the island we have heard so much about. We arrive at about 15:00. Judging by the sheer amount of people on the ferry, it is not yet in low season. Sure enough, the ferry arrives at the “new port” of Santorini, and disgorges its passengers. A river of travellers disembarks, and we head for the bus. With much pointing and shouting, we ind a bus for Thira, where we can change busses for our hotel in Perssia. Drop the bags in the underbelly luggage compartment, and we climb in.
The ride to Thira is breathtakingly scenic. The road switchbacks up a sheer cliff, revealing the countryside in panoramic. This island was formed by a volcano that eventually blew the top of the island right off, leaving a circle of islands separated by the ocean, and a jagged rocky tumbled field of cooled lava rock in the middle. It is still classified as an active volcano, and I hear there are hot springs on the centre island.
The bus climbs along the spine of the biggest island for a while, before switchbacking down the other side. We arrive in Thira after a bit, and spill out of the bus right away. We open the baggage hatches, and Justin hands me out my bag right away. Looks like someone has piled their bags on Justin’s bag, not unusual on these buses! So he shifts a few bags. Then a few more. I go around and look from the other side.
No bag.
We dig frantically, and other people find their luggage until the belly hold is empty.
Justin’s bag is gone.
We look at each other sickly. For the first time, he didn’t take a small bag with his tech off his main bag. The only thing he grabbed was his wallet and expensive camera. Everything else was in that bag, Including his passport. One other passenger is kicking up a fuss. His bag is gone too.
I search again. And again. It is hopeless. The bag is gone. We start taking stock of the disaster, what is now missing. At least he has his wallet. But the SD card with all our pictures of the trip before Antiparos was in the bag. So they are gone, too. The blow is crushing.
Police reports, different languages, port authorities… passes in a swirl. The bag is gone. The pictures, Justin’s phone, tablet, small camera, all his snorkelling gear, all his clothing save for a pair of shorts and an icebreaker tshirt, his shoes…. all gone. And they probably aren’t just in the wrong place. Someone stole the bag off the bus.
Justin maks his police reports. I go back and canvas the port area. I talk to all the restaurant people there, asking them to keep an eye out. I talk to the car rental place, the bag drop place, the port police. Everyone is shocked that it happened. It is usually such a safe port. One older owner of the restaurant makes a few calls, all the busses are checked again. Everyone knows we lost a bag. No one finds it. The sun is setting. I am offered rides back to town, but I don’t know where we are staying. Justin’s cell phone was stolen in that bag, so we can’t communicate. I wait, everyone in port service industry knows my plights.
Justin arrives in a taxi. The bus company told him they would put me on the last bus back to town, free of charge. Sadly, they didn’t tell me that, and I waited at the port. We take the taxi to Perssia. The hotel is sympathetic, they offer whatever help they can in dealing with the police. We finally end up in the hotel room. It is about 19:00. Hours after we planned to arrive.
It is dark. I turn to Justin, trying to offer solace, trying to be strong. But I am shattered from this mishap, stunned by the brazen theft off a bus, humbled by the help offered by everyone who heard of our plight. I cling to Justin for one brief moment, and then he is off, to change all the passwords on the accounts linked to his phone, to his tablet.
Tomorrow we must go back and see if the surveillance cameras can shed any light on this. Tomorrow we must phone the Canadian Embassy in Athens, report the passport stolen. Too bad we didn’t write either of our passport numbers down. The day ends, sadly, but we are physically not injured by this crime.
Write your passport numbers down. Keep your passport on you at all times, or locked up, while travelling. Take your tech on board with you. We all mean to do it, but the bag would be a small loss if we had followed these steps.
Frustrating Delays
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on October 6, 2015
Sometimes travel is just frustrating. When airline bookings made thru cheap sites don’t go through, and suddenly I realize that I have not planned very well on how to get *out* of Dubrovnik. There are a couple options, all kinda expensive.
We decided not to go to Turkey, as was originally planned. What with the refugee crisis, and Turkey’s relentless bombing of Syria, it has become a poor choice for travel. Sure, the coastline is likely untouched, and still tourist-y, but most flights arrive and leave Istanbul. Which is rather close to the border.
We decided to go to Greece instead. Yes, there is an economic crisis there, so we shall see if money actually still works or not. I’m pretty sure the islands are still there however, so we should be able to visit those, as long as we can find a boat to take us.
Long hours trickle by, as we find routes, and re-route, attempting to find good prices and accommodation. The only sunny day in the forecast is currently happening outside, and I am here, struggling to find a connecting flight. I don’t want to stay in Dubrovnik too long, as it is a bit expensive here.
Sometimes travel is frustrating.
Leaving Nova Scotia
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Musings on September 23, 2015
The cool breeze came off the bay, finding it’s way through the trees to the clearing around Mum’s house. The tide was in, and the breeze always seemed to rise with the tide. The day was chilly, not too cold really, but the breeze and the humidity seemed to conspire. My toes were cold. The grass was still wet with dew from the night before.
That was one thing about Nova Scotia. The dew is a nightly occurrence, and in far greater amounts than an Albertan might be used to. If you wanted to wash your boots, simply walk through the grass early in the morning. And on a day like this, even late in the morning.
Dew makes a good environment for slugs and mushrooms and maybe crickets too. I’m not sure about the crickets, but there are a lot of them here, and I don’t recall such bugs in such amounts in Alberta. So crickets must like moisture. Their creee-ree-ree song filled the nights during my time here. I will miss them, I think. Tonight I fly for London.
Finally the dew dried, more or less, and we were able to mow the lawn. I drove the balky ride mower around the large lawn, urging it up the small hills, and clinging to the steering wheel during the downhill plunges. About a quarter of the way through the lawn, Mum came over and showed me how to drop the mower deck to the height she wanted the grass cut at. It appeared I had not actually lowered the deck, but simply turned on the blades. I wasn’t mowing the grass, I was just scaring it.
With the deck properly lowered, the grass actually got cut, and I could see the difference much easier. Amazing how I had just gotten used to the height of the grass, as it slowly grew. Oh yeah, lawns are supposed to be shorter than fields.
Dinner was a quiet affair, both my mother and I aware of the dwindling hours. I was looking forward to the lnext step of my adventure, but was sad to leave my mumm. It has been a good month here, cleaning up the property, getting rid of the detrius of a lifetime. Once the last of the glass bottles that will sell have been sold, the major debris of my grandfather and grandmother and step grandmother gone. Only the house he built left, the house my mum grew up in. And the various knickknacks in the house, of course. But the old workshop/barn he had loved and fixed so many things in? The barn that eventually became the graveyard of so many unfinished projects, and so many poorly understood items, relegated to the racoon infested reaches of the barn….. cleaned out. We managed to fill a dumpster with the old cast offs, the mouse infested clothing, the chewed and mouldering books, the old coats and old beds and old frames…. so much of it gone.
It makes me realize how the previous generation would live, how they would gather stuff and repair things, and keeps things working. Which is all well and good, until the world moves on… or the tinkerer dies. And then all that is left is the bits and bobs, and the memories of those who loved them. That seems to be the nature of the world; nothing ever stands still.
Many of the useful things have been sold off at the garage sales we had. Hopefully they will find use again at the hands of those who still tinker, and have the inclination to use them. Hopefully they will bring delight, and become memories in a new generation.
The mower makes short work of the grass. I make short work of dinner. Now only the flight is before me. The kilometers of pavement slip by, and then I am at security. Bag off, belt off, metal not detected. One last look over my shoulder, one last wave to where Mum stands, looking for this last glimpse. We mime hugging each other, then I sweep up the stairs towards my gate.
Nothing ever stands still. The sweet, the bitter, it all passes, and I move on.
Bridges of Halifax
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on September 20, 2015
Appointments to keep in the city, I rose early and breakfasted with Mum. She has a habit of waking up at 6am, and sadly it is catching. Oh well, she makes breakfast pretty much every morning as well, so it is working out!
I double checked the address in Halifax. I booked an appointment to get my legs waxed before the trip to Croatia. Since we will be sailing, and hopefully it will be lovely sunning weather, I don’t really want fuzzy legs! And using the review website Yelp, I was able to find a well-regarded salon in Halifax, with quite reasonable prices. The only downside is that I have to drive into Halifax downtown, which is about an hour away from Mum’s acreage. Ah well, it is a good highway. And it looks like the downtown area is on the same side of the harbour as I currently am, so I don’t need to worry about crossing bridges which may or may not be toll bridges. Plugging the address into mum’s gps navigator, and assuring her I would treat her car with all due care and respect, I took off for the city.
Rolling along the highway, scanning the radio stations for anything that catches my ear, I found a country station playing the hits from the 90’s. Ahh, the music I grew up with. I hummed along, breaking into song every once in a while. I don’t really like to sing, as the subtle nuances of music, like being in tune, are usually lost on me. But sometimes in the car, where no one else must suffer through my warbling, I do indeed sing, making up some of the words I don’t know, and humming the rest. There is musical talent in my family tree, of that there is no doubt. Too bad it missed me!
The kms slipped by, as they are wont to do. Soon the rocky forest bordering the highway gives way to houses, getting closer and closer together. The nav advised me to take the exit coming up, and the concrete ramp soars over the highway. Saturday morning, traffic is sparse, and the sun gleamed off the water below me. The path on the map turns, I clicked over the turn signal, followed the route laid out in maroon on the little dash map. Hmm, I didn’t expect to be turning back along the direction I had been taking, but I suppose a little back and forth is typical of city driving here, with its hills and valleys. One more turn, and the road sloped gently downward. It appeared to be a fairly main road, so hopefully that would lead me into the downtown core.
Sure enough, the calm harbour of downtown Halifax appeared before me… on the other side of the water. A bridge arched over the harbour, elegant lines spanning the considerable distance. It looked firm, well designed… and expensive to build. As I came down off the hill and started up the slope of the bridge, it became apparent that the highway flyover led to the opposite side of the harbour from the downtown core, the easier to approach side. And I was on a toll bridge.
I slowly rolled up to the gates. Where was the one that said credit card? I had that trusty bit of plastic with me. Change… change… express pass….no credit card lane! I picked one next to a toll booth with a person inside, pretty much at random. The little basket clung to the pillar, demanding my exact change of one loonie, no more and no less. I dug through my change purse… two quarters and two dimes. The padded arm blocks my path, a little message displayed on a screen beside it PAY NOW. I flipped up the centre console of Mum’s car. That’s where change would live, right?!? No luck. I glanced nervously in the rear view mirror, and sure enough, a car is just pulling up behind me. No escape! No change! I looked around, feeling the pressure and completely at a loss for the correct course of action.
Just then, the toll booth operator in the next lane catches my eye. He has a resigned look to his face, a slight lift of the eyebrow and a twist of the mouth. Pushing a button on his booth dashboard, he waves me ahead. I glanced forward to see the arm raising in the air, overridden my the compassion of the toll booth operator, or perhaps just his practicality. I waved, a little abashed but very grateful, and took the course of action that had been presented to me, slipping under the arm. The road led over the sweep of the bridge, water glimmering below, boats moving slowly in the channel.
Whew, made it to the other side. And in good time for my appointment!
It is always challenging to navigate a new place, even if you actually take the time to prepare. Sometimes, it is just luck that keeps me going, and the compassion of strangers. That human touch makes travel possible, I would be so bold as to say. There are so many times when the compassion of those more familiar with the situation has been the only thing to carry the day. From the market clerk in Zagreb Croatia who showed me how to mark the fresh produce so they could be checked out, all without a word of common language, to the ticket seller at a train station in small town France who showed me how to validate my ticket, to the toll booth operator who waved me through in Halifax. It is the compassion of our fellow humans that makes it all possible.
On my way back home, I picked up a guy hitchhiking in the city. It is notoriously difficult to get a ride in a city, but he had been left by his buddies after a night of partying. I dropped him off 20 km down the road, at the bus station in his hometown.
A little act of compassion can make the next step possible on a strangers journey.
Armrests and Airplanes
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on September 3, 2015
Check in online 24 hour before my flight? Don’t mind if I do! I like using the Westjet app to check in, and to get a scan code for a ticket, right on my phone. I’m not gonna lose my phone, so that way I won’t lose my ticket.
At that time, I can choose my seat for no extra charge. Choose before, and it seems like you have to pay. I keep hearing that there is more leg room in the exit row, and it looks like a window seat in such a row is free, so I choose it. One last dinner, picked straight from Lindsey’s garden, and we are off to the airport. I have a craving for chocolate or some such dessert, so we stop at the Purple Perk on the way out. Suitably trendy, and they even have wraps. We get one to go, and a piece of pie to share, and that’s about the time I start getting stressed about my departure time. I decided to carry on my luggage, and have already checked in, so all I have to do is security and make my way to my gate. Plane boards at 10 pm. We are downtown Calgary. It is 9:20. I may have made a mistake, despite Lindsey asking if I was sure about going for dessert. She lets me drive her car, and doesn’t even stress about me going 10 over the limit on the deerfoot, which appears to be at least the norm. I bail out of the car, last minute hugs, and hustle into security. No prob, I am a pro at this. Yeah, I forgot to take off my belt. Whoops, there is my phone left in the tray after I grab the rest of my stuff. Good thing there is a guard there to call my attention to it, as I am walking away. Ok, stride towards my gate. Wait, counting down? Turn around, skirt a construction zone, walk thru a door advising US travellers to have their passports ready, and I make it to my gate. Phew, just enough time for a bathroom break and a water bottle fill, then they are boarding exit row people first. Another perk! I should choose exit row more often!
I assure the stewardess that I feel capable of opening the exit door after she instructs me on how to do so, should the need arise. I am pretty sure chances are slim I will have to make such a choice, as airplanes are one of the safest ways to travel, and in the case of a crash, death is almost certain anyways. Ahh, there is more leg room here! Neat! And the seat beside me remains empty, as we taxi and takeoff. Great, time to stretch out…. what’s this? The armrests in the exit row don’t lift?!? Noooo! What have I done? Exit row is terrible!
After some fitful tossing in the seat, trying to find some sleep, I finally remember why the seat back table. I have tried to sleep on those before,, but usually am co close to the seat ahead that I can hardly get my head down to the table, let alone stretch my back out. But wait, this iis exit row! Just maybe…
Sure enough, in this row it works. I enjoy a fitful nap on the seatback tray. Once we begin to descend, I eat my wrap, and blink some bleary semblance of wakefulness in to my eyes. Deplane, and there is my mum, waiting to meet me. In respect to the early hour, and my complete lack of being a morning person, no matter the time zone, Mum is reserved in her greeting.
Hello Nova Scotia!
Not a Gas Jockey
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on November 13, 2011
The cool dark bathed my car, giving way only reluctantly to the sporadic streetlights of the small town I was entering. My speed dropped, the shush of the tires growing gentle and small after miles of constant sound. I glanced at my nav on the dash; it directed me to drive on this road into the small town, then turn left and follow another out the other side, back onto the highway, to let the miles slip by, unremarked in the dark, once again.
The hour was advanced, but not truly late, being only about eleven or midnight. I cruised past a gas station, and was surprised to see it open, and offering a good price even. The gas gauge was still reassuringly high, but considering the hour and the miles yet to go, I decided to err on the side of caution. I put on my blinker, and pulled into a side street to perform a semi legal u turn. I saw blue lights flashing in the darkness ahead as I pulled off the main road. Someone was not having a good night.
Once back on the main road, I retraced my steps to the gas station, and turned off into the lot. A sheriff car slid past me, making a turn in the opposite direction. That was two, must be a busy night. I briefly ruminated on my old superstition that it was best to see cops in threes. It was a shaky superstition based on an old observation of tow trucks. When I first started driving, I saw two tow trucks, and then my car broke down, and I saw the third. This happened twice, and had more to do with the state of my car in those days than some mystical “group of three” thing. I hadn’t noticed the phenomenon in ages, but old habits die hard, and this one was only now giving its last gasp. Two cop cars meant only an unusually busy night in this small town. I didn’t even know the name of the place. A brief widening of the road and the lights, then I would be off into darkness again. After gas. I pulled into the gas station lot.
Blue lights sprang into life, strobing the darkness around me. Startled, I glanced into the rear view mirror. Surely not me….
But there he was, lights shattering the darkness, fencing me in against the pumps. Seemed a little like overkill to me, but whatever. I rolled past the first pump, stopping at the second to leave room for someone to use the pump behind me. Only courtesy. I ran my mind over my actions. Was it that questionably legal u-turn? I reviewed the contents of my car. My food, and my dog, no problem there. A roll of cash I had no desire to donate to crooked cops. Hmm, a bottle of herbal decongestant I had legally purchased in Canada, several years ago. I remembered hearing that it had been illegal in the states for some years now. A grey area of the law, to be sure. Perhaps it was a good time to flex my rights, and politely refuse to consent to a search. The cop could always fabricate some “reasonable suspicion” to toss my car, but refusing consent would give me a legal leg to stand on. I was not so rich that I could afford to give up that cash without a protest.
I shut off my car and pocketed the keys in preparation to step out of my vehicle and lock it behind me, to resist being strong-armed into a search. The cop fussed with his dash before stepping out of his cruiser to advance cautiously on my car. I had the window rolled partway down, and I turned to his approach. As he drew up to my shoulder, I looked back at him with my best harmless look.
“I take it you aren’t here to pump my gas.” I ventured, offering up a wry smile to let him know I was joking, and not actually that dumb.
The officer stopped, a momentary incredulous look passing over his face.
“No ma’am, I am not.” Precious few appreciate my humor, it seems.
He stalked up even with me, and I peered out at him from my half open window. If you roll your window down all the way, a pushy officer may stick his head inside and try to spot some evidence to justify searching your car. Or smell some evidence. Half down is plenty of room to talk. The officer let his eyes rove over my car, over the few things visible. I had all my gear packed into three rubbermaid bins across the back seat, and my passenger seat held only my snacks, water and ipod. My computer was safely out of sight in my backpack, hidden down on the floorboards and covered with a dark sweatshirt. With any luck, it looked like a shadow to the casual glance. If they don’t see it, they won’t break into your car to steal it, or fabricate a reason to search it. Did you know the US airport security can seize your laptop and search it, if you take it on a flight with you? They don’t do it very often, but they can.
Dog peered back at him calmly from where she lay on her bed in the back cargo area. I peered up at him from the drivers seat. His eyes failed to turn anything up.
“Do you have family in the area, ma’am?” he asked me, his eyes wondering what the hell a canadian was doing in his town.
Justify yourself. Just don’t give a reason to be asked more questions. Bad enough I had purple dreads and out of state plates. This is a tricky one, but I get practice. Not usually at blue light point, but still.
“Oh, I am on my way to see the redwoods. I hear they are quite spectacular!” I smiled. Pay no mind to the fact that I am currently south of the redwoods, and that I would have most likely passed thru the redwoods already, to get this far south. You see only a harmless tourist. These are not the droids you are looking for.
“Did you know you have a headlight out?” he gruffed at me. Why yes, I did. The last cop to mention it was in Edmonton at a checkstop. Months ago. I had since tried to replace the bulb, and discovered it to be a wiring problem I hadn’t had the patience to sort out. It was gonna take some time with a multimeter and a soldering gun to tease that mess out, some day.
“A headlight? Why, I swear I just had one replaced. I suppose they will burn out…. Thank you for telling me!” I gushed at him, all smiles and inoffensive cheer. He gave me another hard look. I smiled and watched him with a benevolent air of helpfulness and harmlessness.
“How about license and registration?” He asked me. I chirped my assent and reached towards my glove box.
“Let me see, I think I have my registration right here.” I narrated my action. There have been cases to people being shot just for reaching for their identification too fast, or in a suspicious nature. Of course, that happened to black guys in cities, but small town cops can make life real hard too. The likelihood of this cop shooting me was slim to none, but I figure it is best to treat all cops like one might treat a big dog when you may be trespassing. They bite sometimes, and you never know if someone else just kicked the dog, putting him in a foul mood. Or if that dog just gets off on biting people.
I passed my license and registration to the cop. I briefly gave thanks that I had remembered to renew my registration before I left Alberta last.
“I will be right back.” he said.
“Do you mind if I pump my gas while you check that out?” I asked him as he turned to leave. He wouldn’t find anything on my record, if he could even access my record. I have heard that it takes hours to get an answer on a foreign ID check, past whether the person in question is wanted for any warrants in the USA. I was pretty sure I was good there, as I think I would have remembered warrant worthy things happening if they had. And the border guard had let me cross, if after a rather long wait and question period. Might as well put my time stopped to good use, and let him know how very un-guilty I was.
He looked nonplussed for a moment.
“I will be right back.” he repeated. I took that as a “no, if I knew what was good for me”. I wondered if he was not legally allowed to restrict my movement without officially holding me for questioning. A good way to test if the officer actually has something on you, or is merely fishing for you to make a mistake is to ask if you are being detained, or if you are free to go. If you aren’t being detained, shut your mouth and quietly walk away. So I have been told by sources I trust. (The flexyourrights.org people.) How it actually works in practice I have not found out, and hopefully it stays that way.
He took the foreign ID back to his cruiser, and got in. I rolled my window up to only a crack at the top. If he ordered me out of my car, this would deter him from making free with my belongings without an official reason or warrant type thing. I toyed with my ipod, cueing the audio book I had been listening to back a few minutes. I had left it on play in my haste to put my theoretical coping skills to practice for law enforcement encounters. I watched the store clerk watching me.
A few minutes later, the cop came back up to my car. He handed my papers back to me, and warned me again to get that headlight replaced. I smiled and thanked him for his trouble, and I put my ID away as he got his cruiser back onto the road.
I grabbed my wallet and hopped out of the car. I had already pulled the gas door release, back at the beginning of this odd encounter. I stood a moment, trying to recall if this state was prepay every time, or if this was the “don”t pump your own gas” state. I decided that night time probably meant prepay anyways, and there was no gas jockey creeping out from under cover, so I strode towards the store.
The store clerk eyed me as I came in. She was in her middle years, and her eyes sparkled with a fine curiosity. I smiled as I payed.
“Guess my headlight was out, and he just had to tell me.” I confided.
“Oh Welts!” she exclaimed. “He is always such a prick, stopping people and hassling everybody. Thinks he is such a bigshot!” she derided the brave civil servant.
I privately thought most small town cops were big shots when it came to out of towners, and not shy about tossing around their authority. I took comfort in knowing that he would still be stuck here tomorrow, while I was a hundred miles away, seeing brand new sights. And redwoods. They really are spectacular around here, as I knew from last year.
I commiserated with the clerk for a bit longer, then went out to pump my gas. I stood at the handle, pressing the gas nozzle and its fume sucker hood tight to the side of my car. Only in California were they so aware of fumes. With that, the memory finally surfaced. It was Oregon where you weren’t allowed to pump your own gas. By law, every station was full serve. Here, it was just prepay all the time.
I filled up my teacup, and got back onto the road. The nav still showed the best path out of town, and I could see no reason to waste time. I knew the redwoods were only another one or two hundred miles up the road, and I hoped to get to the edge of them and find a place to sleep in my car. I wanted to wake up among the giants tomorrow morning.
I cleared the town limits, and gently sped up. The tires shushed on the road, and the mist scuttled out from under my car. The darkness wrapped back around me, welcoming me in. I flashed away from the last town light, and into the night.
All my theoretical knowledge comes from flexyourrights.org/
Quite a useful website, with practical videos.
Message in Time
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on October 2, 2011
The little white lines on the road flashed by, a trail leading to… anywhere. I followed, settling into the shush of tires on pavement. The second step in my journey. Starting in Edmonton, I had driven down to Calgary and spent some time visiting. I had worked a bit more on the car, with the help of my dad, and his tools. Tracking down the faint coolant smell resulted in a new radiator and one hose. Not too bad, all told. The parts for the tiny old civic continue to be cheap. The new seat covers were also admired. I knew my fine taste would be appreciated! That done, I figured my car was pretty likely to make it over the mountains to Vancouver, the next leg of my journey. I had meant to set out that night, but Doris produced a bottle of wine, and I simply had to stay for a glass. By the time visiting was done, and I do loathe to hurry visiting, it was rather late. Since the forecast for the next day looked like rain, I figured my little non-ac car and I could make a day run over the passes. No real need to travel at night. So I stayed one more night in Calgary. My mum was kind enough to put Dog and I up for another night, so we stayed there. The only thing about my mum’s place is her obscene idea of morning. Keep in mind this was on a saturday. She knocked on my door at about 6:30. I muttered and sent out the dog. That ought to distract her for a bit. I did manage to get an early start however, and it turned out well.
It was just after Banff that I started feeling a bit tired. I blamed the early hour of rising, and found a pull out to stop at. I parked the car behind a resting big rig, and lay down across my passenger seat. I closed my eyes, for however long it took to refresh me.
I stood in the mist. Swirling grey patterns all around me, none of it distinctive. A woman came walking out of the mist, dressed in blue jeans and a red t shirt. her long brown hair seemed unaffected by the wet air. Indeed, she seemed to be walking in a beam of sunlight. Odd. She came up to me.
“Do you have your papers in order?” She asked, kindly brown eyes meeting mine. I stared back, uncertain.
“I…I think so.” I replied.
“All your papers? You should check.” She was reassuring, and I found myself smiling back.
With that, I woke up. Glancing around, I reoriented myself. Still parked behind the rig, still raining slightly. The wind moaned thru the straps on the rig in front of me, producing an eerie mournful sound. It reminded me of the Ocean Pipes in Croatia. I smiled at the favored memory. What a strange dream.
Slowly, a thought surfaced, like a sandbar as the tide goes out. Did I have my papers in order? For crossing the border? Yes. What was tugging at my mind? Ah, my car registration was about to expire. Well, at the end of the month, but I would still be in Cali at that time. I checked my iphone. THe BC border loomed just before me, withe the last Alberta registry in Banff, sixteen kilometers behind me. Even happened to be open on a Saturday. Guess I better do that sooner rather than later.
I checked the clock. I had only been asleep for about ten minutes. Just long enough for the message to be delivered.
Of Borders and Snakes
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on September 6, 2011
We rolled up to the border crossing of Coutts at about two in the morning. Out of five lanes, only one was open. A big rig and a truck were ahead of us. It only took about ten minutes for it to be our turn. We rolled up to the passage, facing the bank of cameras and sensors. Ahead, the guard peered out of his booth, more of a door in the hulking building we crept around. There were warning signs everywhere, alerting you to the very serious business of crossing. As we inched forward, the cameras flashed, the sensors no doubt sensed, probing our vehicle and trailer for everything, anything. People stowing away, large stashes of cash or drugs, weapons…. goat milk. I blinked in the afterglow of the camera flash.
This would be a bad time to remember you needed a passport to cross the border.
Fortunately, this idea had occurred to me in Edmonton. After I had found and stashed mine, I had asked Justin about his, prompting a sudden look of thankfulness. On one of the subsequent trips to load the truck, he had asked if I thought we should bring the tickets off the fridge, where they had been hanging since March. Long enough to become part of the scenery. I shot him a look of pure gratitude. I might very well have forgotten, and with no tickets for sale at the gate, that would have been disasterous. And embarrassing.
As it was, we had both had our tickets safely stashed, and our documents in order. Though we were making a most respectable crossing, I had some supporting papers as well. A couple crossing over with a trailer pulled by a nice new truck is a great deal more reputable than a bus pulling up filled with long haired hippies. Still, I had grabbed a tax document proving I had a place to come back to in Canada. You never know when a border god is going to be rather… enthusiastic about his job, and decide to make life a little challenging for a while.
We pulled up to the booth and came to a stop. A younger and dare I say rather cute border guard stared back at us. I had the passports ready, both open to the picture and bar code pages like Europe had taught me. At this, the guard actually smiled.
“Hey there folks, how’s it going to today?” he said, surprisingly chipper. Maybe he had just gotten on shift. Or just gotten engaged. Something.
We exchanged pleasantries with the man, confirming our cities of origin and occupations. Then the big question.
“So where are you headed?” he smiled, eyes craving our answer.
Now, there are many schools of thought on this one. I have heard of some guards with a real chip on their shoulder responding with a major search to the news you are going to Burning Man. I have heard the thread of a rumor that one person had their tickets found and taken, no explanation, no recourse. This is just the shadow of a rumor however, and I don’t put too much faith in it until I have actually spoken to a person it happened to. Still, I had our tickets out of sight. Many people think this is best, to simply say you are going camping, or going to Nevada, or anything but the actual event. Not lying, but not coming to the point either. You may not want to try this one if you have a bike rack of blinking fun fur with handlebars and pedals however. Or a big duct tape Man symbol on the side of your rv. Guards usually catch on. They are good at that, and there is a damn lot of us who flock across the border the same weekend, every year.
So, we took the direct approach.
“We are off to Burning Man.” Justin replied, giving good eye contact, a hint of a smile on his face.
The guard mimed shock, rocking back in his chair.
“Well, someone who tells the truth! Despite the websites advising you to lie!” He grinned at us, no malice in his words. We laughed with him, and told him about some of our costumes, in response to his next question. He expressed amazement at what we had cooked up, and wished us a good festival. With that, we drove into Montana.
It only took another hundred kilometers before we both began to feel the late nights and early-ish mornings we had been keeping. At the next rest stop, we pulled in. Nestling next to a dormant big rig under the dim yellow lights, we came to a stop. I hopped out, intent on the washrooms. Padding down the walkway, I noticed a sign, half obscured by shadow.
There have been rattlesnakes observed here…
Rattlesnakes? My goodness! Not in Canada anymore, are we? I tiptoed down the cement walkway, eyeing every shadow suspiciously. I had no idea how rattlesnakes behaved, other than the rattling and biting part. Did they hang out on cement, absorbing the last heat of the sun? Did they lurk in restrooms, to be near the water?
After a wary bathroom break, I made it safely back to the trailer. Needless to say, my sleep was sound indeed. The bed was comfortable as usual, and the rest stop was not too busy. We slept late into the next day, only rousing at about ten. I shuffled about the small trailer for a bit, then decided to brave the outdoors. I had remembered to bring my sunglasses the night before (for a change) and put them on to make my way to the restrooms. Time to watch out for ankle biters…
I crossed the parking lot, eyes open for sinuous shapes on the ground. I glanced up at the sign which had started the fuss, and saw it fully in the light for the first time.
Rattlesnakes have been observed here in the grass. Please stay on path.
Well then, I guess cement dwelling fang snakes are just the figment of an over tired mind.
The Tree That Wouldn’t
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on July 28, 2011
Driving a bus and trailer is sometimes difficult in the city. At least a short bus is quite a bit easier than a big one.
We were in Abbotsford BC. Dan wanted to visit his father, who was staying at an elderly assisted living facility there. I was driving the bus as we pulled into the crowded parking lot. There was a path around the bulk of the cars in the middle, I recalled, with not too much room to spare. I eased the bus to the far corner, and beheld a tight path, between a curb protecting a grassy verge and a tree, and a shiny blue truck. I kept the bus close to the curb, on the outside of my turn, and watched the trailer follow around. It looked like it was gonna clear the blue truck, but the space was not generous. It was an awfully shiny truck.
I crept the bus forward, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the side view mirror showing a limited slice of what was to my side.
*crunch* *pop*
I froze, foot planted on the brake, eyes wide. I met Dans eyes in the rearview mirror.
Oh right, that tree.
I threw the bus into park, and slid out of the door. Sure enough, the big tree had one thick branch thrust out over the roadway, already bearing scars of encounters past. This branch had halted our progress by way of my costume box. The sturdy blue lid, survivor of rain, snow, and being shipped greyhound, was flattened. Blue plastic fragments littered the ground beside the tree. Fiddlesticks.
I got back in, reversing the bus gingerly. The trailer jinked sideways, jackknifing slowly. Dan guided me as I heeled the bus over, away from the defiant tree. The bus nosed forward, the trailer cleared the shiny blue truck, and the tree merely menaced our roof storage.
I climbed up, and surveyed the damage. I would need a new roof storage box. One cargo strap had been pulled off, but was still good. The custom built shiny aluminum roof rack was thankfully unharmed. (Don’t worry Justin, I won’t be whining at you for a welding repair. Yet.)
The problem with roof bins is you have to get a good one. And good ones are hard to find unless you are willing to spend four times the amount on a bin that was actually made to ride strapped to a vehicle. I was not about to shell out megabucks for a Thule, and the rubbermaid hingelids were all but useless. You couldn’t even run across the tops of them, for heaven’s sake!
Sadly, todays casualty was my best bin. A GSC extra heavy duty with a securely clipping lid, reinforced top that could be stood on, and foam tape I had added to seal the lid when closed. It was also big enough to fit my gargoyle wings and at least half my costuming stuff. All, if you didn’t could the stilts or foam rabbit ears. Or fox costume… Ok, I might have outgrown one bin. Don’t judge me.
The resilient lid of my costume box had never been designed for tree encounters. A large piece of the leading corner was missing, and one top ridge was split. My costumes were exposed to the light BC drizzle. This was A Situation, to be sure.
After the visit, we made our way to Walmart. the bins there had lousy flat clip on lids, stuff you could dislodge with a firm blow of your hand. The tooltotes were small, and expensive. They looked sturdy, however. They had no GSC products at all.
Home Depot had some cheap rubbermaid hingetops. Those things had flimsy lids that didn’t even fasten. That may be fine for storing your christmas tinsel in the safety of your basement, but was utterly impracticle for bus top use. I bought one on sale, because I needed temporary containment for my costumes on this rainy day. We still had a ferry to catch today, and no time for this unplanned errand. I turned to the internet, where a little google-fu revealed the GSC Product toll free number.
I navigated my way thru the automated phone system, preparing myself for my shot at interacing with a real live person. Like a well trained monkey, I pushed the right buttons.
“Welcome to Big Name Company, manufacturers of Amazing Summer Clothes and Superiour Patio Furniture, and GSC Storage Solutions. Press one for English. Pour Service en Francais….” *bloop*
“….Press three for GSC products….” *bleep* One step closer to actual living beings. It is amazing how the big companies are interwoven, where all their branches are. “… Press one for Sales……” *bloop*
“GSC Sales.” A tired voice answered. Over the road noise of the moving bus, I miss his small voice at first. “Hello?”
“Oh hi!” I startle out like a stereotypical cheerleader. That’s me, lightning fast reflexes when actually reaching my goal. “I was hoping to get some information from you on where to buy a certain GSC tote box.”
“Right, do you have the model number?” His voice emerges muffled, like he has the phone cradled on his shoulder.
Oh right. That’s what I was supposed to do, when I was peering up at the label that has miraculously survived life atop the bus.
“Ummm..”
“Tell me what it looks like.” he interrupts me with. I can nearly hear him rolling his eyes. I bet the sales office of the big company doesn’t get too many calls from confused hippies bent on getting just one tote.
“It’s a heavy duty model, grey sides and a blue kinda domed top. About a 150 liter.” That was one thing I picked up in Home Depot. Bins come in fluid measurements. I tend to think of them as Keep Small Items Together size, Could Put Maeg In size and Costume Box sized. I was guessing this sales guy wouldn’t appreciate my sorting system.
“Ok, how tall is it? I need to know, because we have a 125 liter and a 174 liter. Do you know?”
“Oh boy, it could be about…” I temporize.
He cuts me off. “We don’t have a 150 liter, so it has to be one of those.”
I didn’t think the smashed costume box was quite a 174 liter. That sounded like quite the large box.
“The 125 liter?” I hazard.
“Ok, where are you?”
“We are in Abbotsford BC, soon to head to Vancouver. I was hoping to pick a new one up somewhere on our travels…” I have no idea where the call center is located. I hope this guy has heard of BC. I hope he knows where Canada is. Even roughly.
He breaks in “Rona carries most of our products. You do have Rona up there, right?
“Oh yes! That was just the clue I needed.” I am so relieved to know where to begin my search. “Because I just love that tote box. It is the best I have ever owned!” I blathered.
“Right. Glad to help.” he states, sounding anything but. I guess he doesn’t get too many hippies calling in to enthuse about the proud GSC products.
“Oh yes, you certainly have. Thank you again! Bye!” I decide to retreat before I can detect more than a hint of irony in his voice.
That call being done, we proceed to Rona. Sadly, it turns out to be a small store, with only the regular duty totes with hinged lids. These things do not stand up as well to being strapped all out of shape to the top of the bus. I decide to hold out for the extra heavy duty model. Somewhere, out there….
For now, my precious costumes are swapped into the severely inferior rubbermaid hinge top. The lid doesn’t even click shut. I wrapped the cargo straps over it, and cinched them down viciously. Hopefully that will do to keep off the intermittent drizzle.
We press on for Vancouver.
Wherever you are, Be There 