How I Learned to Stop Hating and Reasonably Enjoy Vancouver*

* Technically speaking, I'm not in Vancouver proper but in the city of New Westminister whose separation from the great loathed metropolis is marked only by a sign on the side of the street which says "Welcome to Vancouver." People in New West are very particular about the fact that their mail must read New Westminister and not Vancouver or else things will go horribly awry.

The "Royal City" has for it's motto: "Strong in Tradition. Committed to Service." What it should really read is "Bitter since 1866" as this marked the beginning of their troubles when they were replaced as capital of British Columbia by the sly upstart Victoria and subsequently burnt to the ground in the Great Fire of 1898.

Their current troubles include a lack of Chinatown and the seriously bizarre May Queen... thing.

Oh, and the evil ducks:


The evil, evil ducks. They are evil and they are on the march.



They look like they just want your bread crumbs and leftover yeasty confections, but what they really want is your soul and your credit cards.



New West is full of apartment and condos with water stains but with names that when pronounced out loud, sound like porno titles.



That is possibly the least appetizing restaurant sign in existence. Even beating out Edmonton's famed "Pancakes & Steak" emporium.



For reasons unknown to me, we did not eat at the Hamburger and Sushi odditorium but instead went to Tamarind Hill, a Malaysian restaurant in New West with food that (because I have a cold) tasted like nothing until several minutes later when I had to leave the table because my throat was on fire.

Literally. I was afraid of opening my mouth in case I would start an impromptu re-enactment of the Wendy's commercial and light the restaurant and our very polite waiter on fire.

The Roti Canai (on the right) and the Malaysian Chicken Curry with Steamed Rice had all the colours of my Danger Rainbow but ignored my featherweight taste buds and paid for it with tears much to the delight of my dining companion who considered it just revenge for making her delay her meal for me to photograph the best angle of our food before we ate it.



Next we were off to the Irving House (whose outside decor was too tacky for me to photograph without damaging my camera), where I found the oven of my dreams and immediately felt the urge to wear aprons and bake pies. The stove was just the right height for me to stick my head in when I got tired of the children and my dead-beat husband. Bliss!



I also found the hottest Victoria Cross recipient ever.



This immediately started me chanting that seminal Decemberist hit "Eli, the Barrowboy" and there it is for your enjoyment so that you can sing along.



The reason I look like a googly-eyed female Shaggy is because according to the poster: "The Guardians prophsied to come to earth This is no joke" were coming tonight at 10:30 and the "dotes" would be in a triangle position.

And all these years I thought those blinking dots in the sky were just stars.



There is zero limit to the amount of fun you can have in an army surplus store with an owner who tolerates flash photography.



"Why yes, I am up for some trench hijinks!"

"Oh look, I discovered Atlantis."

Miss Gibson takes a private moment to enjoy the irony of having a bright, colourful target illustrating where the enemy bullet should go on combat hat.

"I say, is that the Hun?"

"Resistance to the resistance is futile, darh-ling."

"Do you want fisticuffs? I have some fresh fisticuffs coming right up, sir."

I do believe that this is my favourite picture of me ever.

But it was not all saucy adventures in the city. There was also contemplation of nature when nature was not actively trying to pursue us in the form of ducks. This is the duck park sans ducks.

Miss. Gibson and I looking extremely ready for an Umbrellas of Cherbough remake.