Sunday August 4 – Gay Christmas and the Other Side of Stand-by

Photo courtesy of Joe Shao--you'll recognize
these guys from the video (http://vimeo.com/71997462)

The radio advertised “Gay Christmas”, referring to the LGBT Pride Parade taking place today. All along Robson, Deman and Davie streets, rainbow flags flapped, storefronts were decorated with rainbow stripes (even Safeway!), pedestrian walkways were multi-striped, and people of every orientation dressed up a little or a lot. The Parade is a very big deal in Vancouver, especially in the West End. Viewers were gathering by 8AM; people had reserved tables near the street in cafes. And I was going to miss most of it.

My flight left at 3:14PM, so Joe gave me a ride to the airport ($20 to cover gas and time—not bad, as it would have been $12 by public transportation). 

The saving grace--a terrific collection of
Disney character toys in the Vancouver airport

I got there at 1PM, and the nightmare began. I had noticed flights that day were overbooked, but it didn’t occur to me that this might be a warning sign. When the gate opened for boarding a half-hour before take-off, I asked the airline rep about my chances for getting on—he told me, “not likely. I’ve had one stand-by here since 6AM. We routinely overbook here in Vancouver”. Not good news. In fact, they had to ask a paying customer to get off the plane for the next flight (he got a $400 certificate, so he didn’t suffer too much). Long story short, I was there for 9 ½ hours before I caught the last flight to San Francisco; the only reason I got on was because the flight was delayed 3 ½ hours and people who had to make connections out of SFO took other flights. The overbooking of Vancouver flights was a royal pain, but the delay was all SFO’s fault, as they’re only letting one international flight land at a time since the Asiana Airlines disaster a month ago (a pilot filled me in on this detail).

I got in at 12:45AM, and SFO was completely shut down. My only way of getting home was by taxi, and the fare was $120. I had exactly $46. I thought, “hey, the airporter will run in only 4 hours; I can wait it out”. I queried a couple of cab drivers whether they would consider my $46 for the fare and got turned down. As I was pacing around the baggage pick-up doors, a cabbie pulled into the end of the line (there were 30 cabs waiting, and no flights were landing…go figure). He yelled, “Where you going?”. I told him, and the amount of money I had on me. “I’ll do it,” he said, “but I can’t pick you up here—they’ll get mad (meaning the 30 cabs ahead of him). So I met him upstairs, and all I can say is, I’m glad there’s no traffic on the road at 2:30AM. Basically, he used the white line on the road as a guidance tool.

“Some people ask me how I can stand to work all night,” he said. “Coffee and cocaine. Just kidding.” As we neared my house, I mentioned that it was across from a well-known quick stop. “If it’s open, I’ll get myself a beverage,” he said.  It wasn’t, he didn’t, and I made it home at 3:30AM, all in one piece. I wish my driver the best of luck, and slightly more prudence. And I will never fly out of Vancouver again, Donald and Mickey be damned.

See the video: http://vimeo.com/71997462.

WE PARTY LIKE ITS 1999...

Up late with the rest of the slackers--Ron made spectacular omelets from “our” eggs—Nick is fascinated by the rooster and chickens his caretaker keeps—especially the rooster, which he refers to endlessly as his cock. He’s just so British. There’s no other excuse for it.

Nick took us to a village up in the mountains, where, in his memory, there is a rebellious, free, old-fashioned hippie enclave he greatly admires, and a pretty scenic spot just beyond. Ron and I both got an extremely heavy case of bad vibes—we definitely did not want to go into that village, especially since we’re dressed like middle-aged, middle-class American tourists, cameras and all, and the people we’ve met on the road were not particularly friendly. We looked like we were on assignment to capture the natives for National Geographic. An argument ensued, nobody won, and I stepped in someone’s outdoor toilet. Enclave, my foot.

Mercifully, we left, and drove way up the mountains into the national park to walk and hang out--prickly bushes, biting ants, gorgeous, gorgeous views. We came down and shopped in tourist shops in the villages below--Ron and Nick scored, I did not—I fell in love with rugs and pottery, none of which was portable.

Late as usual, we managed to break a bottle of wine just as we headed out the door to Brenda’s. We cleaned up the glass a bit and left a puddle on the floor (surprise! When we came home, it had been completely absorbed—those Spanish floors are thirsty, an they do love their wine.)

We were met with an enthusiastic group of folks who—according to Aussie Dave, who left relatively early with serene Di—often party like it’s 1999. Ainsley was a total charmer, though I didn’t get much chance to talk to him or Claire; goofy, funny Andy left early; also in attendance: Nick’s caretaker, the ruggedly yummy Helinick (so named as to not confuse him with “our” Nick; “heli” because he was a helicopter pilot). Also in attendance for far longer than was necessary, an attractive but increasingly drunk woman, dubbed “la Boracha”, who insulted everybody, one by one. She was entertaining, I’ll give her that. Rita and Nikki showed up later, and the party was still rolling into the wee hours. Brenda’s property is beautiful, and blessed with a plant I had never seen the likes of, a plain-looking leafy bush that only gave off its divine fragrance after sunset: though I don’t remember the exact words, it was rightfully named something like “beauty of the night”.

Check out the video: https://vimeo.com/70760985