Hello from the land of heated toilet seats

It's hard to believe I've only been in Japan two days. It feels like I've been here two months.

Two days in and I've already:

- settled into my apartment
- opened a bank account
- registered at the university
- gone to the municipal office to get an alien registration card (awesome! I'm an alien!)
- enrolled in the national health plan
- visited three bike shops (I have my eyes on a hot purple cruiser)
- bought pots, pans, cutlery, plates, mugs and a knife that has "enjoy your cooking time" written on the blade
- figured out where the grocery store is
- made three friends (Oneika from Jamaica, Nadia from Bosnia and Theo from Toronto)
- scouted out public pools (haven't found any yet)
- mapped out a running route along the riverbank
- took a campus tour (the highlight was when the guy giving the tour stopped beside an impressive looking building and said, "This building has the cleanest toilets on campus." That's all he said about it. Maybe nothing more needed to be said)
- failed a Japanese language placement exam (I can speak Japanese. I can understand Japanese. I can read Japanese. But I can't write Japanese. I never bothered to learn how to write. I never really needed to. Unfortunately, the placement exam was a written exam. I left most of it blank because, apparently, I am functionally illiterate. So I am being placed in a lower level class. I don't know if this is good or bad)

Anyway, classes start tomorrow morning. For the next six months, I'll be studying Japanese Monday to Friday, four to six hours a day, plus homework and assignments. I'm kind of digging this student lifestyle thing. I especially like that I'm getting paid to go to school.

Kyoto University has put me up in their international housing complex, about 4 km north of the university. The apartment complex is a mix of visiting professors, researchers and students. It's not very social. The place is as quiet as a monastery.

Which is weird considering there is a huge sign on the communal bulletin board warning us to be quiet after 10 p.m. and that having the police come to the apartment would bring "great shame" to Kyoto University.

The only way the police would ever be called to this place is because it's so quiet that someone thought we were all dead.

In case you're curious what student apartments look like in Japan, here's a virtual tour of my new place.

The living room.


The kitchen.


The bedroom.


The (world's smallest) bathroom.


The study area.


The balcony. The balcony is enclosed by mesh netting. I'm not sure if this is to prevent birds from flying in or if it is some sort of flimsy suicide prevention measure.


My absolute favourite thing about the entire apartment? The washing machine. On the balcony! I have my own washing machine on the balcony. Who has a washing machine on their balcony? Doing laundry in the great outdoors is awesomeness personified.

Six seasons in Kyoto

I have some big news. Really big news. News that may or may not surprise you, depending on how well you know me.

I'm moving back to Japan. This time I'll be living in Kyoto, one of the loveliest cities in the world.

This may seem sudden and unexpected. It is and it isn't.

Back in the winter, I applied for a Japanese Government research scholarship to study at Kyoto University's graduate school of environmental studies.

The scholarship is for 18 months and includes six months of intensive Japanese language training. It is a fully paid scholarship (flight, accommodation, tuition fees, exam fees -- all of it is on the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs' tab). It also includes a generous monthly stipend.

When I applied for the scholarship back in February, I had to submit a research proposal, a thesis, writing samples, university transcripts, reference letters, a certificate of health and a 10-page application form. In typical Japanese fashion, there were lots and lots of hoops to jump through. But I put my head down and got it all done.

Two months later, I was invited to the Japanese Consulate in Vancouver for an interview, followed by a 2-hour Japanese language exam. The interview was tough. I was nervous. I spoke quickly. I answered questions without taking the time to think them through.

When they asked me when I first became interested in Japan, I talked about the Karate Kid.

When they asked me about the difficulties I faced when I lived in Japan, I talked about the cockroaches in my apartment.

I thought I had failed spectacularly.

So when the Consulate contacted me in August and said I had won the scholarship and had been accepted at Kyoto University, no one was more surprised than I was. I said yes right away. Getting paid to go to school in a country I love seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up.

I suppose that's why everyone keeps asking me if I am excited. I tell them yes, because I am, but the truth is more complicated. Am I excited? Yes and no. Had you asked me three months ago, I would have said yes, absolutely. Full stop.

But now my excitement is dampened by the fact that I recently started dating someone I really like.

It's not easy to pull up and leave just when I've met someone great. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy. He makes me want to stay.

So while I'm excited to go, I'm also a little sad.

I leave on Sunday.

How a liquor store employee totally made my day

Yesterday was a good day. A very, very good day. And it was all because of a liquor store employee.

I had popped into the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine after lunch. And that's when it happened. The guy behind the cash register uttered those four magical words every woman over the age of 25 longs to hear.

"Do you have ID?"

It was enough to put a spring in my step and melt my cold, little heart. I felt like I had won the lottery. I wanted to immortalize this day so I decided to write down our conversation, and I now share it with you.

Him: Do you have ID?

Me: You're asking me for ID? Seriously? You're seriously asking me for ID?

Him: Sorry. It's kind of a policy.

Me: No, no! I'm not upset. I'm flattered. You have totally made my day. I can't believe you're asking me for ID! No one ever asks me for ID. Every time I go to the liquor store I always secretly hope they'll ask me for ID. And they never do. And then I get depressed and I want to drink but that means I have to come back and buy more alcohol and go through the whole thing all over again. This is the best day ever!

Him: I'm glad.

Me: So you think that I look younger than 19?

Him: No.

Me: Well, you asked me for ID so you must think I look under 25?

Him: No.

Me: So what kind of people do you ask for ID? What's the age?

Him: If they look like they're under 30, I’m supposed to ask for their ID.

Me: So you think I look like I'm under 30? How old did you think I was?

Him: Well, I've seen your ID so I know how old you are.

Me: Well, before you asked for my ID, how old did you think I was?

Him: Younger than me?

Me: Will you marry me?

Him: What?

Me: Nothing. Thank you. Have a good day!

The anti-vacation vacation

I don't know about you but whenever I go on vacation, I always feel like I need a vacation from my vacation.

I don't come back feeling rested and relaxed. I come back feeling drained and exhausted.

So this year, I'm doing something different. I'm taking my three weeks vacation and staying put. The anti-vacation vacation is the new vacation! Or something like that (the slogan needs a little work).

Vacationing at home isn't lame, it's liberating. There are no sights to see. No planes to catch. No suitcases to pack. No souvenirs to buy. No postcards to mail.

There's no pressure to go anywhere or do anything because you're not in a new and exciting environment. This is, quite possibly, one of the best vacations I've ever had!

That's not to say I'm doing absolutely nothing while I'm on vacation. I have a very busy schedule. I sleep in until noon. I walk to the video store and rent movies. I eat popsicles. I hang out with my unemployed friends. Actually, that last point is critical to the success of the stay-at-home holiday. It's much more fun when you have unemployed friends because they can do stuff during the week. It's like you're all on vacation together.

I'm also taking lots of little trips. My unemployed friends and I went to Kelowna on the weekend. While we were there, we entered a 5 km open-water swim race in Okanagan Lake. Despite a complete lack of training and preparation, I managed to place second in my age group (beat that, Michael Phelps!).


We also went hiking in the mountains near Chiliwack (yes, that is snow in August).



This weekend, my friend Annelle and I will be heading to Penticton for three days of cycling, swimming and camping in the Okanagan. After that, my final week of vacation will be spent relaxing in Vancouver.

The awesomeness of Summer 2008 continues . . .

It's not about the bike. It's about the cinnamon buns

Let's face it. The real reason most of us exercise is so that we can overeat and binge-drink.

I don't ride my bike for the health benefits. I ride my bike so that I can eat all the cinnamon buns I want without gaining 200 pounds.

My bike is simply a means to guilt-free gluttony.

With that spirit in mind, my friend Akua and I decided to cycle (and eat) our way up and down B.C.'s Sunshine Coast last weekend.


We had originally planed to make our three-day trip a real cycle-touring adventure. We talked about outfitting our road bikes with a couple of trailers in order to tow our sleeping bags, tent and cooking supplies behind us. We figured we'd spend two nights camping in provincial parks and three days riding the roads.

In the end, laziness and convenience won out over roughing it. We left the heavy gear at home and decided to stay at a B&B instead of a campground. It was so decadent and luxurious I may never camp again.


The first leg of our trip involved cycling from our doorsteps to Horseshoe Bay, where we caught the ferry to Gibsons. From Gibsons, we rode halfway up the Sunshine Coast to Halfmoon Bay. We stayed at a B&B in Halfmoon Bay for two nights and used it as a base to ride to Egmont and back on our second day. On our last day, we rode out the same way we came in.


It was liberating to take off for the weekend with nothing but a bicycle, a credit card and a small backpack filled with the bare necessities -- you know, toothbrush, sunblock, mascara, sexy nightclub outfit.

The mascara and sexy nightclub outfit were Akua's idea because she figured we'd go out on the town at night. Little did we know that "downtown" Halfmoon Bay consisted of nothing but a general store and a government wharf.

The other surprise was how hilly the terrain was. We quickly learned that cycling on the Sunshine Coast means you're either going up a hill or you're going down a hill. It made for some pretty tiring days, especially with the hot, sunny weather. On the upside, it gave us a good excuse to make frequent stops for cinnamon buns and ice cream.


Other highlights included:

1. Shopping at the general store in Madeira Park. This store puts the "general" in general store. It sold absolutely everything -- from cat food to sexy lingerie (one shelf was stocked with crotchless body stockings).

2. Eating at the Gumboot Cafe in Roberts Creek. Best cinnamon buns ever!

3. Renting pirated movies in Halfmoon Bay. Because our B&B had a DVD player, and because there was nothing else to do at night, we decided to rent a movie from the general store. Getting a video membership usually involves two pieces of photo ID, a credit check and a mountain of paperwork. But in Halfmoon Bay, all we had to do was write down a name and a phone number. We didn't even have to show ID. I thought this honour system was folksy and refreshing until I found out the real reason they didn't really care if people walked away with the movies was because they were illegal copies.

4. Avoiding death on Highway 101. The Sunshine Coast may be beautiful but it's not the most bicycle friendly place around. There are lots of trails for mountain bikes but the only option for road bikes is the highway shoulder. This wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that there is no shoulder on long stretches of the highway. It was actually pretty scary in places. Wait a minute. This isn't a highlight at all.

5. Checking out the Beachcombers memorabilia in Gibsons. This also wasn't much of a highlight for me since I have never seen a single episode of the show. But it sure seemed like the thrill of a lifetime for some of the grey-haired tourists wandering around. Here's a photo of the cafe featured in the show. I figured someone out there might appreciate it.

Bongos and other forms of noise pollution

Of all the different kinds of pollution out there, noise pollution is the one that really drives me crazy.

Littering is annoying but at least it's easy to deal with. If someone tosses a cigarette butt on the beach, you can pick it up and throw it in the garbage. But if someone is playing bongos on the beach, it is much harder to pick them up and throw them in the garbage.

I'll probably be run out of Vancouver for saying this but there is nothing worse than being forced to listen to some talentless, dreadlocked white guy banging away on a set of bongos in public.

No wait. There is something worse -- being forced to listen to a whole bunch of talentless, dreadlocked white guys banging away in a drum circle in public. (Hippies. Drum circles. Matthew McConaughey. Shudder.)

I don't have a problem with bongos per se. They're all well and good when played by a real musician in a real venue or when played in the privacy of your own home (preferably with the windows shut and not at 2:30 in the morning).

What I have a problem with are the obnoxious idiots who think it's perfectly acceptable to pull out a pair of bongos in a quiet park and start slapping away without any sense of respect for the people around them.

Unlike other musical instruments, you don't actually have to know how to play bongos in order to play them. You can also be completely drunk or stoned and still be able to play them. Which explains why the "wicked groove" you think you're banging out is actually nothing but noise to the rest of us.

Anyway, this entire preamble serves to set the scene for a run-in I had with a bongo player in Vancouver the other week.

I was on my way to Bowen Island but missed the ferry because the bus was stuck in traffic for two hours (don't even get me started on public transit in Vancouver. This is a rant about bongos, not the bus. But, on a side note, why is it that so many bad things start with the letter b? Bongos, buses, Bob Saget).

By the time the bus finally arrived in Horseshoe Bay, the ferry was long gone and the next one wasn't due to arrive for another two hours. Since there was nothing I could do, I decided I may as well get some take-out food and try to decompress in the park.

Just as my blood pressure started to go down, a white guy wearing a puffy wool cap over his dreadlocked hair sat down a few feet away from me. My heart sank when he pulled out a bongo and started to play.

For those of you who have never been to Horseshoe Bay, let me describe it for you. Horseshoe Bay is a small, um, bay shaped like a, um, horseshoe.

It is ringed by steep mountains on all sides (well, except for the side facing the water). Its size, shape and geography makes it a natural echo chamber, which serves to amplify the sound of bongo beats as they ricochet off the mountain walls.

In other words, there was no way to escape the sound. Trust me, I tried. I walked all the way to the far end of town but I could still hear Mr. Rude Obnoxious attempting to bang out a rhythm on his drum.

Badda badda BAM! Badda. BAM! Over and over and over again.

What would drive someone to impose their loud "music" on innocent bystanders in a public space?

Judging by his counterculture uniform, I assumed the bongo player wanted the world to know he is a socially conscious, politically aware, left-wing kind of guy. Maybe playing bongos in public was his way of rebelling against "the man."

Personally, I don't trust these sensitive new-age men with their patchouli oil and their "I'm so deep" attitude. My experience with these types of guys is that they're usually just overcompensating for the fact that they are huge assholes with rage issues, brought on by the guilt of being raised in wealth and privilege.

Leave the drums at home.

While we're on the subject of summer noise, honourable mention goes to the excessively loud motorcycles that cruise up and down my street all day. The modified mufflers on these bikes are so loud that they actually set off car alarms.

Also, lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, weed-whackers and leaf blowers? Hate them!

All of this noise is driving me crazy.

Cyclelicious

I'm going to say something that you don't hear in Vancouver very often: I can't remember the last time it rained.

This has got to be one of the warmest, driest summers in the history of the universe. Or at least in the history of British Columbia. Or maybe just in the past few years.

Whatever. The point is it's sunny and beautiful in a city famous for record rainfalls and leaky condos.

Now, I know writing about the weather doesn't make for scintillating reading. But I like to write about things I'm passionate about and I'm passionate about good weather. And good meteorologists (well, mostly just Claire Martin).

So, thank you, Claire for forecasting nothing but sunny skies for weeks on end. It's amazing to think I've spent the entire month of July swimming in the ocean, hiking in the mountains and cycling on the roads without a single drop of rain.

The French may dismiss this constant sunshine as banal. But, to me, it's cyclelicious!

The weather made for a perfect bike ride up Mount Baker on the weekend. It's no secret that the ribbon of road that winds its way up to the base of Mount Baker in Washington State is one of my favourite places in the world.


The road is quiet and the scenery is spectacular. The ride is filled with steep mountain climbs, hairpin turns and fast descents.

It was like our own private Tour de France. But with stops for ice cream and beer.




[You can see the rest of the photos here.]

The cycleliciousness continues this weekend when I make my way to Summerland (what a great name for a town) where my friends Cam and Delacey are getting married. Not surprisingly, the weather forecast is calling for blue skies and sunshine.

@#%&*! mosquitoes

Here it is. Proof of the eight days of mosquito hell we endured on the Bowron Lakes canoe circuit.

My friend Brendon took this photo from inside his tent. The bloodthirsty bastards refused to leave us alone. When we were outside the tent, they feasted on every inch of exposed skin. When we were inside the tent, they swarmed the nylon walls looking for a way in.

Exiting and entering the tent was an exercise in stealth, timing and teamwork.

Exiting the tent was pretty straightforward. One person would unzip a tiny hole in the tent door. The other person would immediately dive head first through the hole before zipping up the tent as quickly as possible.

Entering the tent was more difficult because at least 10 mosquitoes would hitch a ride on the way back in. We'd then spend a good 20 minutes hunting down and killing the mosquitoes in the tent in order to avoid being eaten alive while we slept (our tent looked like a crime scene by the end of the trip with all of the bloodstains on the walls).

Leaving the tent in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom was torture. I'd lay in my sleeping bag, holding it in as long as possible, knowing that as soon as I left the tent the mosquitoes would be dining on a buffet of ass.

Were all the bites worth it? Absolutely! The scenery and the bug-free days on the lakes made up for the constant itching. My friend Brendon finally sent around some amazing photos (that's me in the canoe enjoying a sunset paddle!) and they were too good not to share. Enjoy!

Free chocolate (and other sweet stories)

When I first started this blog, I never imagined that it would inspire complete strangers to send me free stuff.

Who knew that writing about my favourite food (chocolate, wine and Grape-Nuts) would lead to freebies being delivered to my door? You guys are awesome!

Over the years, all sorts of unsolicited packages have arrived in the mail -- from Tim Hortons' gift certificates to juice-box size wine to Grape-Nuts.

Well, I finally hit the motherload last week when a giant cardboard box filled with Dove chocolate was sent to my office. Some clever marketer correctly identified me as a chocolate lover, sent me a whole bunch of the stuff and asked me to spread the word online. How did they know I would totally sell out for chocolate?


I'm a bit of a chocolate snob (I prefer dark chocolate with a high cocoa content as opposed to the sugary stuff) so I gave almost all of it away to my co-workers.

The free chocolate was a huge hit at the office. It disappeared in about five minutes but the fun lasted all day. I unintentionally stirred up a bit of water-cooler gossip when I sent out an email to staff encouraging them to help themselves to the several pounds of chocolate I had dumped on the lunchroom table. Just for fun, I also wrote that it was sent to me by a secret admirer.

The funny thing is that people actually took me seriously. Everyone wanted to know who my mystery suitor was. One guy even stopped by my desk to give me a high-five.

"Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!"

Is this what married people think single life is all about? That we are constantly being wooed and pursued? I didn't have the heart to tell them the chocolate wasn't from a boyfriend-to-be but from a marketing company. Sigh.

Anyway, all of this free stuff has got me thinking. Maybe I should set my sights higher. Chocolate is good but (attention Canon marketers!) a new camera would be better!

On hiatus

Vancouver only gets six weeks of good weather each year and I fully intend to enjoy this sunny streak while it lasts. Less blogging. More swimming.

Stillness, solitude and swarms of mosquitoes

I'm back from my trip to Bowron Lake Provincial Park. It was remote, rugged and spectacularly scenic.

Five friends and I spent eight days paddling 10 lakes around the world-famous Bowron canoe circuit. The circuit includes lakes, rivers and portages totaling 116 km. We paddled an average of 15 km per day and set up camp at a different lake each night.


It was a blissfully simple existence. No cell phones, no laptops, no electricity, no running water, no contact with the outside world. It was completely silent, except for the call of the loons, the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wolves.


Of course, it's easy to romanticize the experience as I sit here writing about it in my warm, dry, mosquito-free apartment.

It wasn't all rainbows and snowcapped mountains. My tent leaked and I spent a few rainy mornings waking up to find my mattress and sleeping bag floating in a puddle of water. The trip started off cold and ended blisteringly hot. We spent the first half of the trip fighting off hypothermia and the second half worrying about sunstroke.

The mosquitoes were the worst part. They were so bad that we spent almost all of our time at the campsites hiding inside our tents. It wasn't exactly the kind of vacation where you could lounge on the beach reading a book. Unless you covered every inch of your body in deet first.

As for the fishing, it's a good thing we packed enough food for eight days because if we had relied on fish for dinner, we would have starved.

We ended up buying fishing rods and licenses on the drive up to Bowron Lake. After we bought our licenses, we asked the woman working at the shop if she also sold guidebooks on how to fish. She seemed amused by the stupidity of our question and gave us a look that said, "You city slickers should have figured that out before you bought a license."

Unfortunately, since none of us had much experience with fishing, we couldn't figure out how to put the line on the spool. And because the area was so remote, we didn't see any other people until the fourth day of the trip. Luckily, the first person we spotted was a serious angler from California who helped us put the rods together and gave us some tips on how to fish.

Thanks to his tips, we caught three weeds and one log. We didn't catch one single fish. Unless you count the dead fish that got tangled up in our line.

Overall, it was an amazing wilderness experience. We saw more moose than people.


We paddled through rapids and portaged around waterfalls.



I swam in every single lake we camped at, no matter how cold. Plus, swimming in the lake was one of the only ways to escape the mosquitoes. Everyone else thought the lakes were too cold so I mostly swam alone.


These are just a small sample of my photos. The rest are on my flickr page, which you can view here.

Gone fishing

Most people use the expression "gone fishing" to let people know they're on vacation, even when their vacation involves no fishing whatsoever.

Not me! I'm on vacation and I'm going fishing. Or, more accurately, I'm going to attempt to go fishing.

I'm heading out on a 10-day canoe trip through the Bowron lakes chain in northern B.C. It should be a fun trip, especially considering:

1. I can't remember the last time I paddled a canoe.

2. I lack this thing scientists call "upper body strength."

3. I suffer from extreme seasickness.

4. I haven't gone fishing since I was a teenager (and by "fishing" I mean "casting the line, hooking a fish, reeling it in and then handing the rod over to my dad because I am way too squeamish to touch a slimy, flopping, gasping fish.")

My goal for the trip is to catch a fish, clean it and cook it all by myself. I have no idea how to do this. I don't even own a fishing rod. Does clubbing a fish over the head with a canoe paddle count as fishing?

I also have no idea what to do with the fish after I've caught it. Although, I think I may have dissected a fish in high school biology class (or was it a fetal pig?).

But how hard can it be? I mean, cavemen were cleaning and cooking fish millions of years ago and they weren't the brightest people on the planet. Surely, I'm smarter than a caveman.

Maybe I can just hack some chunks out of the raw fish and call it sushi.

Speaking of sushi, regular readers of this blog may remember my Japanese friend Sachi. We played on the same volleyball team, went on a bunch of epic bike rides and generally just hung out all the time when I was living in Japan.

She's coming to Vancouver to visit me on the same day I get back from the canoeing trip. I'm taking the week off work to play tourist with her. I just hope I'm not too malnourished from the lack of fish.

Anyway, sitting in front of the computer is cutting into my vacation time so I'm going to end this post right here. Blogging will resume in about three weeks. Until then . . .

Real men like cats

I was flipping through a friend's copy of Feline Wellness magazine the other day when I made a startling discovery.

Sandwiched between a story about the latest trends in kitty bling (apparently "collar jewelry" is all the rage) and a quiz to "test your cat's Personality IQ" (don't ask) was an article about a new dating website for cat lovers.


According to the website, PURRsonals.com is a place "where cat lovers meet and share their passion for cats."

Laugh if you like. But it's no weirder than any other niche dating site (take, for example, Jedi Dating or Daily Diapers).

I like cats and I like guys who like cats. So I'm kind of tempted to post a profile on the site. There's only one small problem: I don't actually have a cat of my own.

I'm worried this would stir up controversy in the online cat community. I don't want to be responsible for turning PURRsonals.com into another JDate.com (which was a site created to bring Jewish singles together and is now overrun by non-Jews).

But I can't help it if I'm attracted to men who like cats. Men who like cats tend to be secure, independent, a little eccentric, quiet, kind and sensitive.

At the same time, I have to wonder what kind of guy would post a personal ad on a dating site for cat lovers. Liking cats is one thing but liking them so much that you only want to date crazy cat ladies to the exclusion of all others is another thing altogether.

I'm not sure that's not a place I want to go.

Bizarre behaviour at the Vancouver Aquatic Centre

I don't know what it is about the Vancouver Aquatic Centre but the place is a magnet for freaks and weirdos.*

I've witnessed some pretty bizarre behaviour at the Aquatic Centre over the years -- stuff so strange I couldn't make it up if I tried.

And so, in honour of the characters who bring a splash of colour to the pool, I decided to write a tribute to some of my favourite patrons. (I've written about Perry and Vaseline Lady before but the rest are new.)

Perry

I first met Perry at the Vancouver Aquatic Centre's "prison gym" about four years ago. Perry was a heavy-drinking, chain-smoking, overweight, ex-Olympic rower (or so he claimed) from Romania.

He told me the only reason he went to the gym was because he was trying to kill himself. Literally. He ate deep-fried food, binged on booze and smoked two packs a day. And then he'd come to the gym and bench-press twice his weight in the hopes of having a heart attack.

He was tired of living and wanted to die but was too afraid to commit suicide in a more traditional manner. Perry was fixated on having a heart attack and dropping dead in the gym.

He seemed disappointed to find himself still alive after every punishing workout. It may sound depressing but Perry was actually pretty light-hearted about his death mission.

I think he may have accomplished his goal because I haven't seen him in a while.

Vaseline Lady

Of all the wacky characters at the Vancouver Aquatic Centre, Vaseline Lady is by far the wackiest. We call her Vaseline Lady because she coats herself in the stuff before she goes for a swim.

Her routine in the women's change room is fascinating to watch. First, she sets down a gigantic tub of Vaseline on the ledge in front of the mirror. Then she takes off all her clothes and scoops out baseball-sized gobs of Vaseline, which she smears on every inch of her body. (I overheard her telling someone she does this to protect her skin from the chlorine.)

Once she is coated in enough layers of grease to withstand a nuclear fallout, she puts on her swimsuit and heads out to the pool, leaving a trail of slime in her wake. I have twice slipped off toilet seats she sat on. I have cracked my hand against the wall after it skidded off the soap dispenser she touched. I have slid on the pool deck she walked on.

If her skin really is that sensitive to chlorine, why swim at all? But perhaps that's too logical a question for someone so illogical. [I'm not even going to get into the fact that I have also seen her eating sandwiches in the shower. Eating in the shower is weird enough but eating things in the shower that are going to get soggy is mind-boggling.]

I'm not the only one who has grumbled to the lifeguards about Vaseline Lady. Apparently, so many people complained that the lifeguards banned her from the pool.

Naked Reader

I've never seen the Naked Reader with my own eyes. But at least three male friends of mine assure me he is a regular fixture in the men's change room.

He strips off all his clothes until he is completely naked and then sits down on a bench where the other men are changing and reads a book. He doesn't swim. He doesn't shower. He doesn't sit in the hot tub. He just sits naked in the men's change room pretending to read a book for hours at a time.

The Breastfeeder

I'm all in favour of breastfeeding. It's a natural and normal part of motherhood. But breastfeeding a six-year-old boy? That's creepy and weird (and, in my opinion, borders on child abuse).

There's a woman who frequents the Aquatic Centre with her six-year-old son. She brags to all of the other moms in the change room that she still breastfeeds the boy, who has long blonde hair that looks like it has never seen a pair of scissors. (This kid is going to need some serious therapy some day.)

The Breastfeeder says it's a "bonding" experience and that all mothers should breastfeed their children as long as possible. And while there is nothing funny about the Breastfeeder herself, watching the other mothers squirm when she tries to convert them is amusing.

Sorry, lady, but when your kid is old enough to carry on a conversation, then he's not a baby and you shouldn't feed him like one.

Shower Spitter

The thing about public pools is that the showers are public too. A lot of people conveniently forget this fact and act as if they were showering in the privacy of their own home.

For some reason, I always end up in the stall next to the Shower Spitter. I don't know if this woman has got some sort of phlegm issue but she spends her entire 10-minute shower hacking up a lung. She may be a tiny little grandmother but the woman horks like man.

She hacks up these great gobs of phlegm and spits them on the floor -- the communal shower floor. Mere inches away from my feet.

As a passive-aggressive, non-confrontational kind of person, I make all kinds of gagging noises and comments about how nasty her behaviour is while standing in the next stall (I just don't do it loudly enough for her to hear it).

Modest Martha

Not everyone is comfortable wearing a bathing suit in public. There's nothing wrong with covering up if you're insecure about your body. But there is one woman at the Aquatic Centre who takes modesty to an extreme.

The woman remains fully clothed while she swims. But instead of wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and yoga pants, she wears her business suit in the pool. We're talking black blazer, white dress shirt, black skirt, stockings, string of pearls. The works. She pretty much looks like she walked straight out of the office and into the pool.

Which is probably why the first time she wore her business suit in the pool, one of the lifeguards mistook her for a drowning victim and jumped in to save her. But instead of being grateful, she got angry after the lifeguard tried to tell her that wearing all that heavy clothing was a safety hazard. She threatened to sue if they didn't let her in the pool with her "modesty outfit."

The lifeguards backed down and you can see her regularly swimming in the public lanes. Pearls and all.

Chains of Oppression

There is a man who frequents the Vancouver Aquatic Centre who looks like the ghost of Jacob Marley. He drapes himself in flowing robes and long, heavy chains, which drag on the floor behind him.

Someone once asked him what the chains were all about and he said they symbolized oppression. I'm not sure what kind of oppression he is representing. But he is clearly committed to the cause, whatever it may be.

My male friends tell me that watching him get undressed in the change room is like watching an illusionist escape from a locked box. As he wriggles his way out of the chains, they drop to the floor one-by-one with a loud clunk.

Then he gathers up all of the chains (with much jingling and jangling) and stuffs them in a locker. He then locks the locker (full of locks and chains) and goes for a swim.

Lounge Lizards

What would a public pool be without perverts? The Vancouver Aquatic Centre has more than its fair share of peeping Toms. In fact, the pool practically lays out the welcome mat for dirty old men.

The Aquatic Centre has several lounge-style lawn chairs on the pool deck. They are the sort of chairs you might find on a cruise ship or a rooftop patio. Why the Aquatic Centre found it necessary to equip an indoor pool with sunbathing chairs is beyond me.

These chairs are almost exclusively occupied by sleazy old men who do nothing but watch the girls go by. The chairs are conveniently located just outside the women's change room so if you want to exit or enter the pool, you have to endure being looked up and down by the Lounge Lizards first.

Just like the Naked Reader, none of these men ever swim in the pool or use the hot tub. They simply sprawl out on the lawn chairs and watch the swimmers go by.


* For the record, the description "freaks and weirdos" is not meant to be derogatory. This post was written with love. Vancouver would be a pretty boring place without all of the colourful characters who call this city home.