Stories of Colonial British Columbia

I got off the plane to shockingly different weather than when I boarded. I was not prepared at all. I wore jeans, a t-shirt and a light fleece jacket and needed to survive -28C. Seeing as I had started to shave my head, a toque would have been smart.

Disembarking onto the tarmac meant a two minute walk to the heated terminal. Everyone was already crowded around the luggage carousel #2 and I joined them. The buzzer rang, and carousel #1 began to spew forth luggage. The crowd mooed and shuffled to the other side and began to grumblingly sort through the offerings of the baggage handling system. It took me some time to retrieve my one backpack. I resolved to never check my luggage again and I made my way outside.

There was no lineup for taxis like you would find at most airports. You had to stand in a gaggle and jostle for the next one. The cabs weren't lined up either. They were about three minutes apart, which wreaked havoc on the the patience of the crowd and on my poor, uncovered head. People with cell phones were busy calling the cab company and trying to order a taxi. Every taxi that showed up, people would crowd around and try to get in. But the driver would keep his doors locked and open his window calling the name of the person for which he was dispatched. Everyone else complained and tried to ask him when their taxi would arrive. The cabbie, like the best of politicians, was noncommittal. I eventually got a cab.

"Where to?"

"Landmark Hotel on the highway." I answered. I had never been there. In fact, this would be my first night in this cold city. So far, I was realizing that I would need better clothes and should probably keep a cell phone charged so that I could call a cab directly from the airport. I wondered if you could call ahead and have them waiting. I marveled that it worked that way and that the cab company, one of two companies that operated in the city, couldn't figure out that it could do better. But I couldn't think about it too much. This cabbie wanted to talk.

"Where you from?" he asked.

"Mostly Vancouver Island" I answered.

"God's country that is. I used to drive cab in Nanaimo. You ever live there?"

"Yes," I said. "I went to school there for a couple of years."

"This is downtown." the cabbie volunteered. "They call this section 'the Hood'. You want to stay away from this area. A lot of drug addicts here."

I didn't answer. I have lived in a few cities. I understand the concept of areas where drugs are more prevalent. There was something unsavory about this cabbie trying to teach me about this new city. I am not sure if I can explain it well now.

We pulled up to the hotel. It looked seedy. There was course gravel all over the sidewalk and road. The cold wind blew dust into the air. The sky itself was an unfriendly shade of grey.

"Thanks," I said. I gave the man a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. "Is there a good spot to eat close by?"

"Sure. There's a restaurant right here in the hotel that's pretty good. Go there myself for breakfasts on Sundays."

"OK. Thanks again."

"Hey," he said, as if forgetting something. "Don't give money to the Indians. A lot of people do when they're new here. Just ignore them."

I didn't answer.