Chicago to Vancouver, Spanish to French

I’ve liked pretty much everything about my travels so far, except the bit where you actually travel: the long queues, the long waits and the long faces of the people queuing and waiting do nothing for me. Chicago saw me off with a free search and swab. Yay, I love surprises. It wasn’t quite like the special treatment I got when I left Athens. When I was told I’d been randomly selected for a special screening (yes, for the second time in less than six weeks, how random is that) I was personally accompanied to security, taken to the front of the line and put through the usual routine of shoes off, jacket off, laptop out, gels and liquids in a plastic bag etc. Then when I got walked through the metal detector the security guy radioed for a female assist: “female assist at security 2, I need a female assist at security 2”. Unlike Athens, there was no semi-private area, I was basically on show, shoeless, for the entertainment of all and sundry, which meant I got to watch my stuff get swabbed. The female assist who showed up five minutes later was a loud ‘Merican, and she called out to the metal detector dude – “is this her here, this one? Did she alarm?”

He yelled back “No, she didn’t alarm”.

“Well just bring her over here and I’ll pat her down” said the loud ‘Merican.

So I put on my best possible stroppy face, with pukana eyes and grumpy lips, because all the other passengers are getting an eyeful, so it may as well be a good show, right, and frankly I was stroppy and grumpy about the whole random affair. So she pats me down, and I’m thinking, once again, the only time I actually want to have my photo taken I’m not allowed, because I’m not allowed to touch my stuff. And it was such a public performance I don’t know why they didn’t have it up on a screen, that way at least all the other passengers who were slowed up could be entertained while they waited. And then security could ask if I want to buy a copy of the recording, like when you do a bungy jump or something. When the loud ‘Merican female assist finished patting me down she told me in no uncertain terms not to touch my stuff till the dude who was not only touching but also swabbing my stuff said it was okay. Meanwhile, my stuff, including my passport, my wallet etc. etc. was sitting at the end of the screening conveyor belt, in easy reach of some swift pick-pocket, until the dude said “your stuff is good”. He didn’t need to tell me that, I already knew my stuff was good, I’m only capable of good stuff. I noticed a number of the security people had noticed Hiki in my handbag, and they watched me as I deliberately took a moment to check on her welfare and pat her hair into place. No one said a word. I’m going to have to work out a way to make her head spin, because that would’ve been a perfect moment to use that little party trick. When I got my checked luggage into my room in Vancouver, I was expecting the little note from customs to say they’d been searched, which is what happened in Athens, but no such calling card for me. What a disappointment, no sweet little note with the instructions on how to pack to make searching easier so that I could ignore and send straight to the bin. Instead, the only calling card I got was the carnage in my bag including spillage from some vitally important toiletry like nail polish remover.

Oh well, at least Vancouver is nice. And they get top points for the ease of getting through their airport, including the customs procedure – they just snatched that declaration card right out of my hand and I was away to the luggage carousel, and then straight out to grab a taxi. It’s bilingual here too, officially rather than informally like in Chicago, French rather than Spanish. So I’ve dropped La and El for La and Le. No one’s tried to speak to me in French though, so I take it I don’t look French, the way I looked Spanish in Pilsen, and native in South Dakota.

I was told before I came here that Vancouver is quite like New Zealand, and maybe Auckland in particular. For me it is and it isn’t. Coming into the University of British Columbia (UBC) it might be a little like Epsom, One Tree Hill, old Mt Eden – quite a moneyed leafy suburb, big homes of a certain era or with modern renovations, that kind of thing. But the trees that make the area leafy are very different trees. They’re a hell of a lot taller to start, and lots of different sorts of pines but all in that classic Christmas tree shape. It’s cold here at the moment, apparently they’ve had a wicked winter, and they’re just now coming out of a late spring into summer. It’s an icy cold, like Wellington in a southerly or maybe like Dunedin (been a few years since I was in Dunedin in the winter). It’s right on the water, and apparently there are some good seafood places to eat, though I don’t think I’ll be trying any of those places this week.

I’m pretty much on campus for the whole time, at a history conference, hanging out with a bunch of natives (or following them sheepishly, more like). I’m finding it a financially dangerous conference. Not only do they have a bookstore, but they have a book fair. And on the main floor of the main building there’s a whole lot of market-style stalls tempting me with jewellery, clothes, handbags, and various accessories. All I can say is thank goodness there are no shoes. The natives here are calling themselves IHC, pronounced "ick", an acronym for Indigenous Historians Conspiracy – just an informal banner under which to meet and eat and laugh and talk seriously about problems in indigenous histories and other stuff that can’t be randomly searched at airport security. One question I have, though, is how come Maori women have a reputation (all the way over here, amongst the native Canadians); who spread that viscious strop-provoking rumour; how come they don't have that Maori princess rumour instead, like at Pine Ridge?

I’m continuing the theme of changing my plans, so I have already accepted an invitation to change flights and accommodation to go and spend a night and a day at Vancouver Island (not even sure where that is, but what the hey) and then to fly to the Six Nations Rez in Ontario. Then I’ll get back to my original plan of checking out the government archives in Ottawa, Ontario before heading to Saskatoon via Winnepeg. I hope to see a bear at some point, apparently they’re just waking up. So that’s what I’ve got to look forward to doing, and what you’ve got to look forward to reading about, ‘cause I know you’re all such dedicated readers and dying to get an A on the end-of-blog exam I’m planning.