Gastown, Part 1

The famous Gastown Steam Clock on Water Street

Last week I took my big, lavish, credit card-charged week-long summer vacation. More to come on other cities, but for now I want to tell the story of my first night in Vancouver.

I took a train from Olympia, WA, where I had been staying with a friend from college, and I had to switch onto a bus in Seattle for the duration of the trip. It was supposed to be a three/three-and-a-half hour bus ride, but it wound up being much, much longer. Have you ever gone through customs at the Canadian border on a bus? Not fun. Be prepared to buddy up with your neighbors and expect delays. In the first place, my train was running late, so I had to dash onto the bus in Seattle. You know that hurry-up-and-wait feeling? That was it. I rushed to find the correct bus, as it turns out there is a Vancouver, WA as well as a Vancouver, BC, so one has to be a little careful when boarding a bus in Seattle. Once on the bus, I settled in for a comfortable ride, expecting to be off the bus in three hours or so.

Travel Lesson #1: Check your expectations of prompt transport at the door.

Nearly six hours later, after being drilled by Canadian border patrol and sitting in construction on I-5, we arrived in Vancouver. Lucky for me, I didn't have any precise plans for the evening, so arriving late wasn't a big deal. I managed to find my way across town to the hostel where I was planning to stay. Walking along the bustling streets of Gastown, I was aware of a truly international character. Just in my short walk from the bus hub to the hostel, I heard probably four different languages. The storefronts varied from Canadian tourism shops to Mediterranean and Asian cuisine. It felt like a great place to be visiting. I was alone, and it was getting close to dark, so I decided not to dawdle, but to find my hostel right away.

Grand Trunk Hostel, the white door center right.

I nearly missed it. In the middle of a Moroccan restaurant and a lingerie store was a small white door with an austere wooden sign hanging from above that read, "Grand Trunk," and that's all. There was a handwritten note on the door that said, "If no one lets you in, call this number."

Travel Lesson #2: Don't expect glamorous accommodations for $27.

Classy, I thought. I rang the doorbell, and very quickly someone opened the door. It was a short, fat, bald man, sweating profusely and seemingly anxious. He did not make eye contact with me and said, "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," I said.

He stepped aside and let me through the door. Inside was a narrow staircase directly in front of the door and a small office just to the left. He led me into the dimly lit, musty office. On the desk were piles of scattered papers with handwritten notes, strewn about pens and pencils, and a half-eaten, browning apple. It was in quite a state of disarray. I did not see a computer or any other sign of technology. He asked me for my name.

"Liz Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S," I said. I have grown accustomed to spelling out my last name, since no one ever knows what I am saying.

"Rogers?" He said, "Like the phone company?" He looked suspicious.

"Uh, no. Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S."

He fished around the pile of papers and seemed to find the right one. "Oh, Elizabeth," he said. "I have you right here."

I wondered what kind of organizational skills this place had, if any. My information was hand printed on a piece of lined notebook paper, but I had booked the room online. It seemed strange to me. In any case, the hostel had gotten fair reviews online, and it was cheap, so I wasn't incredibly concerned with the way they operated. If there was a room reserved for me, I would be satisfied.

The man asked for payment and then gave me a set of keys. "Room 17," he said, "Second floor."

"Thanks," I said. I picked up my things and was preparing to go in search of my room when the sweaty bald man abruptly said, "I'm gonne be rich, eh?" His voice was low and urgent as though he had suddenly remembered to tell me a very important secret.

I paused and politely turned to acknowledge the strange comment with, "Oh yeah?"

Travel Lesson #3: Don't engage in sidebar conversations with strangers.

"You know them Bots, don't tell no one, eh?" he said.

Baffled, I stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. He quickly continued in a low voice, sweat dripping down his face, "I got a friend who told me about the trading. I'm gonna get rich, make $700 a day and buy some land in Pennsylvania. Don't tell anyone. I'm going to buy the whole state of Pennsylvania. Some people hate the Americans, but I'm going to buy part of it."

I was stunned. I had no idea what he was talking about. Before I could say a thing, he continued in a secretive, grave voice:

"Don't tell anyone. My last name, I changed it so many times, used to be Smith, then Duff-Smith, now just Duffy, I know all those Duffy actors, like you know Patrick Duffy? And Hilary Duff, eh? I got a call, someone said I'm gonna be famous. I got Hilary Duff's mum in my head, but I don't want to be famous. They'll get me then, eh? That's why I'm scared of getting rich, eh? When you're rich, you get famous, and they follow you. But Hilary Duff's mum, she's in my head, you know, and she says I'll get rich."

I was becoming more and more alarmed. I noted the sweat dripping off his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes. Drugs? A little touched, perhaps? I was starting to feel uncomfortable. So far, this place had been a little shady, to be expected for the cheap price, but this guy was beginning to unnerve me.

"Uh...I'm gonna go on up, nice talking with you," I said, deciding to just leave the strange talk where it was. I turned toward the door.

My guitar was on my back, and when I turned, he spotted it. "Oh, you're a musician, eh? I went to acting school out here, and my friend had a premonition, he said I was going to make it big you know, be famous. Like I walk out in the street and everyone knows me, eh? I don't know, though, I think it's only because they heard about Russ-X, my computer program. I'm gonna be rich, eh? Don't tell anyone. I already told too many people. I think they know. I saw a truck out there, it said 'Russ,' so I know they're watching out for me. My friend, he told me about the trading, and he said I'm in charge of Lindsay."

Now my discomfort was beginning to turn to fear. I was all alone in a strange city, in a shady hostel, with a freaky guy telling me nonsensical, paranoia-filled stories. I started to become concerned for my safety. I mean, this guy seemed harmless, but what if he wasn't? I continued to back away from the small, dank office, but he kept talking, and he followed me into the hallway.

"You know Lindsay Lo-gan?" He said 'Lo-gan' instead of Lohan, a point I clearly remember, even in my heightened state of alarm. "She just got out of detox, eh? One time I got a text message that said, 'Hey it's Lindsay,' and I knew I was supposed to take care of her. She'll be coming soon. You can meet her if you want. Hilary too, she's pretty nice. Her mum is in my head. But they're famous, and I don't want to be famous. My parents are dead, you know, they died of cancer when I was a kid, and I was all abandoned, eh. I don't want to be famous."

My stomach was churning. If I hadn't been alone, this wouldn't have seemed so scary, but because I was completely alone, I was extra vigilant about my surroundings and the eccentricities of the characters with whom I would be spending the night locked in a hostel. Even in my state of alarm, I reasoned with myself that this guy must be harmless because clearly he has worked here for some time. People stay here, he must be completely safe, just tripping or paranoid.

Travel #4: When in doubt, get out.

I kept interjecting, "Ah, good luck, I'm heading up," and slowly backing my way up the stairs, even as he continued ranting about the famous Duffys and his scheme to buy Pennsylvania. Finally, he seemed to get that I was leaving, and he gave me a big grin and a wave. "See ya later," he said, and I turned and climbed the stairs, my heart racing, my mind spinning.

Once free of the strange man, I breathed a sigh of relief. But as I continued to climb the stairs of the dark, narrow hallway, my anxiety did not dissipate, and in fact a sense of foreboding began to swell as I heard clamors and shouts coming from invisible spaces on the floors above. I was a bit shaky, both from my encounter with the bald man and also from having hardly eaten in my day of delayed transport. Lizzy, I told myself, you will be fine here. Find your room, lock your stuff up, and find something to eat and drink some tea, you will feel better."

I came to the second floor, and found the door marked #17. I turned the key and opened the door to a small room and flipped a light switch. A single bulb flickered above, illuminating a small room with dirt-streaked peeling wallpaper, a bed crammed into the corner, a desk, a knob-turn television and a full-sized roaring green refrigerator. The refrigerator and the tv were plugged into a flimsy extension chord that was draped over the doorway with scotch tape, a system that looked like it would fall at any time. There was an open window, with a view to the back of the neighboring building, the roof of an adjoining building, and a sea of cigarette butts, beer cans, underwear, and garbage.

I took a deep breath and entered the room, set down my suitcase and my guitar, and sat on the bed. I could hear loud shouts coming from outside, but I couldn't see anyone because of the adjoining buildings. I could hear people milling around in the hallways and above and next door, I could hear sirens blaring outside and music from the nearby clubs. I felt lonely, but the presence of other people was at the very least a sign of normalcy. The room was dingy, dowdy, and smelled of must and sweat, but it was a room, and I couldn't complain.

I decided to go in search of dinner. My stomach was begging for attention, and my nerves were frayed from running on pure adrenaline. I locked my things in my indecorous room and, still shaking, made my way back down the stairs. I had to pass the office and the bald man to get back to the street, so I just moved as quickly as possible, so that he couldn't catch me in his trap of secretive craziness.

I made it past and stepped into a bustling street, full of people, full of life, not completely dark yet. I didn't want to be out by myself after dark, so I decided to find somewhere nearby. I wandered the streets for a bit, weighing my options and just generally trying to assuage the zip-zap of my nerves. It felt safer there, in the sun-dwindling streets, with the riff-raff and the bar crowd, than it did in that small hostel office with the bizarre banter of that man.

I couldn't find a market anywhere nearby, but I was in the land of ethnic cuisine, and I decided to treat myself to Indian food. The restaurant was on the same block as the hostel, so I could still get back before nightfall. I ordered vegetarian samosas and dal soup and took it with me. On the walk back, I found a small grocer, where I bought water, yogurt, an apple, and some crackers, and a Vancouver newspaper. My arms full of groceries, I made my way back to the hostel.

When I approached the door, the bald man was standing outside. "Hello," he said,

Dammit, I thought. "Hello."

He opened the door for me and went right into it, "You're the musician. Don't get famous, eh? They'll find out all about you, about all the bad things. I have some songs, from Hilary Duff's mum. You can have them if you want, I don't want to be famous anyway. Here you go:" and right there in the narrow hallway, he began to sing some dreadfully sappy and vaguely familiar song about lost love. "So you can have it," he said, "It's from Hilary Duff's mum. You know Duff? Like on the Simpsons? He knows about the Bots. Like robots, eh? It's all gonna be run by Bots, you know. I mean like, we all know about global warming, but Al Gore should have known about the Bots. Why didn't he talk about the Bots in his movie, eh? He was a preacher first, and must have been a good preacher, like a really good preacher, because you don't get famous unless you're good. But I don't want to be famous, they keep saying I'm going to be, but I don't want it, eh? I am gonna get rich, though, eh?"

I finally started to understand that this guy had some kind of mental health issue. He really believed all that crazy stuff he was saying about Hilary Duff's mum in his head, the Bots, fear of fame, etc. I managed to excuse myself from him much more quickly this time, and headed upstairs to my humble room, arms full of groceries.

...And thus began a very long night. More to come later.