West Coast
Report Pt. 1

by RAF KATIGBAK

As someone who considers himself a hardened East Coaster, there are two popular pastimes that come naturally to me: one is talking shit about the weather, the other is talking shit about the West Coast. While the former always involves the limited flip-flopping between two extremes of “It’s too hot” or “It’s too cold” (sometimes with a “Humid enough for ya?” thrown in for good measure), the latter has endless possibilities. From the tree-hugging hippie stereotypes to the new-age crystal-wielding aura gazers to the upper-crust health nuts with vegan low-fat dog food for their shitzus in mini LuluLemon dog sweats to, of course, the rollerbladers, the peacenik Pacific coast has been the butt of many hardened, cynical Atlantic-dweller jokes.

Maybe it’s out of jealousy. After all, Vancouver was named the best city to live in for quality of life by Mercer Consulting in April. What have they got that we don’t have? Fresh air, amazing food, safety? Bo-ring.

So last night, I decided to get on a plane and check out Canada’s West Coast, Vancouver to be exact, just to see what all the fuss was about (and well, because a friend of mine was getting married there). This is the first installment of my Riff Raff West Coast Report.

The first thing you might want to know is that, like many people before me with callings to “Go West,” I’m not exactly sure how I got here. I know the trip involved an airplane, some decent tuna salad and a mildly blurry projection of Tim Allen and John Travolta as wannabe motorcycle gang members that I can safely assume skipped regular-run theatres and went straight to the continental in-flight film circuit, but beyond that, I’m at a loss. Before I departed, you see, I fell ill with one of the worst summer colds that I have ever had. Montreal’s feverish July humidity plus snotty head cold equals a mind addled through a hazy filter, and used Kleenex that look like an alien prop from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. “Great,” I thought, “this is perfect. Let’s see if the fresh West Coast air will do me good. Who knows, perhaps I’ll come back a pilates master and finally be able to touch my toes without screaming in pain.” Or not.

On the drive from the airport, I got the lowdown from a friend and former Montrealer who had just recently transplanted there. “Number one: forget the coffee,” she said drably. “It’s not as good as home. Just concentrate on the dollar pizza, it’s phenomenal.” Coffee bad, pizza good. So far, so good.

The first glaring difference I noticed as we drove from the airport and into the city was the mountains. Mostly the fact that they’ve actually got mountains; huge green behemoths that undulated and towered over the horizon. It occurred to me then that while some of us East Coasters may laugh at the West Coast, Vancouverites must come to Mount Royal and think we are total retards.

As we drove into the city, the next thing I noticed, strangely enough, was their spelling of “doner” on a late night snack place. Not the right way—like “boner,” with a “d”—but “donair.” Why was that? Was it because the air is so fresh there that they must remind their population by inserting it into their language as much as possible? Or were they such prudes as to be afraid to eat what is basically one letter away from a dink sandwich? Or maybe they are so politically correct that they’re sensitive to offending blood and organ donors?

Perhaps I was reading too much into it, or maybe the cough syrup I chugged on the airplane was starting to get me a little crunked, but either way, I was intrigued. What other mysteries will be revealed on my weeklong stay in Vancouver? Will my opinions on West Coast flakiness be quashed or reinforced? Will the steely gates of my East Coast heart be opened by the gusts of fresh Pacific air? Will I overcome my East Coast cynicism and embrace the natural glory of the west? Or will I just come running back to the dirty, jaded, sarcastic arms of Montreal? Watch this space next week to find out...

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca