Fly out

I fly out of Vancouver today. If my Christmas holidays were a Hulk Hogan match, itd be at the point where he is bouncing off the ropes, approaching for the final devasting nobody-gets-up-from-this-except-UltimateWarrior Leg Drop of Doom. Which means its pretty much over. Except I still got NYC.

Heres the thing: Blink and you miss it. There’s a whole lot to like in coming back home, and the only non-wonderfulness about it is how long it seems to last. It doesn’t last long at all. I had two and a bit weeks back home in Vancouver, and as long a break as it may seem, it actually seems rushed when there is a crazy amount of things to do all over again and good motley crew of friends to see as often as possible. But blink and its gone. Colon. Open Parenthesis.

Theres a Paris Hilton shopping list of things I love about coming back to Vancouver; going out for sushi at pre-selected and approved sushi establishments (Japanese operated only is the new snob rule) and almost dying the first time sashimi touches your lips; walking around downtown aimlessly with gingerbread latte in hand with the knowledge that waterfront can be no more than a few block away in most directions and the euros in my pocket mean I could actually shop at Holt Renfrew, if I wanted to; ordering the chicken basket at Hon’s Robson because its good and cheap and as a db tradition, its also a social duty; Breakfast at Zen Café for the best Eggs Benny ever, one with chirizo sausage the other ham-mushroom; watching the West Van lights from kits points, pretending that that night you own kits beach and everyone else is trespassing; Slurping down cheapass Vietnamese Pho and repeating the phrase “Pho Bich Nga” and giggling uncontrollably; Turning on the TV and finding 6 times more the channels in Ireland, but still nothing worth watching on; Walking home on a busy after hours Davie St, looking at the ground, making no eye contact as I head to my sisters late at night; stopping into Caban just to look at all the beautiful things; the opportunity to either snowboard Whistler or have lunch at Seattle’s Fox Sports Grill at a moments notice; and for two weeks, listening to people not talk funny and actually, get this, understand conversations without straining. Things to come home to, and envitably things to come back for again.

Only next time I hope I have a car. I hate the bus. And a bed too. Thatd be nice.

Thanks to everyone… its was so good to see you again.