VACATION READJUSTMENT

Maybe it was when I hit the snooze button, not once but four times, on Saturday morning, a lingering jet lag as the acceptable excuse. I would end up arriving at Hyde Park twenty minutes late for the gay running group.

Perhaps it was two nights earlier after logging in to Manhunt and changing my location to Kensington only to check back and find no messages. Not even a record of profile views.

I suspect it was earlier, maybe even on the first day as I wandered in and about Harrods, realizing I wasn't registering as the new kid old man in town to, well, anyone.

Hell, the moment may have even come before taking off from YVR as I spotted two gay couples boarding and sensed quite strongly that that wasn't my lot. At least not in the foreseeable future. I tried to swat away any defeatist thinking. Your Stella moment awaits! Get your groove back! Or, if you never had it, then just get it. And, if not a full-on groove, a slight indentation. A back scratch.

Whenever it was, it was blessedly early on. Any notions of finding a prince in this land of palaces, a Mr. Right or Mr. Slightly Left of Centre evaporated along with any sighting of that notorious London fog.

Whether I view it as pessimism or realism (even self-preservation), abandoning any hope of a romantic interlude proved a good thing. Shaking off all expectations, I felt complete freedom. Isn't that how a vacation is supposed to be? No goals, no agendas. Seeing what I see. Not seeing everything else. (Oh, why would I ever want to go to a wax museum?!)  The only man I had a conversation with was a daft Scotsman who'd just witnessed a woman stumble on a raised portion of a sidewalk near Trafalgar Square. As had I. Unfortunately, he needed to debrief this exciting event and chatted me up for two long blocks as I politely nodded--in part, I struggled with his accent--before I got wise and asked for directions to a place I'd just passed. Complete U-turn and I was safely all alone once more.

A vacation for an extreme introvert like me mutes all the people, single and otherwise, and allows a closer pondering of the lone black swan in the pond at Hyde Park, of the utter nonsense of being a boy king and of the lives lost while building the fanciful Tower Bridge. I leave London still single but feeling a greater sense of inner peace.

Bloody hell. Maybe Stella got 'er groove back after all.

 

LOOKING IN LONDON

Anything is possible.

That’s how the vacation begins. Never mind all the worst-case scenarios. (Flying’s not really my thing.) I’ve dwelled on them aplenty. It’s the best-case possibilities that give me butterflies. And, as I’m headed for the UK, let’s call them monarch butterflies.

It wouldn’t be so bad to meet my modern-day Mr. Darcy now, would it? I am still waiting for my “When Harry Met Sally” moment, after all. No, I don’t fancy falling for some Billy Crystal type who crassly spits grapes at closed car windows. I’d just be happy to be one of those lovely couples sitting on a loveseat between Harry-Sally scenes as they recount meeting and falling in love. Perhaps my story—our story—begins in London. On a double-decker bus or reaching for the exact same tie at Harrods or listening to a busker performing in Trafalgar Square, our eyes meeting as the singer belts out a mushy lyric.

Yes, anything is possible. That’s what make all the anticipation of a trip—my first overseas!—so grand.

And, even if it doesn’t lead to Forever Love, a fling would be fine, too. I’ve seen “How Stella Got Her Groove Back”. I dig Taye Diggs. So what if the real-life situation didn’t end well for author Terry McMillan. In my book, the fact that the guy turned out to be gay is a good thing. Yes, let this be my Jamaica! (I can’t be in the sun anyway.) May I be so lucky as to meet a hunky Londoner! This is the land of princes. (Just, please, not Harry. He strikes me as a bit of a buffoon. Too much Charles, not enough Diana.)

One possibility is dashed as I take my seat on Air Canada 855, Calgary to London. I’ve seen “Up in the Air” and know all about that George Clooney character’s frequent travels. Alas, no Clooney for company on this long flight. I’ve got the window seat beside a rather large couple who have already claimed the armrests. The woman drifts off to sleep and I’m penned in, too polite to wake her up to allow my legs a stretch in the aisles.

Without Clooney, I remain decidedly single when the plane touches down at Heathrow. Yes, English gents, still available. Let the possibilities begin.

STELLA? STEL-LLLAAA!

If my name were Stella, I’d have jetted to Jamaica.  But that might have been an expensive disaster, considering I don’t have a friend named Whoopi and I can’t be in the sun.  Still, I needed to find a place to get away for a few days in an attempt to get my groove back.

It wasn’t even that lofty a goal.  In truth, I just needed to go somewhere so I’d have an answer when I return to work and people ask, “Did you go anywhere?”  People look at me funny when I say, “Safeway.” 

I am one of the lucky ones with an extended summer vacation—about six weeks in total.  With my five-hour-a-day ferry commute, I had no desire to travel this summer.  I was gleeful every time I looked out my kitchen window and saw another ferry coming or going without me.  Besides, summer is the best time to be in my quiet community.  The jogs, the bike rides, the beach walks, the forest hikes...all with no mud!  (Oh, the rains will return soon enough.)

With work starting up again this week, I began surfing travel destinations when July had the nerve to make what felt like an early exit.  I considered many places.  Los Angeles.  San Francisco.  George Clooney’s Italian villa (Where did I put that invite?).  Portland.  Chicago.  Curacao.  Alas, I do not have the budget for excursions farther afield so I found a deal for three nights in Whistler and booked it.

I am not a fan of travel itineraries.  Instead, I believe vacations should pass without plans.  Wander and stumble into things.  It’s a lovely thought and wonderful things happen in movie versions.  Sing ABBA songs, meet someone on a train, decide to stay in a foreign land indefinitely...visa rules be damned. 

This is my roundabout way of saying I planned a few things.  I booked a tour and did some online research about library hours, rec center times and movie showings.  I also pulled out the current issue of Vancouver magazine which included recommended stops along Highway 99 from Horseshoe Bay to Pemberton (a stretch of road that includes Whistler).

First stop:  Galileo CoffeeCompany, a roadside establishment at blink-and-you-miss-it Britannia Beach.  They roast their own coffee and my latte was decent enough.  Truth:  my taste buds don’t pick up hints of rosemary, pine bark and Corn Flakes like some coffee connoisseurs.  I just like mine strong, not watery and mine was strong enough.  I glimpsed the lovely view of water and mountains, not unlike that which I see from home, and then hit the road again.

On my way into Whistler, I turned off at Function Junction on the outskirts of town for what became a trip highlight.  In a bland commercial business area, I stopped at Purebread, a bakery recommended by Vancouver magazine.  It is rare that I rave about food, but I knew upon stepping in the doorway that the place would be outstanding.  I ordered a fruit scone and a ciabatta loaf and moaned with pleasure as I devoured the scone on the final leg to the hotel. 

After checking in, I did what so many vacationers do:  I hit the library.  Yeah, I know how to have a good time.  I’d set a writing goal for the trip.  I tend to be a writer with ADHD, jumping back and forth from one thing to another.  Ooh, another book idea!  Hey!  That would make a great character!  I told myself no blogging, no internet distractions, no screenplay ideas.  I plopped myself in the library for a chunk of each day and fully outlined a novel idea that I’ve sat on for the past three years.  Mission accomplished!  I now have a clear vision of how I’ll be spending my looming ferry rides.  That alone made it a successful trip.

Of course, I am not at ease if I eat extra food AND forego workouts so fitness was another big part of the trip.  Whistler is better known for its physical activities than for its library.  I thought of canoeing or white water rafting, but opted instead for a tried and true workout.  Being in a place where I knew no one, I risked going to Meadow Park Sports Centre to swim laps at 6 a.m. two mornings.  Yes, I donned my Speedo—a boxer, not briefs style.  The lifeguard didn’t snicker or turn away to keep down her early breakfast croissant.  Despite eight months away from swimming, I managed to complete my basic three-kilometer workout both days.  On my other day in town, I went for an evening jog, zigzagging on a series of trails and somehow managing to find my way back without making the news as the focus of a Search and Rescue mission.  (Considering I have absolutely no sense of direction, my five minutes of unwanted fame will wait another day.)

My one tour was a 2 ½ -hour zipline adventure on my final evening.  There were two options:  the Bear course for beginners and the Eagle route, described as “[p]erfect if you’ve ziplined before or crave an adrenaline rush!”  In truth, I had no business flying with Eagles, but that’s what I signed up for.  A natural worrier, I fretted that I would fail an oral interview prior to the tour and be summarily dismissed from the pack of daredevils.  No middle-aged library goers allowed!  To my relief (?), they took my money, accepted my signed waiver and I was cleared for takeoff.  Having arrived early, I paced outside nearby shops, wondering what I’d gotten myself into and hoping that my four hours of fasting prior to departure would prevent an embarrassing hurl or underwear mishap.  Yeah, a little planning is sometimes essential.

Of course, I felt foolish when we officially convened and the group included a sixty-year-old woman with a bum knew and a woman my age who dressed for a safari and placed her helmet over the wide-brimmed hat that she refused to remove.  If we were eagles, we were the tame sort, raised in captivity, the kind that feasted on hand-fed kibble.  No danger that I’d start thinking about traversing Niagara Falls next summer.

I should tell you the course was insanely treacherous, I lost my voice for two days from screaming and I hurled three times (one less time than everyone else).  Adrenaline rush, indeed!  In truth, while fun and scenic, the adventure was only moderately scarier than my teacup ride at Disneyland.  But I did not know that when I signed up and showed up.  I am keeping those Adventurer bonus points. 

Still, the guides encouraged us to be “a little daring” on the final run.  In my head, I envisioned going upside down and letting go of the cord and dangling my arms over my head.  Usually, there is a huge discrepancy between what I imagine and what I actually do.  On this occasion, however, I followed my vision!  I have no one to back me up—we didn’t exchange email contacts at the end—but I have a clear memory of an exhilarating moment.  I celebrated by stocking up at Purebread—cranberry ginger raisin loaf, flourless chocolate gâteau, buckwheat sour cherry scone—on my way home.    

I didn’t go to Jamaica, I didn’t meet a hunky gay-in-disguise Taye Diggs, but I left Whistler having found a mini groove.  Good enough when you travel on a budget!