A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.

Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.

In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.

I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."

I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

I Think Our Waitress is on the Lam

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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. ***

Chapter 2 - The Great Brown

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Chapter 2

The Great Brown

Frozen.  

That's what I was.  Frozen.  

You think I jest.  T'was a sad sight, watching your poor old father shiver and shake as I scooped slush off the windshield of the bike.  Why the hell don't you ever see a motorcycle with wipers?  That's what I'd like to know.

Oh yeah.  Not supposed to ride a bike in the snow.  That’s why.

We pushed on.  Down.  Down.  Down.  Away from the snow and the cold and the grey sullen skies of our homeland.   

I could go into great detail describing to you how I shredded the twisties as we descended the east side of the Cascades and navigated those rare and beautiful miles into the tiny burg of Naches.  But I won't.  I'll spare you the minutiae of each turn of the tire, each apex, each rise of the blacktop.  I shall resist the urge to create a lyrical ballad - an ode to the pines and the rivers and the wondrous, wondrous curves. 

Let's just say if the road and I were both doing time in prison by the time we arrived at the bottom I could have traded it for smokes.  

Oh stop cringing.  I thought that image rather clever.  You're a Navy girl.  Suck it up.

The temperature inched steadily upward as the day progressed from early to mid-morning.  Steadily and rapidly.  Really rapidly.  Climbing faster than a helium balloon escapes a toddler's sticky fist at the zoo.  Not that it made much difference.  My core was hovering somewhere between Minot, ND in January and the McMurdo Station in . . . well, pick a month.  August will do.  I had a ways to go before I would be warm again - if ever.  And miles to go before I sleep but that's a different story entirely.  

For a moment there I seriously considered setting myself on fire.  I reasoned that it probably wouldn't be that bad, and I could more than likely put it out before I incurred too much damage.  You know, finding the sweet-spot wherein the fire had warmed me enough that I could taste again, but right before I entered the burnt-marshmallow stage.  

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***