I'll Have the 'Heart Attack' to Go, Please.

*** continued from previous post ***

I swear, we sprinted to the long table of food faster than a pack of feral German Sheppards chasing a pair of late-spring Mormons.

Mom dove for the waffle maker, but not before saying with that same evil grin, "but what if we DO want waffles?"

Your Mother can be quite funny. This wasn't one of those times.

As for myself, I was in meat Nirvana. There were chafing dishes overflowing with ham, maple smoked ham, thick-sliced bacon, thin-sliced bacon, pepper bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, venison sausage, drifter sausage (WTF? Well that would explain the lack of hobos and transients in this neck of the woods.), scrapple (sausage mixed with cornmeal then fried - I KNOW! It made my knees go weak.), polish sausage, and finally turkey bacon.

Considering the meaty spread, I thought the turkey bacon an interloper and refused to give it any real estate on my plate. In the end it didn't matter. I promised myself that I wasn't going to go overboard, but wound up with a plateful of meat that would have gagged an emaciated hyena.

Mom had long since returned to our booth. With a cane in one hand, and the contents of a well stocked butcher shop carefully balanced in the other, I weaved my way through the stares and slack-jaws and took my place across from your Mother.

"So," she said, looking over my plate, "should I get the defibrillator, or do you think you'll be able to navigate to the hospital on your own?"

"Funny woman. Such a funny, funny woman." I looked at her plate. I suppose that there might be a waffle under there but it was hard to imagine through the strawberries and - I mean this in all sincerity - a Matterhorn sized pile of whipped cream. "Just sweets for you this morning babe?"

"Oh hush and eat your cardiac arrest," she grinned.

Nary a word passed between us for the next 15 minutes. I hadn't realized just HOW hungry we were. If anyone had tried to take our plates, they would have come away with a reduction of digits.

Ummm . . . phylanges. Those would have been delicious.



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Curses issued to those who comment ***

I Think Our Waitress is on the Lam

*** continued from previous post ***


There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, Pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of Seafood Joints. GAH! What is it with the Canadian gustatorial scene? Oh Canukistan, you are nothing but a restaurant tease, you hussy! Sliding quickly back to despair, a lump grows in my throat when I notice a listing for a hotel with a restaurant! Eureka! Breakfast! I pull up the address, look at the directions. Mom peers over my shoulder, "Hey, that's right next to the gas station where we filled up!"

Well of course. Of course it was. Why would it not be?

"Hey," Mom says, "Everything for a reason."

I can't argue with this logic. If it were not for the detour, we would have never found the 'Tomb of the Drunken-Monkey Translators'.

"Let's just get something to eat," I say and fire the bike. "I could use a rest and I could eat almost anything. Except beer-battered scrambled fish eggs."

We meander back through deserted streets that is Stonekeep. This is so bizarre. Where the HELL are the people? We've passed like 4 cars all morning. I suspect the Zombie infestation has crossed the river. As soon as it gets dark, the streets will be filled with Canadian Zombies, wandering and feasting in a very orderly and polite manner. Hopefully we will be long gone by then, but I'm not taking any bets. Speculation could wait. We needed food of our own. So, we retrace our steps and sure enough, right next to the gas station that we had stopped at 40 MINUTES AGO was a hotel. Akin to a slightly upscale chain hotel, nice, familiar, generic, and most importantly serving breakfast.

Without any trouble at all we find the hotel, park the bike and de-gear. We dash into the restaurant, and the wonderful aroma of real food wafts gently over the tables to smack into our nostrils like the push at Normandy. Minus all the death and carnage. And Nazis. I hear your Mom's stomach growl with anticipation. Well said dear lady, well said.

The hostess - I assume she's the hostess but could be a very aggressive prep-cook - comes over and gives us a smile. After we establish that it is just the two of us, she guides us over to a large booth that looks out into the hotel's central atrium. This was a bit of a surprise because you couldn't see this architectural marvel from the outside. Ah the wonders of this modern life. I'm in Canada, wayyyyy up north, gazing into a tropical oasis. The atrium was the core of the hotel, stretching six stories high to a green-glass domed ceiling. It was lovely with the morning sun lighting the flora, outlining the leaves and fronds of a tropic paradise. Again, a thorough examination of the biological splendor could wait until our stomachs were full.

Our waitress is young, probably mid-20's and wearing, what I can only describe as a black and white stripped frock. The outfit, although I am no fashion critic, is not flattering. She looks like a prison waitress. Once again, I lay no claim to expertise in this area but I don't think they have waitresses in prison. Oh sure, there are a few fellas that would be happy to fill the role, but no females. Unless it's a women's prison. Come to think of it, I may have seen an after-school special concerning that very topic. No matter. This goddess of the feast hands us a menu, then takes our drink order, and disappears.

There are a few other couples in the restaurant, some small groups of businessmen and women hunched over tables, conferring quietly. No doubt planning some revolutionary activity for they are very much 'on task' if you know what I mean. I deduce that there must be a convention taking place at the hotel. I wonder what type? Real Estate? Dentistry? Used Moose dealers? People cast curious glances at us. Not unfriendly mind you, just curious. I smile when we make eye contact. I hope I don't look demented from hunger.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Please don't comment on the story or you'll explode. Thanks. ***

Hungry . . . So Very Hungry . . . .

*** continued from previous post ***

After we have satisfied the needs of the bike, we cruise up the street looking for a place to eat. That cracker had done its best, but it was no match for the raw beauty of Canada. We were famished at 5:30, we were now bordering on insanely hungry. If we didn’t find food soon I might have to consider eating your Mother.

Now, it is at this point that I should explain that all of Stonekeep is spread along one road that nestles against the base of a mountain, crosses a bridge over the Columbia River, and picks up its journey on the distant side of the valley. What I'm trying to say is - it ain't that big. But it is sprinkled over about 3 miles in a long, U-shaped strip. Still, by Canadian standards this is Gotham.

We spot fast food - closed at 8 AM in the morning. There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of seafood joints. But - and this is a big one - nary a chain restaurant nor breakfast cafe to be seen. Thus begins, what Mom and I lovingly call the new vacation game of "Where in the Hell is somewhere to eat?" We never spoke of it, but visions of the night before sprang into our heads like ill-trained Golden Retrievers that had just horked down a bottle of Ritalin from frazzled little Jimmy's backpack.

After scooting up the road, then crossing the river, it became apparent that we had run out of town. There were scattered houses, and at one point we thought of just pulling up in random driveway, and knocking on the door. We were fairly sure that the residents of said house would be too polite to deny us a Poptart. Or, Eggs Benedict. Maybe Prime Rib, we wouldn't be choosy.

We'd wasted about 30 minutes on this little hunt, this early morning exercise in futility. Agitation spread over us like a spilled glass of whiskey at the dinner table. I tried not to think of our schedule, but I couldn't help it. Today was THE long day. No time for lolly-gagging.

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

*** the journey continues tomorrow and comments are always welcome ***

Meet Mr. Dribbles

*** continued from previous post ***

Here was some fun: Our extra bag, our 'absolutely 100% guaranteed waterproof' bag, was a pain. No matter how I tied it down, I would turn my back and find the cursed thing dribbling off the luggage rack of the motorcycle's trunk. The Houdini of soft-side luggage. Oh, what could the answer be? More bungee cords to the rescue!

I know I've asked it before but I will ask it again - who thought putting a metal hook on the end of a huge rubber band was a good idea? Probably the same people that invented lawn-darts back in the '70's. That's back before people tried to protect the young and were still allowing various mass-produced consumer products to thin the genetic herd. ("Here Timmy, go long and I'll hurl this large, winged projectile with a sharp, 3 inch metal-tipped spike at your head. Extra cookies if you catch it in your mouth!")

True to form, I almost put out my eye with a bungee cord. It's God's and my little joke. The scratched cornea went surprisingly well with the welts on my forehead from the day before.

Somehow I managed to lash "Mr. Dribbles" securely, and with our luggage attended to, our belongings stowed, and our protective gear zipped, buckled, and sometimes stapled, we climbed on the bike and prepared to bid farewell to our new found friends in Galway Bay, vowing never to return. At least for a year or so when the memory of our night spent here would lose its sharp edges and become simply, "That lovely little town just over the border."

In all honesty, it might take more than a year. It might be the next life.

Those thoughts could wait until later. For now all we knew is that we were really, really hungry. Surely we would find a charming restaurant just up the road.


*** the journey continues ***

Told you we should have packed more

*** continued from previous post ***

We escape the Deli with our souls intact. Barely.

Mom communicates all that needs to be said in one word: "Burgers."

I'm relieved, the Drive-in looked a tad old, but not that bad. As we drove closer we noticed. . . AT LEAST 75 FRICKIN' PEOPLE LINED THREE ROWS DEEP AT THE WINDOWS. We drove down - the place was empty. We come back ten minutes later - it's the cast of 'High School Musical' with grips and drivers and demanding stage-mothers all vying for grease and cheese.

It's a sign. We give up. Well played Galway Bay. You've defeated two weary, slightly crazy travelers. From THE STATES. I hope you're happy.

Back in our room, with the door shut, curtains pulled, and air-conditioner blasting, we regain a bit of composure. By this time it's late. It may even be next week for all we know. Time has ceased to exist. I can't let the day end like this. I won't let the day end like this. It is up to me to salvage this vacation.

I struggle to my feet and journey the 10 steps to the motel office. As I walked I remembered our suicidal fly friend from earlier. I now understand. Perhaps Dave would take pity on me and smack me with a rolled up paper as well. No matter, all I need is something to sustain us. I think I saw a pop machine in there somewhere. Or it may have been a heat induced hallucination. I didn't care. Shirtless-old-dude may be my only hope.

I pull open the door to the office and a blast of slightly cooler air rolls over me. There is a woman behind the Formica now. Dave is nowhere to be seen, I don't know where he's gone . . . possibly back to the parallel universe from whence he came.

I am ecstatic to spot an upright glass-door cooler, like you would find in any grocery store, stocked full of muffins and bagels and fruit. Saved! I smile, go to the cooler and start loading my arms with all things fruity and carby.

"Excuse me," the woman says, none too kindly as I ogle an apple, "that's not for sale," and sucks a bit of food from her front tooth." (Yes, tooth. Singular.) It's for the continental breakfast in the morning."

WTF? CONTINENTAL breakfast? In a one-story cinder-block motel in Galway Bay, BC? Really? CONTINENTAL? I'm not ashamed to say that a small "Eeeep!" escaped through my clenched teeth and slid past my lips all Nancy Drew like. "Okay" I sigh, heavily. "How about the bagels and muffins?"

"Same deal.

It is then that I realize I may have to commit a crime. I wonder what the prisons in Canada are like? Probably much like the US, only they're polite when they rape you. I try a different tack. "You know, we're staying here tonight, and leaving very early in the morning. It wouldn't be a stretch to think that if we were staying later in the morning we would certainly be attending your continental breakfast. So . . . could we have our bagel and a muffin now please?"

The woman looks puzzled. "But they're for the breakfast in the morning," she repeats, as if this explains everything.

In my imagination, I'm pounding my fists on the side of my head. Or her head. Whatever. Yet I remain the very epitome of patience and international good will. "Okay. Look. If we were here in the morning, we could have all the bagels and muffins we wanted, is that right?"

"Well, within reason," she says.

I nod in agreement. "We certainly could have ONE bagel and ONE muffin, right? So, can't we pretend," I look at the clock on the wall, "that I'm just really, really early?"

I have hope. That's some sound, sound reasoning right there. I mean seriously, I'm not asking her to empty the till.

She narrows her eyes and says, slowly, as if talking to a complete idiot, "But those are for the continental breakfast in the morning for the motel guests."

Inside I scream and commit a crime of which I'm not proud. Suffice it to say that the Coroner would be quite surprised at what you could fit up a Canadian's wazoo. I could see no matter how persuasive I was there were no bagels or muffins on the dinner menu.

Fine. Forget the food. I try once again. "You know, all we really want is something cold to drink. How about the Cokes and Dr. Pepper?"

"That," she says with a smile, "I can sell you."

This makes no sense to me, but in order not to kill the positive momentum I've got going I say, "Great!", and pull out my wallet.

"Umm . . . All I have is American money, is that okay?"

I can't quite describe the look that passed over her face, but it was much like she had just experienced an ill smell in an elevator and heavily suspected it had originated with me. I'm a proud man, but this was not time for hubris or ego. I beg her to take my useless American money in exchange for three ice-cold cans of pop. (Yes I said pop. Screw soda. I'm from the Northwest. Deal with it.) I'm fixated on those drinks. That's really all I want. Something cold and familiar. After some hesitation, and a fair amount of disgust, she caves to my pleadings and accepts my pathetic American currency.

You ever tried to carry three cans of pop, sans bag, with a cane? I shall leave it up to your imagination.

Triumphant, like the mighty hunter returning to his clan, I bring the cold nectar-of-the-Gods back to your Mother. I approach her cautiously, warily. She has that wild look in her eye again, and her head still hasn't sprung back to it's proper shape. I drop to my knees and raise the mighty can of Dr. Pepper over my head. The provider returnith. Victorius. A kill of carbonated beverages as a supplication.

The offering appeases her.

"Okay," I sigh. "What do you want to do about dinner?"

"Well, I noticed some crackers in the bike. But not very many." She takes a long pull from her drink. "You know, usually I have all kinds of snacks. Beef Jerky. Peanut Butter. Candy. Cheese. More candy. Trail Mix. Nuts. A rasher of bacon. But you were the one that insisted on packing light."

I detect a hint of sarcasm and reproach in her voice. I know, hard to believe but it's true. I wonder just how long she's been waiting to make this particular point. Probably since we left the house.

She swirls vindication mixed with cold Dr. Pepper in her mouth and smiles.

The day is lost. I'm defeated.

We get the crackers and each of us take one - just one - for our evening repast. We chew slowly, in silence, and contemplate the day.

At least the bed is comfortable, and I has my Nets.

Tomorrow, I vow, will be different.

I mean really, could this trip get weirder?

--- END OF CHAPTER TWO ---


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Or Monday. I have a busy weekend. Quit complaining. I posted a long one today to hold you over. So . . . yeah. Okay, gotta go. The phones ringing. ***