The Vancouver 5 Mile Challenge

It really ought not to be that I write only on being spurred to do so, but such is life with two small children. Once they're in bed, there's always so many options. Why is always, "Do minimal amount of cleaning to keep the house marginally hygienic" that wins? Not tonight! Cleanliness be darned, there's a story to tell.

Actually, there's several. But we'll keep a few in reserve for other nights when cleanliness and hygiene take a back seat.

I find that most places have their proponents and their detractors. I could be accused of being a detractor of most places. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. Moss does not grow on your house, roof and all over your garden if the climate is not fundamentally dark and wet. I don't care what statistic one comes up with or if the weather happens to be "nicer" than Edmonton, Alberta: you're living in a generally wet and dark climate. I can admit this fact, put on a raincoat and don't hold it against Vancouver. Just like in Calgary, I can accept that it is very cold but sunny in the winter, so I put on my winter coat and sunglasses and get on with it.

And this, I believe, is the root of my problem with Vancouver. It's not that I'm not allowed to have a problem with Vancouver: it's that I'm not allowed to even be realistic about the place without someone getting up in my face about it. I feel like no one sees this place for what it is: a very average, shockingly expensive city with an incredible view. Not being particularly inclined to views, I find the surcharge on that view somewhat unpalatable. I'm indifferent to the weather, being not unlike Britain if a little wetter.

And, I find the driving to be completely unbelievable. Traffic and automotive infrastructure aside (city planners seriously have the gall to name the Grandview "Highway" a highway? See bottom for more on this), it is the arrogance of the drivers that I find so entirely mind-blowing.

To be fair, I've only witnessed a few accidents in the last couple of years. Mind you, my commute is only a mile, so seeing several collisions in that mile suggests a certain degree of hazard. Again, attributing it all to 'hazard' doesn't convey the sense of annoyance that is regularly delivered to any right-minded driver on any given day in Vancouver.

A drive to see family in North Delta or White Rock takes us down Oak Street and onto the venerable Highway 99. Everyone diligently works their way through town on Oak, stopping at dozens of traffic lights. It's three narrow lanes going south. Narrow enough that most trucks on the road spill into an adjacent lane, functionally reducing the lanes to two. Despite parked cars in the curb lane, you can rely on a small silver BMW sporting an N plate (for new driver) overtaking recklessly where 'opportunities' exist in the curb lane. The left lane begins having "No Left Turn" signs at about 50th Ave, but there's a good likelihood of cube delivery van ignoring those rules and stopped, indicating, and waiting for a break in traffic the other way.

For those of you with a good sense of spacial awareness, you're right in noting that the only 'moving' lane at this point is the middle lane. Let me, then, complete this picture for you: this is the main thoroughfare coming out of downtown Vancouver to the south. There are literally hundreds of thousands of people who take this road. And we're down to one lane. You can reliably throw in darkness, pouring rain, and 10% of people illegally talking on their mobile phones and paying no attention whatsoever to the chaos that surrounds.

Then, after the last set of lights, 3 lanes become 2 (this is great for keeping things moving) and you charge across the bridge. This little merge and the awareness that there's no more traffic lights effectively creates a drag race situation off the last set of lights. The speed limit is 60km/h (yes, it's a highway with a 40mph speed limit) but everyone is going guns blazing at this point... except for, invariably, the elderly lady driving her Mercedes SUV who out-accelerates everyone who isn't in a $100,000 vehicle to 58km/h, whereupon she settles into a groove of not quite doing he speed limit. In the fast lane.

The road twists and turns south. You can choose a very large bridge that converges 6 lanes to 3 or a an old tunnel to cross the next river. Either way, you can be certain of more unpleasantness. And it's constant jockeying for position. The result of all this jockeying and getting in front of one another and there being no functional fast lane or slow lane is the most incredible accelerate and brake situation you have ever known. It's all highway, but you'll use every gear. You'll probably get up to 120km/h for a bit, but you'll certainly be doing 20km/h in other places.

And, in the midst of all this accelerating and braking, you come to the realization that an inordinate amount of drivers in the greater Vancouver area take on this absurd drive without.... wait for it... fully functioning brake lights. It's dark. It's raining. The traffic is in full epileptic spasm and the idiot in front of you has no brake lights. I can't quite come to terms with how many people drive about without brake lights. Sometimes it's just one. Sometimes 2 of 3. And, more often than I care to think about it, there's none at all.

I just shake my head. Maybe they can't afford the bulb after being taken to the cleaners over everything else here, but it's just as often a brand new Audi as it is an early 1990s Ford Escort. Indeed, I am so convinced that there's nowhere quite like this for brake light failure that I issue you this challenge for next time you're driving in the Vancouver area (I call it the 5 Mile Challenge): I bet you can't drive 5 miles (8.047 KM) without seeing someone with at least one taillight not working. I play the game with Ange all the time. She guffaws at me (nothing like when she reads this post, mind you), but it's true. We usually can't get 500 meters. Anyway, there it is: the Vancouver 5 Mile Challenge. At very least, it'll take your mind off the frustration of no one following any rules or driving with any courtesy.

Revisiting what you call a Highway
Just in case you're not from Vancouver, here's the 'Gradnview Highway' (for those of you from the UK, calling it a highway is akin to calling it a motorway...):



View Larger Map

Wondering what the neighbours think...

I hate the term "white trash", but it conjures a certain image very quickly... and I wonder if the neighbours might be applying it to us. We certainly don't see ourselves as such, but one wonders if you ever really see yourself in such a light. But today, I caught a glimpse of what we might be becoming.

Ange and I got home from work. Whether it was the pleasure of having mum and dad home or punishment for us having elected to go to work in the first place, both Anna and Caleb quickly melted down. Anna screaming because she couldn't watch Ice Age 3 and Caleb... well, at first, it wasn't entirely clear what Caleb wanted. Caleb took his screaming to the garden, where he promptly took off his trousers which were apparently the root of all unhappiness. So now we have a sniffling kid running around the garden in only his nappy and another screaming child in the background.

Tonight was the night we were going to go to Ikea and no amount of child protesting was gong to change that plan. We were going to Ikea because the plastic Disney princess paraphernalia and Barbie accessories were taking over our house and we needed some serious Swedish organization to bring sanity back to Anna and Caleb's rooms (Anna's toys have inexplicably spilled into Caleb's room). On this night without scheduled responsibility, it was either Ikea or gardening and gardening is a mountain that I fear to climb. I like the idea, but there's sheer hard work involved. The people who owned the house before us clearly didn't care for gardens.... or at least this particular garden. We're in a fight against years of non-weeding residents. Add to that my complete lack of vision for adding plants that might go together and we've either got a modern art type garden or simply a disaster. Anyway, it was Ikea this night because Ikea included a cheap meal at the Ikea restaurant to go with flat pack furniture guaranteed to make our lives better.

And so is the culmination of a night where I wonder if--for a moment--we might have crossed the line into one of "those" neighbours. Let me paint the picture: we arrive back from Ikea with two tired kids. Caleb is back in only his nappy, having again discarded his trousers. On letting him out of the car, he takes off down the street. Anna, meanwhile is putting up a pre-emptive fight over going to bed--her hair a tangled, matted hive because of the scratching at the end of a bout with the chicken pox and her pink shirt covered in gravy from the Swedish meatballs she'd had for dinner. We unpack the car: this includes our new flat-pack furniture with its giant bright pink plastic tubs (chosen by Anna to put her pink plastic Barbie bits in), much rubbish and the dirty nappy from the boot-change that had happened 20 minutes earlier. Caleb, also covered in gravy, is collected just before entering the intersection at the end of the road and carried back under one arm (bright pink plastic tubs in the other). Both children are ushered across the lawn, through the squall of dandelion fluff, to the front door. While opening the door, Caleb is put down and immediately makes a run for it. While entry to the house is gained, Caleb is lost to the back garden where he immediately pulls out the hockey stick and demands a game of street hockey wearing only his nappy and a gravy covered t-shirt... which, incidentally was bought for a pound out of the back of a car at Sunday market in rural Norfolk.

Let's hope the fact that we actually endured bath time and made them brush their teeth pulls us back from the brink...

So good to be back...

Gently prodding by a kind comment that I should write again, I am finally getting back on the wagon...

Vancouver was recently awarded the dubious title of being the least affordable place to live in the world. While I remain unconvinced that a view of the mountains makes that somehow worthwhile, we're settling into the life here. I can confirm that affordability does not make the "reasons to love Vancouver" check column. This lack of affordability is why my penchant for getting a regular Europe fix seems ever further from reality.

So, with Caleb about to turn two years old, we decided to hop a flight back to the UK to visit family and friends before he became full fare. Of course, implicit in him not being "full fare" is fact that he also doesn't get a seat either. Whether saving $1000 is worth having a nearly 2 year old on your lap for 10 hours is a matter of debate, though if one wouldn't miss $1000 I don't think there's actually much to discuss. As it turns out, we would miss $1000 and so Caleb traveled lap class and it felt more like a cattle car than ever for Ange, Anna and I. Thank goodness for those little TV screens in the back of the seats that they now do. Eight straight hours of Cailou is moderately palatable given the options available to you for entertaining a 2 year old boy in 2 square feet of space.

Arriving in England was like arriving home for me. We arrived with throngs of people, poured out of the arrivals doors and were greeted by both my sister and the smell of diesel fumes from the waiting taxis. I sucked it in, enjoying every last carcinogen. We plodded along in wonderful London traffic. It took us nearly 15 minutes to drive the 200 metres past the Tower of London and Tower Bridge and I savoured every second. I smiled at the realisation that pedestrians no longer had any rights outside of zebra crossing. Not even the economic crisis and government in turmoil worries that were on every radio station were going to turn me off my England high. Indeed, all it has served to do is lower the value of the pound and drive down house prices. Rather distractingly, this whole crisis only serves to tease me by making our overpriced 60-year-old bungalow in need of a new roof for a 400 year old thatched cottage in a village in the Thames valley.

The trip didn't lend itself to stories of action or adventure. Travelling with a 2 and 4 year old puts the brakes on a bit. It was mainly family and friends. Brilliant to see Emily, Armando and Stella, who know London so very well. We took in the Tower of London, which really is a fantastic little castle for the centre of a major city. Anna even saw a ghost thanks to the quick wits of one of the beefeaters who work there who realised she was looking for ghosts. We saw some London-based friends before going down to stay with old friends in Southampton and then stayed over a few days in Caversham with our very good friends from when we were there. It was both nostalgic and wonderful to be back in our little village. Then it was up to Norfolk to see Grandad, Sue and Sam... and of course Sid the Dog and Morris the Cat. Puddy the Cat was also there (so I'm told), but he didn't make a show in 5 days. The kids enjoyed long periods on the beach, a visit to a castle (how could you not?), several walks in ancient Norfolk villages (which always include a stop for coffee/hot chocolate), and a day on the rides at a proper English sea-side resort (we bought the tea towel). We ate an inordinate amount of take-away curry and stopped at all the shops we miss: John Lewis, Next, M&S and, of course, Waitrose. It's almost worth going to England just to do your grocery shopping at Waitrose.

It was all very much escapism from our lives in Vancouver. Moreso than one might imagine, considering my highlights above include a trip to a grocery store. Still, now we're back. Vancouver seems even less affordable when one dwells on London seeming cheaper (clearly, I'm apt to dwell) though the view of the mountains hasn't changed. Our house still needs a new roof. That said, Ange and I are excited to be nearing the time when our friends outside of Vancouver start making summer plans that include Vancouver. So, I'd like to officially declare our house open to visiting friends. We can promise a remotely comfortable bed, good company, good food and few babysitting responsibilities.

Conversations with a 1 Year Old

Caleb is coming into his own when it comes to speaking. Anna was an early speaker, so Caleb's speech has seemed a little slow to progress. Of course, none of this matters one bit once they're four. For now, Caleb's development is particularly rewarding for its comic value.

Today, for instance, Caleb discovered my mobile phone. Possibly because we most often get the casual call from Opa, Caleb associates the phone solely with Opa ("Opa" is loosely translated as "grandfather" in Dutch). Phones, for Caleb, are the great human invention of having a direct line to Opa regardless of where Opa might be. They are so synonymous with Opa to him that it wouldn't even occur to Caleb that you could speak with someone other than Opa over them. Accordingly, he picks up my phone, flips it open, puts it to his head and explains to me: "Opa." In an effort to avoid an inadvertent call to the UK, I ask for the phone. He hands it over and I put it in my pocket. Only in this instance Caleb really wants to speak to Opa. Minutes go by with me trying to distract him with cars and trucks and books but to everything his only response is, "Opa." When he tries to retrieve my mobile from my pocket, I relent. "Okay, Caleb, we'll phone Opa."

I ring. Conveniently, Opa answers. I give him the quick explanation that Caleb wants to speak with him and hand the phone over. As I hand the phone to Caleb, I explain that Opa is on the phone. Caleb puts the phone to his ear and I only get one side of the conversation, which went something like this:

"Dump." (translation: dumptruck)
"Yeah." (time passes)
"Yeah." (more time passes)
"Yeterday." (translation: yesterday)
"Yeah." (not much time passes)
"Bye bye."
"Bye Bye Opa."
"Bye."

Done. I have no idea what Opa said to Caleb but am reasonably certain that Opa didn't start with an opening salutation relating building machinery or diggers or trucks. I am not sure what prompted Caleb to bring up yesterday, but it is a favourite word at the moment, so it is likely that it too was unrelated to anything Opa was saying. The "yeahs" may or may not have been in context and I'm suspicious that the call was cut short by Caleb, despite it being the only thing he wanted to do for more than 10 minutes. But, he seemed to enjoy the call. Feeling quite smug with himself over a successful call to Opa, he proceeded downstairs and picked up the unplugged phone on the floor and, after explaining to me that he was phoning Opa (i.e. he looked at me and said, "Opa.") had very much the same conversation into the dead receiver.