The last homely house east of the sea.

Calgary’s a bit like Rivendell. I’ve eased gently into the travelling life, but maintained the comfort of having my own room, free laundry, and Mum’s roast dinners. My disturbed sleep last night was punctured by visions of delayed flights, lost luggage, and fake reservations, but I’m now safely at the gate in Calgary airport,  gazing out at the towering silhouettes downtown, which are sharply juxtaposed with the unearthly clarity of the mountains to the west. I’m waiting for my flight to Vancouver, where, all being well, me (and my bag) will board our next flight, to Tokyo.

I’ve really enjoyed my time in Calgary, particularly meeting the friendly locals, eating the sugary delicacies, and spending time with Mum and Aaron. Circumstances have changed a lot since I was last here, and being a lot more relaxed (with no vacation work hanging over me) has meant that me and Mum have got on better than ever before. The location of my mum’s new house meant that I didn’t feel isolated, and the dogs have ensured that I never had a dull moment.

I’ve felt really shaky all morning, and I had to hold back the tears when leaving Mum (neither of us like goodbyes). I hadn’t anticipated this fear when I was planning my travels. Apparently there’s a lot of stress involved in being a free-spirited travel bum.

After the shortest and most beautiful flight of my life (to date), skimming the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, I’m now sitting in Vancouver airport – the most westerly point of the Earth that I’ve ever visited. Tokyo will be the most easterly. I’m really expanding my horizons today. The fear has melted away, replaced by excitement, anticipation, and self-belief. It’s too late to turn back now, I can do this, everything is going to be okay.

I’m thirty two thousand feet high, flying over the Pacific ocean. I’ve just had a very interesting plane meal, consisting of edamame, egg, a mini pickled onion, noodles, seaweed, and vegetable curry with some weird holey thing I’ve never seen before. Fumbling with my chopsticks, I surreptitiously watched my neighbour deftly scoop the noodles into her mouth, barely hesitating in her game of Candy Crush, and tried my best to imitate her technique. I’m going to be a pro by the end of this adventure. The cabin crew are omniscient, anticipating what you want before you open your mouth (big up All Nippon Airways), and so far my journey’s been really enjoyable. There are two eighteen-month-old children in the aisle next to me, so this could all change very quickly, but so far, so good…

The flight passed by in pockets of sleep, and an immersion exercise in the Japanese language, courtesy of a film called ‘Samurai Hustle’. My younger fellow passengers weren’t a problem, and neither was security or reclaiming my bag, which dutifully followed me across the Pacific. I’m now sat in arrivals waiting for a certain someone, who just happened to book a flight to coincide with my time here. But it’s okay because there’s free WiFi. And a friendly police officer called Takayama who’s been keeping me company. He’s very up to date on his current affairs; we discussed the radicalisation of British Muslims, the impending referendum on Scottish independence, and Abenomics before he scooted away, presumably to do his job. He also helped me out with my Japanese, and recommended some places to go and food to eat;  though a visual image of Okonimiyaki offered absolutely no elucidation as to what it actually is.

She’s here.

My little brother.

My little brother is nineteen years and four months old. He is six feet and three inches tall. He moved to Calgary last year to attend university, and this has been my first visit since he emigrated (or immigrated depending on where you stand). Last Sunday he introduced me to IHOP, and three of his friends. Bonding over syrupy pancakes, we debated the new Alberta licence plate that’s being introduced, and laughed at the tragic sentiment of the IHOP birthday song:

Happy, happy birthday,
From us the IHOP crew.
We wish it was our birthday,
So we could party too.

This week has been equally amusing. On Thursday I was invited to join the guys at Kilkenny’s, Aarons favourite pub, on account of its reasonably priced steak and Newcastle Brown. I was very impressed with the local ale, particularly the Wild Rose Brewery’s ‘Velvet Fog’, and after one or five, we merrily meandered out of the bar, into the cars of our heroic designated drivers, Donny and Brandon. Over the course of the night, it had emerged that I was ignorant to one of the best-loved and most historic Calgarian institutions; ‘Peters’ Drive-In’ (established 1964). To remedy this we made the trip down Crowchild Trail (which is a motorway, not a footpath), and I was presented with a  gargantuan mint-chocolate-toasted marshmallow-milkshake (which seemed like an excellent idea at 12:00 a.m.). It was delicious, and I’m glad to have been introduced to previously unknown lactatial possibilities (even though I don’t like milk).

The following night, we all went to the Blind Beggar, (another ‘pub’) to see Aaron’s friends’ band. Retlaw’s funky psychedelicism washed over us as we washed down the beers,  and we steadily got lost in their groove.

But that wasn’t the end of my musical exploration whilst here in Calgary. Saturday was the BBC’s Last Night of the Proms, and despite never having watched, or indeed shown any interest in it before, we all went to the cinema at Chinook (courtesy of Mike’s excellent motoring skills), to wallow in some shameless patriotism.

An anomaly in a decidedly senior demographic, we sat down at the front, Diet Coke and huge popcorn in hand (which, retrospectively, was an inconsiderate choice for a classical concert) and let ourselves drift away into the virtuosic artistry, expertly navigated by Sakari Oramo. Three hours later we emerged, humming Land of Hope and Glory and the National Anthem (which, I was informed, is also the second national anthem of Canada). We decided that in order to counteract our gluttonous indulgence of British culture, we should do something quintessentially Canadian. So we went ice skating. Now, avid readers of this blog will already be familiar with my inherent physical instability, from when I climbed a mountain, so multiply that by a billion, and you have an idea of what I’m like on ice. With a lot of bruises and laughter, we crawled around the Olympic Oval, eventually collapsing in a pained heap, and deciding it was time to go.

Me and my brother have always been close, and now that we’re effectively grownups, we’re even closer than before. It’s going to be so hard to leave him behind as I move on to the next leg of my journey, and I’ll miss him so much. But he’ll always be my little brother. No matter how many more inches he grows.

Intemperate temperatures.

We had a barbecue on Sunday. It was 27°C. This in itself isn’t particularly noteworthy, however it becomes so in light of recent events. Its been snowing since Monday, with temperatures hovering around zero. This has made dog-walking somewhat treacherous.

This is not merely on account of my liability to slip, but also because of the fallen branches that litter the pavements, their leafy canopies brought down by the weight of the silent snow. Remember when I said packing was difficult? That was without taking into account the potential for snow, so I’ve found myself slightly unprepared, layering up and scrounging some snow boots from Mum.

To further compound matters, I’m currently suffering a power outage. That leaves me without Netflix, or a way to communicate (no WiFi, and the phone is connected to the mains). I’m not sure which circumstance I judge to be more severe. I’m left with little choice but to wait for Mum and Rob’s return (some five hours from now) and to retain as much body heat as possible. Brrrr.

The power came back three long hours later, my torment exacerbated by the indeterminacy of my situation. I passed the time by reading a bookbook (because my Kindle was out of charge) and clutching my two furry companions close to me, my desire for their warmth outweighing my revulsion at their breath. By these desperate means, I survived.

Much to my relief, the forecast is bright, potentially reaching 21°C at the weekend. Travel Lesson #1: Always expect snow in Calgary.

Wedding crashers.

At the weekend we were lucky enough to be invited to a wedding party. Mum’s friend from work, Jenn, was celebrating her marriage to René, which took place a few weeks ago. We dropped the dogs off at the kennels, packed up the car, and made the ninety-minute drive to Bassano, the self-proclaimed ‘Best in the West by a Damsite’. There’s not much going on in Bassano. Think ‘Endora’ in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’ (I promise I’ll stop with the Johnny Depp film references at some point). We turned off the highway and were confronted with a solitary main-street, featuring a community library and a dated hotel.

Somewhat apprehensive, we sidled into the corrugated-iron ‘community centre’, under the hostile gaze of the locals, undeniably unnerved by our unfamiliarity and foreign accents. Feeling somewhat out of place, we stood in the corner observing the diversity of the community that we had infiltrated. Forty-somethings tottered around in bodycon dresses, sporting two-tone hairstyles that I haven’t witnessed since the early 2000’s, schmoozing with white cowboy hats and plaid shirts, carefully tucked into well-worn jeans. We welcomed Mum’s fellow colleagues with relief when they arrived, and managed to find some plastic seats to drag around an unstable table. Soon after, the happy couple walked into the hall, Jenn in a flowing white dress, and René sporting some red chinos and a bowtie. The ceremony that they had previously undertaken was stutteringly re-enacted, and then we were invited to help ourselves to some Alberta beef and jacket-potatoes, overseen by two indistinguishable octogenarians, white-haired and wrinkled in their black tabards. Once the plates had been cleared, the party started. The fluorescent panel lights were extinguished in favour of coloured spotlights and lasers, that wouldn’t be out of place at a school disco. Not knowing anyone gave me the monumental advantage of not caring about making a fool of myself, so I happily took to the dancefloor with some keen four-year-olds, and danced my little heart out. The night ended early, and as we made our way back to Calgary, the horizon melted into a fading spectrum of colour. My first wedding-crash was a success. Bring on the next.