As has been previously mentioned, the summer I spent in Washington was a summer of many experiences. One of these was the first (and only) time that I've ever left the United States.
Some acquaintances decided to drive up to Vancouver. I'd just broken up with a boyfriend, so I was in the mood to do something wild and adventurous. Going on a vacation with near strangers seemed to fit the bill. We were in the car for 6 hours, driving north to the border. I remember that we alternated between a BareNaked Ladies CD and Third Eye Blind...for the whole trip. That's a lot of BareNaked Ladies.
When we arrived in Canada, we checked into our rooms and decided to take advantage of the Vancouver nightlife. Apparently, on Friday at 1 am in the neighborhood we were in, there isn't a nightlife. Also, there were no liquor stores. Most of us were under 21, so we were obsessed with getting some liquor in our underaged systems. We finally found a bar that was willing to re-open its doors for us.
We piled in and leaned on the bar, nonchalantly. I ordered a beer. An overweight, aging Indian man next to me belched and squinted at me through watery eyes. He was the kind of barfly that is not influenced by the mere hours of operation of an establishment. His ass was firmly planted in the seat and it wasn't going to un-plant for anyone. He downed a shot of whiskey and looked at me again.
"My brother started the porn industry in Vancouver," He told me, leaning in like he was whispering a secret.
I highly doubted that the porn industry in Vancouver had only been around 40 years or so, but I simply responded, "Oh, really?"
Yes. Apparently, really. He spent the next hour or so assuring me that, while his brother was in charge of the porn industry--especially porn with Indian stars--he had given his brother all the good ideas. It was heavily hinted that I could have a starring role, despite being non-Indian. I gulped my beer and wished I had something stronger. I suppose I could have ordered something stronger but a part of me was afraid that if I got drunk, I'd wake up the next morning in fuzzy handcuffs on a rubber-sheeted bed with a camera crew in front of me.
I glanced at the people I'd traveled with. Half of them had left. The others apparently didn't care that I was about to get my big break. This is the downside of traveling with acquaintances. They don't know to rescue you from the crazy man who's even now telling you about the various kinds of porn that he and his brother specialize in. I realized that I'd have to extricate myself.
I told him that it all sounded great, but I really needed to get to sleep. He told me that I could get some sleep at his place. I politely declined.
The next day, we did all the touristy stuff. There were visits to Chinatown, the aquarium and various parks. That night, we decided to go out to a real bar. We fancied ourselves up and cruised downtown. Everyone else voted for a dance club. I decided to stand awkwardly in the corner while they were grinding on strangers.
One of the girls got magnificently sick. She retreated to the bathroom to throw up in solitude with another girl to hold her hair. The other girl said that, since she was engaged, there wasn't anything for her at the club anyway. I decided it was time to change venues.
A couple of the guys and I went to a quieter bar upstairs. They immediately dispersed to hit on chicks while I sat on a stool and sipped a beer. A middle-aged lady sat beside me, clutching a rum and coke. Tiny, librarian-style spectacles perched on her nose. Her hair was sandy blond with streaks of lighter blond and was cut in a bob. Her clothes were floral. She did not look like she belonged. A man moved in on my other side. His hair was that non-color that rests somewhere between blond and brown. His nose was pinched and his eyes were rat-like. He was wearing tan leather pants and a tan leather jacket.
"I'm the premier poet in Canada," He told me.
Apparently, I was only meeting Canada's A-list. Everyone I'd spoken to so far had either been the first or best to do something.
"I write poems about everything...things that inspire me," he gave me what he thought were sultry-eyes, "...like beauty."
"That's nice."
"Sometimes, for the right person, I make them up on the spot."
"Do you really?"
He asked my name and I gave it, curious to see where this would go. What I got in return was an extraordinarily sappy love ode, "inspired" by my name. By this I mean, he probably had a poem somewhere with "insert name here" written on the paper. I tried to pay attention.
It was harder to pay attention when I realized that the woman next to me had started slowly rubbing my thigh.
I jerked my head around to her, eyes wide. She invited me home with them to hear more wonderful poetry, her voice husky. The man, who I now realized was her husband (matching wedding bands), leaned over me and kissed her--his hand reaching out for my other thigh.
I bolted out of my seat and left the bar.
I went into the bathroom, where the poor girl was still throwing up. She was alone. I took over mother-hen responsibilities and poured her into a cab. We had to stop three times on the way back to the hotel for her to puke out the cab door. I diligently held her hair each time.
The next morning, the girl who was supposed to be watching her finally got home. She was no longer engaged, due to having spent the night banging random Canadians. O Canada, indeed.
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