| Date | July 29, 2011 |
| Word/Phrase of the Day | ‘you brought summer with you’ |
| Start location | Seattle, WA |
| End location | Vancouver, BC |
| Laid my head | Tim’s newly free ‘guest bedroom’ |
| Miles cycled | <5 |
| Miles on other transport | 142 |
| Flats/Problems | 0 |
| Bike Mates (miles) | - |
| $ food | 8 |
| $ coffee (#) | 0 (1) |
| $ beer (#) | 0 (3) |
| $ gear | - |
| $ lodging | 0 |
| Firm visited | - |
| Advise for job seekers | - |
| Take home lesson | - |
| Highlight | Sunset beers at the Whip |
| Rain? | Nope |
I made it to Vancouver. Chuck, my bike guru in Seattle had outfitted a perfect late 1980s road bike for the trip. Whereas bike shops were mostly shocked at my price point (you’d think propelling your own self as a way of transport would be cheaper than being one of four people on a monster bus, riding a multi-million dollar underused train or flying, oh no, burning calories to get where you want to go costs), Chuck found the perfect guinea pig for his yard sale searching, bike shop parts pile style of bike creation. The only thing new on my bike is the fancy black and red spotted handle bar tape. Everything else, from my yard sale cleats to a handle bar bag that Chuck used to ride around Yugoslavia in the 70s, has seen its share of the road. But he fixed, lubed, adjusted and tightened everything for me. The steely grey Schwinn needs a name now. In honor of Chuck Perov’s ancestral homeland, I’ll name him “Tito”. He’s stalwart like Comrade Tito. He’s going to stand the test of time (at least for the next month) like Tito.
I decided not to pack my panniers just yet and arrived at the Vancouver bus station with my old Burkinabe rice sack, tied with a chord to make sure the made-in-China zipper doesn’t split. Two construction workers helped me tie the sack to the back of the bike since I only needed to go about six blocks. I had a meeting set up with Janine de la Salle, Vancouver’s food planner extraordinaire at HB Lanarc. I had been trying to nail down a time to meet with her and after going back and forth on times, she suggested yesterday afternoon at 2pm. As I had already made bus arrangements, that left me, by the time I got the rice sack affixed and every other bit of luggage slung on my back, about negative 20 minutes. I didn’t even sling my leg over the bike before it toppled. The rice sack made the bike extremely top heavy and the bike slid out from under the bag as if trying to escape. Pinched for time, I walked it over to a backpacker’s hostel just to the north of the station. As Tim pointed out later, accommodations around bus stations often aren’t the best. The Ivanhoe Hotel had about six drunk men standing out in front of it. Two police cars were positioned on the curb. The man next to me in the lobby was having a conversation with himself about the pay phone policy. “It’s supposed to be for short calls. She’s been in there for over an hour. I have people I need to talk to”. The pay phone cabin was empty. The man at the desk was missing half a nose but he was courteous and helpful. He told me not to go down to the intersection of Hastings and Main to buy drugs and even marked the cross streets on a map for me with a big ‘X’. I’m not sure if he was suggesting that I go elsewhere for drugs or just cautioning me about a dicey corner. I left my bag in a locked room in the lobby.
My meeting with Janine ended up being cancelled and rescheduled for the next day, a morning meeting over coffee. Dripping with sweat, bike grease from my chain all over my hands and right calf, this was a relief. And all I wanted was a beer.
I met Edward at the Whip Bar. Edward went to UVA, as I did. We didn’t know each other there, however. I met him while looking at UBC. He was in the last death throws of his MLA thesis, an urban agriculturally focused project that DPZ was involved in, in farmland near a bedroom community to Vancouver. He was driving hard to finish while looking for jobs. He found himself in that rosy window of time when firms were hiring with abandon. 2005ish was a dangerously expectant time for our profession. Soon after getting his Masters he went to work with a firm here in Vancouver and has been there ever since. We stayed in touch and he has been my connection to the world of food planning here. We drank micro-brewed beer from Victoria and Vancouver and while I dreamed of moving here (I am looking at the mountains out of my cousin, Tim’s window as I type), Edward pined to go back east. He’s looking and debating whether he should just quit his job and move back to Virginia, to the mountains and look for a job with a small firm in Charlottesville. The idea is fantastic. If I can offer a bit of advice back at him (as payment for all of his fantastic help), be careful about putting yourself in the job hopper, unless you are willing to wait. But his new nieces and nephews are calling and the bluegrass twangs are getting louder. So, Edward, go east! And if you go, can I have your job?
Also, I was notified of my “ineligibility” for the billionth time for a Federal Job. I really need to learn my lesson. The federal government has no intention of hiring me. I have no clue why but you win US government, I give up.
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