The Hawaii of Japan

I’ve never been to Hawaii but this is kind of what I imagine it would be like. Dense vegetation, warm water, sandy beaches.

Except this isn’t Hawaii. This is Japan. This is where I live. I discovered this beach on the weekend. It’s an hour and 15-minute train ride up, down and through the mountains from my town. The beach was almost deserted except for a few hip, young Japanese surfers.


I was surprised to see so few people here. This place is about as close to paradise as it gets. But I suppose the southern part of Shikoku Island is pretty remote and hard to get to from the big cities. Which is fine by me. Ohki Beach is one of the biggest perks of rural living so far.

I hate volleyball

My first night playing volleyball with a local Japanese team was more horrible than I thought it would be.

It was like being in Grade 9 all over again. I basically stood in the middle of the court alternately praying for the ball to not come near me or ducking and screaming when it did.

Joining a volleyball team wasn’t my idea. I was riding my bike down the street my first week in town when I was flagged down by a guy driving a delivery truck. He brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out and demanded “You play volleyball with me!” How do you say no to that?

Things got off to a bad start before I even set foot in the gym. I showed up without a pair of “indoor” running shoes to wear inside the gym. I haven’t mastered the art of Japanese shoe etiquette. There are outdoor shoes, indoor shoes, toilet shoes and, apparently, even gym shoes.

I tried to explain in Japanese that I only own one pair of running shoes (this involved a lot of gesturing and pointing at my feet while holding up one finger). I then pulled a towel out of my bag and started wiping the bottom of my shoes, thinking they would let me in the gym if I cleaned off my shoes. This was greeted with expressions of horror until one guy took pity on me and volunteered to drive back to his house in order to lend me a pair of shoes.

It went downhill from there. While we were waiting for the guy to come back with a pair of shoes, I started chatting with one of the girls who spoke a little bit of English. She asked me how often I played volleyball and I said “never.” I told her I was horrible but she reassured me that she was really bad too. And then she told me that everyone else was really bad. I started to relax a bit. I began to think that maybe volleyball would be okay. That we would all just have fun and laugh about how bad we all were.

When the guy finally returned with a pair of shoes for me, we started warming up by tossing the ball at each other in pairs. And then we had to hit it back and forth with our forearms. After about five minutes of this my forearms were hurting so badly I had to stop. Seriously. Who invented this game? What sick person decided hitting a ball against your forearms was fun?

After about 15 minutes of this painful forearm torture, the game finally began. Of course, everyone turned out to be Olympic caliber athletes. (I am learning that when people in this town say they are really bad at something what they really mean is that they are actually really, really ridiculously good.)

I was told to stand in the middle of the court where I prayed for the ball to not to come my way. Every time it did, my heart sank. Instinctively, I ducked whenever it came near me. Or I stood frozen in one spot hoping that someone else would go for it.

This went on for about five minutes until one of the guys started yelling at me in Japanese. I assumed he was trying to tell me hit the ball if it came my way. And so I did. But every time my burning forearms made contact with the ball, it went wildly out of bounds or hit the net.

At this point, I could tell they were getting exasperated with me and I was not having fun. I was almost hoping the ball would hit me in the head and knock me out so I wouldn’t have to play anymore.

And then all of a sudden the game stopped. There was an emergency huddle in the middle of the court. The girl who could sort of speak English came running over and told me to get off the court. She made me spend the next two hours in a corner of the gym by myself in order to practice hitting the ball against the wall. (It was like the scene from the Karate Kid where Mr. Miyagi makes Daniel-san clean his car for hours on end).

Did I mention that this went on for two hours? Have I painted a clear enough mental picture? Can you see me standing alone in the corner, hitting the ball against the wall while everyone else is playing volleyball?

So while I’m alone in the corner, I start desperately thinking of ways to get out of playing volleyball for the next year.

After the game ended, I tried to say things like “I am not good enough to play with you” hoping that they wouldn't invite me back. But they did invite me back. And they want me to play for the rest of the year.

Maybe they were just being polite but I felt it would have been rude to decline. Plus, I’m desperate for friends. Any friends. Even friends who make me stand in a corner by myself for two hours.

So since I’m stuck playing volleyball every Monday night for the next year, I may as well figure out how to learn to like it. It can't possibily get any worse than it did the first night, right?

Hello from Japan!

Sorry for the long break between posts. It took three weeks of begging and pleading in broken Japanese to get an internet hookup in my apartment. I finally got connected a few hours ago after much gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair. I still can’t believe it took almost month to get an internet connection in Japan!

Anyway, enough griping. On with the first post about my adventures so far. Where to begin? Perhaps I should back up to where I left off. Let’s see . . . Vancouver. Four weeks ago. On my way to Tokyo. Right. Only now Tokyo is a bit of a blur. It seems like such a long time ago.

I spent four days in Tokyo wandering amid the neon lights before flying out to my new home on the backside of Shikoku Island in southern Japan. This is where I will be spending the next year.


I live in a little town nestled in the mountains, near the ocean. It has one main street filled with lots of little shops and old buildings. There are miles of empty country roads that are perfect for cycling, running and walking. I live in an apartment on top of the town library. This is the view from my bedroom window.


It’s all very beautiful. But, holy crap, the heat! It’s killing me! It’s been 35 degrees every day with 100 per cent humidity, making it feel like 45 degrees.

What makes it even worse is that the women in this town don’t wear shorts or sleeveless tops. It’s a pretty conservative place. Apparently, showing a little shoulder or leg above the knee is extremely scandalous. So I’ve been wearing jeans with long sleeved shirts. Sometimes, if I’m feeling daring, I will wear a t-shirt and capris.

Of course, everyone is sweating buckets in their ridiculously heavy clothing. Instead of dressing comfortably for the weather, the locals all wear towels around their necks to mop up the sweat. Or they just tie the towels around their heads. I don’t care how ridiculous it looks, I am seriously considering investing in my own towel.

Luckily, there is a great little swimming hole down the street from my apartment. I am the only adult who swims in the river but I have become quite popular with the neighbourhood kids.


The weather is unbearable but at least the people are friendly. I am being treated like a celebrity. My supervisor at the board of education took me to meet the mayor on my second day here. Through a translator, we chatted a bit about Canada while a photographer took pictures of me for the local newspaper.

At one point, the mayor asked me if I had ever eaten eel. I confessed that I hadn’t. He suddenly declared that he was going to make it his mission to get me to eat eel and invited me to a party at the town hall that night.

Later that night, after several glasses of beer and sake, the quiet, mild-mannered 70-year-old mayor turned out to be quite the wild man. The more he drank, the louder he got. I have no idea what he was saying because he was yelling in Japanese but it must have been quite funny because he had everyone in hysterics.

At one point, the deputy mayor walked in wearing shorts and the mayor yelled out the only English expression he knows: “Hot pants!”

The deputy mayor (aka Hot Pants) was an even bigger character than the mayor. He would randomly yell out “heavy drinker!” and “I am Quebecois!” By the end of the night, both the mayor and the deputy mayor had invited me back to their place. Perhaps they thought I was easy because I was wearing short sleeves. Here’s a picture of me with my new friend, the mayor.


I already have an undeserved reputation in this town as some sort of star athlete back in Canada because I listed “triathlon” as one of my hobbies on my resume.

For example, I was riding my bike down the street my first week in town when I was flagged down by a guy driving a delivery truck. He brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out and demanded “You play volleyball with me!”

Through his broken English and my basic Japanese, he told me he belonged to a volleyball team that played every Monday night and he had heard the new English teacher in town was a star athlete.

Now, I hate volleyball. I mean, I really, really hate volleyball. I suck at it and it hurts my forearms. When I see a ball heading towards my head, my gut instinct is to scream and duck for cover. But I agreed to join his team because I’m desperate for friends. I just hope they don’t kick me off the team once they find out how useless I am.

And then at (yet another) drinking party on Friday night, one of the more quiet teachers got up the courage to talk to me after a few drinks and said, “You play tennis with me tomorrow morning!” (We played for an hour the next morning and I now belong to his Thursday night tennis club.)

He also asked me to run a marathon with him in February. I think. He kept pointing at himself and me while saying “marathon” and “February” over and over.

That’s not to say that these first few weeks have been easy. It’s frustrating at times being a very illiterate and very visible minority. Grocery shopping has been the biggest challenge so far. I have no idea what I’m going to eat for the next year. I can’t read Japanese and I’m not adventurous enough to try the things that have English labels (ie. canned whale).

It’s also hard not to feel lonely and isolated at times. This is a pretty small town in a predominantly rural area where almost no one speaks English. A lot of people refuse to make eye contact with me and some have blatantly turned the other way when they see me coming. I hope it’s just because they’re shy and not because of anything more sinister.

But I'm starting to feel a little less lonely each day. I’ll probably get into a groove once school starts. Right now, I’m just filling my time at the board of education trying to learn Japanese. The first day of class is this Friday and I have to give a three-minute speech (in Japanese!!) to 350 junior high school students at the opening ceremony.

Anyway, my quick update has suddenly morphed into a long, rambling post. I guess the floodgates have opened now that I have an internet connection. I’ll be posting more frequently from now on so I'll try to keep it shorter next time. Until then!

On my way to Japan

Farewell Vancouver! I'm off to spend a year in the Land of the Rising Sun. First stop, Tokyo. Second stop, my new hometown on the rural island of Shikoku.

I have no idea what to expect. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a big, black hole. I know it's a cliche but it really is the best way to describe how I'm feeling right now. Equal parts fear and excitement.

I figure as long as I leap into the great unknown with an open mind and a positive attitude, it will be an amazing adventure. Unless North Korea accidentally bombs Japan while firing a test missile. That would suck.

Wish me luck!

Argh! I hate moving!

The movers are coming on Thursday to put the contents of my apartment into storage for a year. This gives me one whole day to magically have everything neatly packed into boxes by the time they arrive. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off.

I spent eight hours yesterday and nine hours today sorting, tossing and recycling. I haven’t even started packing yet. Argh! How is it possible for one person to collect so much crap?

For example, my crap collection includes:
a) My TTC bus passes from high school.
b) Not one, not two but three broken hair dryers.
c) My Ontario Place nametag from the summer I worked as a bumper boat attendant.
d) Boxes of tapes that haven’t been listened to in at least a decade.
e) Mugs, mugs and more mugs. Why does one person need 50 mugs?
f) Really ugly clothes that I hate but am inexplicably attached to and so have been unable to part with them.
g) A medicine cabinet full of pills that expired four years ago.
h) Phone bill statements from when I lived in New Brunswick.

I could go on and on. I swear 90 per cent of the stuff in my apartment is crap. Don’t even get me started on the science experiments growing in the fridge. And, no, I haven’t defrosted the freezer yet.

I feel like I’m turning into my grandmother. The woman could not throw anything away. From now on, I’m going to own as little stuff as possible so that I never have to go through this hell again. I hate moving!

A very weird day at the office

Claire Martin left me a surprise message on my voicemail. She called me “girl” and said I “rock.” Thanks to the wonders of digital technology, you can listen to her message too!


It was all part of an elaborate going away party at work yesterday. I’m still not exactly sure why my coworkers threw me a going away party, especially since I’m not really leaving. I’m just taking a year off to go to Japan. What kind of an office throws a farewell party for someone who is going on vacation? Then again, what kind of an office lets someone take a year off to go to Japan in the first place?

A nice little gathering with some tea and cookies would have been acceptable. But this? This was way over the top. I mean, they arranged for my all-time favourite CBC personality to leave me a bon voyage message for crying out loud! (Claire Martin, if you are reading this, I am so sorry they put you up to this. I hope it wasn’t too weird. As you can probably gather, my coworkers are a bit odd. You, however, are awesome.)

And then the entire staff gathered in the office lounge to wish me well. There was a lavish spread of my favourite food, including Timbits, sushi and Skittles.

I also got a bottle of wine, an autographed copy of David Suzuki’s newest book, a pair of silver earrings, a gift certificate from Amazon and a feather boa. There were even speeches.

All of this just for a vacation? Don't get me wrong. I loved every minute of it but it was a bit much. Imagine if I actually quit my job. The party would be off the hook. They wouldn’t coerce Claire Martin into leaving me a voicemail, they’d fly her out to Vancouver to see me off in person.

Japanese pick-up lines

I’ve been trying to learn a little Japanese before I go to Japan next week.

I’ve got a few basic phrases down. I can say, “Hello. How do you do? My name is Sarah Marchildon. I come from Vancouver, Canada. It’s nice to meet you. Goodbye.”

I’ll be fine as long as no one says anything back to me. If they do, I’ll just slowly start walking away backwards while bowing a million times and smiling like crazy. That seems to work in the movies.

Learning a new language doesn’t come naturally to me. I have to work really, really, really hard at it. It’s like math. It’s all about formulas and structure and rote memorization. It makes my head hurt. I don’t know how I’m supposed to memorize 800 new words when I can barely remember my own postal code.

One phrase that keeps tripping me up is “domo arigato” (thank you). I have to bite my tongue to avoid adding “Mr. Roboto” to the end. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say “domo arigato” with a straight face. Or at least without wanting to break into song and dance.

While my language textbook and CDs will come in handy for things like ordering food or what to say when meeting the mayor, they contain no information on how to pick up guys in Japan. Fortunately, I found a little phrasebook at a discount bookstore that has an entire section devoted to “romance.” Unfortunately, it only has one page of pick-up lines.


My favourite line is “You’re a fantastic dancer.” It’s comforting to know that pick-up lines are equally lame no matter where you are in world.

I've only got one more week to learn as much Japanese as I can (and to come up with better pick-up lines than the ones above). I haven't studied this hard since I was cramming for final exams in university.

So long, Mr. Floatie. We'll miss the crap out of you

There’s good news and bad news out of British Columbia this week. The good news is that the provincial government has ordered the city of Victoria to stop dumping untreated sewage into the ocean. The bad news is that this means Mr. Floatie is now out of a job.

For those of you who have never heard of him, Mr. Floatie is the costumed mascot for People Opposed to Outfall Pollution (POOP). For the past two years Mr. Floatie has been dressing up as a giant piece of poo to draw attention to the fact that Victoria shoots almost 130 million litres of raw sewage into the ocean every day.

He's done a great job. Mr. Floatie is a huge celebrity in British Columbia. Children, tourists, journalists -- everyone loves Mr. Floatie. Maybe it’s the jaunty sailor’s cap or the weird falsetto voice or the catchy songs (“I’m Mr. Floatie/The ocean poo/If you live in Victoria/I come from you”). Or maybe it’s just because he’s a no bullshit kind of guy.

My favourite Mr. Floatie story is when he tried to run for Mayor of Victoria and the city went to court to keep his name off the ballot.

It’s great that Victoria is finally going to stop dumping raw sewage in the ocean. But it’s shitty to think that Mr. Floatie is now out of a job. So long, Mr. Floatie. We’ll miss the crap out of you.

So bad it makes Jerry Springer look good

It pains me to admit this. It really, really does. But I have to say it. The new American reality TV show hosted by George Stroumboulopoulos is really, truly, embarrassingly awful.

This, of course, has nothing to do with George. As the host of The One, George is great. He’s doing a bang-up job. But is he really enjoying the gig or just acting like he does?

I caught the show’s premiere last night but I had stop watching after 20 minutes because I felt so terrible for George. Surely this isn’t what he thought he was signing up for. He must feel misled. I mean, George has always railed against manufactured pop stars and reality TV shows like American Idol. So did he sell out or was he led down the garden path?

The One is an unoriginal, uninspired, cheap knock-off of American Idol. It pretty much follows the same tired formula, but with a “twist.” A bunch of moderately talented wannabe musicians compete in front of a panel of judges for a chance to score a recording contract and a turn in the spotlight. The twist is that the contestants on The One live together and are on camera 24/7.

The whole thing looks like it was slapped together and pushed out the door in less than two weeks. It is really, really, really bad. Even worse, it’s boring. And this is coming from someone who actually likes reality TV. You know a reality show has got to be pretty bad when even I can’t stand it!

The most embarrassing part was watching George urge the viewers to call in or text message their vote just like Ben Mulroney does. I kept thinking, “Oh, George. Why, why, why?”

I suppose you’ve got to respect the guy for going out there, taking a risk and trying something new (I’m trying hard to be positive here). It’s just too bad the show turned out to be such a train wreck.

A few more weeks in the old apartment

This is my apartment building. In a few weeks this will just be a memory of a place I used to live.

The manager slipped a letter under my door telling me I have 60 days to pack up and move because the suite I rent is now up for sale. Not that it matters. I’m leaving anyway. But I’m glad the decision to give up my apartment is now out of my control. It makes leaving a little less painful.

This is one of the best apartments I’ve ever had. It’s big and bright. It has beautiful hardwood floors and lots of windows. The rent was only $795 a month even though they could have easily charged more. They even let me paint the walls purple.

But what really makes this place special is its location. If it were any closer to Stanley Park it would be in the park. I’ve been living here three years and I still can’t get over the view from the front door.

That’s not to say living here hasn’t been without its challenges. The pipes rattle, the appliances are older than I am and the upstairs neighbour listens to Radiohead so loudly it feels like Thom Yorke is in my living room.

I have to wear earplugs at night to drown out the sound of dumpster divers pushing rickety shopping carts full of empty bottles through the alley. So many homeless people urinate below my bedroom window it's practically a public toilet.

My living room faces the parking garage next door, which means my apartment fills with exhaust whenever someone idles their car. And don’t get me started on the unbelievably anal-retentive laundry room schedule -- I’ve already devoted an entire post to that subject!

I will miss some of the cranky, elderly people who live here. But I won’t miss the ones who voted against selling one of the suites to a guy in a wheelchair because they didn’t want to spend the $3,000 it would cost to build a ramp. (The president of the board eventually overruled them.)

I laughed when I saw the real estate agent had listed the building’s wheelchair access as one of its selling features. Of course, there’s no mention about the bitter fight that went down just to get that ramp built in the first place.

Nor does he mention the fact that someone in the building dumps the stack of gay newspapers that get delivered to our door into the garbage every single week. When I complained about this to the manager he shrugged his shoulders and said he had enough battles on his hands, especially since the debate on whether or not to replace the hallway carpet was raging out of control.

In a way, all of the absurd and weird stuff that goes on here is what I'll miss most about this place. I'll even miss the view of the dumpster from the bedroom window.

All I want is one more chance to be young and wild and free

I’m moving to Japan in August. I’ll be spending the next 12 months living and working in a small mountain town on the rural island of Shikoku. I’m both excited and terrified about this.

I’ll be teaching English (hi, I’m so original!) in several elementary schools, which should be interesting considering I have zero teaching experience. My duties will also include delivering impromptu speeches at the town hall and attending banquets and drinking parties with my Japanese co-workers. (I always knew my mad karaoke skills would come in handy one day.)

I will be living in a spacious three-bedroom apartment that I will have all to myself. It should be nice and quiet since it’s on top of the town library. The best part? The rent is only $140 Canadian a month!

Since I will be living practically rent-free, I plan to spend the majority of my salary on travel. I want to go to Korea, Thailand, China, Indonesia and Australia. Or maybe I’ll just tour around Japan. Who knows?

It’s all very exciting but I don’t want to romanticize my upcoming adventure too much. I’m sure there will be moments of loneliness, isolation and frustration. Maybe I’ll suck at teaching. Maybe my co-workers won’t like me. Maybe the culture shock will be too much. Maybe my apartment will be infested with cockroaches. Maybe my mad karaoke skills will go unappreciated.

Honestly, the whole thing is a little terrifying. There are times when I’m drifting off to sleep at night and I suddenly bolt upright thinking “What the hell am I doing?”

But the panic attacks eventually subside. I just keep reminding myself that no matter what happens it will be an incredible experience. The fact that I’ll be living in a small place away from the major cities will only make it that much more rewarding. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

It would be easy to stay in Vancouver. I have a great life here. I love my friends. I like my job. It’s all very comfortable. But I’m worried I’ll wake up 10 years from now still single, still working the same job, still living in the same apartment. And it scares the shit out of me.

I need to shake things up. The highlight of my week is watching Canada’s Next Top Model, for chrissake.

Moving to Japan might sound brave but I’m not really chucking it all away. My boss has agreed to give me a one-year leave of absence so my job will be waiting for me when I come back. I don’t have to worry about finding an apartment in Japan or even paying the plane fare to get there. Everything’s taken care of.

All I need to do between now and August 5th is pack up my stuff and learn as much Japanese as I can. I’ve been trying to research my new town (Sakawa, pop: 14,000) but there isn’t a lot of information out there. The town has its own website but it’s in Japanese.

The Lonely Planet guide isn’t much help either. There are only a few pages devoted to the whole island of Shikoku and just a few paragraphs on the southern area where I’ll be living. Apparently, the region is famous for its incomprehensible dialect and, um, dog fighting.

Like I said, I’m both excited and terrified. But as long as there’s a good karaoke bar in town I know I’ll be okay.

George goes to America

Remember the controversy over the CBC’s decision to bump The National to a later timeslot in order to air -- gasp! shock! horror! -- an American reality TV show?

Well, the story gets a little more scandalous with the announcement that -- gasp! shock! horror! -- George Stroumboulopoulos is hosting the show.

Yep, our favourite black-shirted boy has moved to L.A. to host an American reality TV show. The show is called The One: Making a Music Star and it features a bunch of musicians in tube tops and low-rise jeans bitch-slapping each other for a recording contract. Or something.

Is this the beginning of the end? Is George Stroumboulopoulos about to become the next Ryan Seacrest? Or, even worse, the next Ben Mulroney? Will he steal Angelina away from Brad? And, more importantly, will the American tabloids spell his last name correctly when he does?

In case you’re wondering if this means George’s days at the CBC are numbered, don’t worry. George isn’t heading south for good. He says the Hollywood gig is only temporary and will return home in the fall for another season of The Hour.

You’ve got to admit it seems like a strange career move for a guy who made a name for himself by railing against manufactured pop stars. All of a sudden American Idol’s biggest critic is hosting a TV show that will pump out another Kelly Clarkson?

Some people might accuse him of selling out. Others might accuse him of being a hypocrite. But not me! I think George should do whatever the hell he wants and if this is what he wants that’s fine with me.

The show premieres Tuesday July 18.

Writer's block

My sister: You haven’t updated your blog since you’ve been in Toronto. How come?

Me: I don’t know. I don’t have anything to write about, I guess.

My sister: You could write about Amy’s wedding.

Me: About how Grandma was rocking out to AC/DC on the dance floor?


My sister: No, about how Grandma was busting a move the entire night! Or about how all the cousins were doing shots? Or about how crazy Uncle John is?

Me: Uncle John is crazy. I danced with him for, like, 30 seconds and he almost threw me off the dance floor. I was worried he’d re-break my arm. I ran away from him every time he came near me after that. The wedding was fun but I don’t know if it would be of interest to anyone who wasn’t there.

My sister: Yeah.

Me: I could write about the Tour de France.

My sister: No! You’ve already written too much about it. It’s boring.

Me: It’s not boring. It’s exciting. The crashes! The scandals! I could write about how the decision to kick Jan Ullrich out of this year’s Tour will go down as one of the biggest injustices in history if he’s innocent.

My sister: Don’t bother. No one cares. Write about the World Cup instead.

Me: The World Cup? I have no idea what’s going on. I tried watching one of the games but our idiot brother wouldn’t let me.

My sister: What? Why not?

Me: Well, the game was about to begin and the cameras were zooming in on the faces of the players and I started talking about how gorgeous some of those guys were. Daniel got mad and said I was only allowed to comment on the fouls or the goals and that if I was only going to talk about how hot the players were, I shouldn’t bother watching the game. So I left.

My sister: He’s no fun.

Me: I know. What’s the point of watching soccer if you can’t talk about how hot David Beckham is?

My sister: You could write about how you’re going to Japan next month. Or is that a secret?

Me: No, it’s not a secret. I’ve been meaning to write about it. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. I’ve been so preoccupied with my broken arm and the trip to Toronto and the Tour de France that I’ve hardly had time to think about Japan.

My sister: Well, if you have nothing to write about you could always just post some pictures.

Me: Of what?

My sister: Of us at the wedding!

Me: Okay.

Just because they found a bag of blood with Jan's name on it doesn't mean it's his

Shit, shit, shit. The Tour de France hasn’t even started yet and the whole race is imploding because of a massive blood-doping scandal.

It's bad enough that Alexandre Vinokourov, one of the race favourites, could be kicked out of the Tour because of his team's starring role in the doping allegations. But it's even worse now that my big German boyfriend has been linked to the whole sorted mess.

A Spanish newspaper story said investigators found a bag of blood with the name “Jan” on it. Ullrich denied the allegations. He’s been cleared to race because there was no hard evidence, only newspaper speculation. But the damage has been done. My man’s good name has been dragged through the mud.

The conspiracy theorist in me thinks he’s been framed. The cynic in me thinks he’s guilty. The protective girlfriend in me thinks NO ONE MESSES WITH MY SWEET BABY AND GETS AWAY WITH IT!!!

This could seriously shake up the race. When I said the 2006 Tour de France was going to be exciting, this wasn’t what I meant.

Heat wave? What heat wave?

Apparently, Vancouver has been suffering through a “stifling heat wave” for the past few days. It’s all over the news. They make it sound like we’re frying in the Libyan Desert out here.

Let me put this so-called heat wave into perspective. Right now, it is 24 degrees and sunny outside. There is a cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. It has been like this for days. The weather has been lovely. But hot? Heat wave hot? Hardly! This is sweater season in other parts of Canada.

This city has no idea what hot really is. A real heat wave feels like a blast from a furnace when you step outside. A real heat wave means you’re covered in sweat 30 seconds after stepping out of the shower. A real heat wave drains your energy, leaving you unable to do more than sit on the couch and pant.

It doesn’t cool down at night during a real heat wave. I’m still sleeping under a down duvet! And I don’t even have air conditioning! This ain't no heat wave.