A couple of things on today’s to do list. The first takes us to the second. The Canada Line of the Skytrain.
“Why’s it called Skytrain if it’s underground, Andrew?”
Buying tickets is pretty easy. Everything works pretty well. But it’s a shock arriving on the platform. It’s tiny.
“Why’s it so small?” I ask my resident rail expert.
“They built it on the cheap.” Andrew replies.
“Won’t it cost a fortune to upgrade?”
“Obviously. While Amsterdam future-proofed the Noord-Zuid line by making the platforms longer than current trains.”
We get off at the terminus, Waterfront station. We’re headed for the steam clock. Not sure why, other than it sounds slightly intriguing. And has a cool name.
This is an older part of town.
“Oh, look! A brewery.” I exclaim, pointing at Steamworks. “I brewed a beer there, once.”
Quite a few people are standing around the clock. Which isn’t doing much, other than whirring. I guess all the action with the whistles starts on the hour. It’s 16:42. Bugger waiting almost 20 minutes.
“Back to the brewery?”
They don’t need asking twice. The place is massive, we’re led through several rooms before being deposited in the basement, with the brewing equipment and the kitchen. But through the window there’s an amazing view of the bay and the wooded hills beyond it.
There’s lucky. It’s happy hour here, too. But we don’t get beer.
“Fancy a cocktail pitcher, kids?”
Coconut mojito is our choice. Quite nice it is, too. Not too sweet.
Andrew ordered a Pilsner and can’t share the pitcher yet. As, according to our waitress, you’re only allowed one alcoholic drink at a time in British Columbia. I’ve come across rules like that before. So many random, crazy rules connected to alcohol.
We order a second pitcher.
We’re a bit hungry. Not enough for a full meal. Onion rings and chicken wings will do. Spicy wings.
They’re quite hot, the wings, but not dead hot.”
“I’ve had much hotter.” Andrew states.
“Well, you did eat that bit of a Carolina Reaper.”
“True. But I meant actual food.”
We order a third pitcher.
We don’t stay too late. It’s almost the end of happy hour.
“Why is it still called British Columbia?” Lexxie asks. “Shouldn’t it be Canadian Columbia now?”
He has a point. “No idea. Email Mr. Trudeau and ask.”
On our way to the station, we drop into a car park to photograph the view of harbour and hillsides. There’s a fence in the way. But just by standing on a little bump, Lexxie can see over it. How many times has he been asked how tall he is? It must be at least a dozen.
A few chavs are hanging around the car park. For the view? I don’t think so. We don’t wait to find out. Back to the mini-metro for our ride home. It’s only a handful of stops. Then a walk of a couple of hundred metres. A doddle, really. Without any fucking hills.
Back at the hotel, the kids nip to the liquor store. And get some more beer. And a second bottle of Canadian Club. Plastic bottle, this time. What a party we have.
“What do you mean, Dad? A can of Molson and a convenience store sandwich isn’t much of a party.”
“You’re so negative, Lexxie.”
“Fuck off with that negative shit.”
“There’s whisky as well.”
“That doesn’t make it much more of a party.”
“It does for me.”
“Because you’re a drunk.”
“Don’t start that nonsense again.”
Argument won, I retire to my own room.
Where I Canadian club myself into dreamland.
375 Water St,
BC V6B 1B8.