My alarm goes off. I am sitting upright in bed catching my second wind due to the renewed Internet availability. I switch off the alarm we had used to wake us up for the start of the previous day's travel; it was now heading for 12pm here. We had just arrived at the Deluxe Hotel, in name only, based in the heart of Vancouver’s china town. The hotel was built from paper walls and loud neighbours. The bathroom, although nothing special, had done its job; removing the stains from the previous 24 hours travel. Before switching the lights out and calling it a night, I pour us a couple of Macallan’s toasting our arrival to Canada.

My brain is abruptly shaken awake by my body clock at 5am (1pm GMT). Through sheer will and determination, I am able to roll over and get back to sleep, eventually coming around at 7am. We have a slow start to the day, putting on fresh clothes, repacking, getting a vague plan together and tucking away our freshly charged electronics. A swift check of the room is carried out before hauling our belongings to the Hotel’s reception, downstairs. Conversing with the receptionist, we get the lay of the land and manage to stow our luggage for safe keeping in a tiny back room. 

Staggering into the Vancouver morning breeze, we sniff the air for signs of a hearty breakfast. We aimlessly walk the streets passing various street signs, giving homage to the Scottish and Irish motherland. Eventually, we spot a prime candidate for breakfast, a Tim Horton’s, the very same Tim Horton who discovered Canada. The restaurant greets us with the smell of maple-cured bacon and scrambled egg muffins. We order up a couple along with coffee and a few sweet treats for dessert. Sitting down, near the window we get tucked into our delicious meal before a thoroughly displeased vagrant angrily batters the toilet door, screaming, “These damn kids! They will not get out of the bathroom!” The toilets were vacant but locked, open to customers only. He is shown out, angrily muttering under his breath, occasionally twitching. The Scots, the Scots never change.

After washing down our meal with some surprisingly tasty coffee, we catch the number eleven bus into town, our mission, to obtain a set of skis for Gavin. The bus meanders down the road for ten minutes before skyscrapers start to pop up, snaking through them before coming to a stop outside the Pacific Centre shopping mall. The centre of town seems much cleaner than our site of refuge, composed of tall glass towers and fancy waterfalls, waterfalls that seem comically unnecessary in an already dreich and rain soaked town.

A quick peruse through the Pacific Centre, and we obtain the best available Canadian SIM cards, vital to contact the outside world. This allows me to check-in my latest vital signs with the missus as well as track down the nearest ski shop for Gav. The Canadian shopping experience is a rather personal one in which we are greeted upon our arrival and hounded while looking through the merchandise. Gavin gets quickly paired up with the shop attendant manning the skis and is talked into getting the slightly longer and faster, K2 skis…. this year the rocket man is going to fly! He also purchases heat-moulded insoles to support his collapsed arches, but he has, unfortunately, forgotten his boots so cannot get his bindings fixed in-store. 

Shopping done and dusted, we park up at a restaurant for a quick pub lunch before catching the bus back to the Deluxe Hotel. At the third stop or so, an angry commuter, armed with a bike, confronts the bus driver. He tries to attach it to the front of the bus while the bus is trying to pull out into traffic. The commuter unleashes a storm on the driver, making muffled curse words and banging on the windscreen from outside the bus. The bus driver cancels his decision to pull out, opting to let him aboard. Once aboard, the commuter calmly shouts, “The bus is still at the bus stop… ay buddy” over his shoulder as he hurries to take a seat. I look at Gavin who is also trying to stop laughing, knowing we both want the driver to shout back “I’m not your buddy, friend” which would fully justify the South Park jokes we’d previously been making.

We were on the move for a long time, we were lagging eight hours behind Britain and our food and drink swanned in whenever it pleased. My stomach was starting to let me know about it. Most people tell me they get constipated when they travel: I am not most people. My stomach lurches on the bus forcing me to count down the stops amidst heavy breathing. After disembarking, I hastily walk across the road, not saying much to Gav, trying to focus my mind. I tell myself it is not long now until the hotel. 

Once inside, we banter with the receptionists, regaling them with tales from the city. Once the general patter dries up Gav asks if they could call us a cab to the bus station. At this point, I pipe up with the most pertinent question to my mind, “Where are the toilets?”. The receptionist replies, “We have no customer toilets but feel free to use the staff one” pointing towards a small cubby next to the desk. 

I sneak off quietly, locking myself inside. In one swift motion, I whirl around wheeching off my breeches and letting loose all matter of foul noises to ransack the place. Catching my breath after the worst of it is over I realise something terrible, I could clearly hear Gavin chatting up the girls outside! The toilet is constructed from the same damn paper walls as the rooms. I glow red-hot. Soon enough Gav was rattling the door, telling me the Taxi had arrived and he is going to leave without me. I sort my self out as quickly as I can and feel a rush of guilt and embarrassment when I can't find any air freshener. Washing up, I leave hastily, grabbing my massive rucksack and making my way to the getaway vehicle: no customer will ever get the privilege of using the staff toilet again.

My saviour, the taxi driver, was a middle-aged Indian man who mid-sentence, corrects Gav on India’s official sport (it was cricket not hockey as Gavin had asserted). I have never admired a man more. As it turned out the taxi driver had been watching a lot of sci-fi films and was convinced that men were about to be overthrown by machines, this led to some nervous head nodding from ourselves.

Despite the conspiracy theories, we arrive at the station with plenty of time to hand. The station is clean and modern, sporting marble flooring and wooden benches. Returning from the toilet, Gavin lets me know that there is a needle disposal box in the bathroom. I brainstorm, suggesting, “probably loads of diabetics in Canada?” He laughs saying “it’s more likely a bunch of junkies”. He backs this up with a quick Google on his newly connected phone. The station in a way describes Vancouver perfectly; a clean and modern city with the odd sprinkle of vagrants and heroin addiction. 

We stow away our bags before jumping on the bus, making our way towards the back. The coach gives a wheezing cough before the engine starts up and we trundle through a darkened Vancouver. The conductor at the front of the bus eases us into the journey with a travel itinerary spoken with the smoothest voice I’ve heard outside of Jazz radio; I drift off to sleep.