Death by Denny's

I’m sat on a Greyhound bus on the way to Whistler, having just eaten a breakfast that contained my total calorie count for this week at least. This morning, my new travelling buddy Nick and I were introduced to the wonder that is Denny’s. Hungry for bacon and eager to get out of the torrential Vancouver rain, we stumbled into what looked to be our saviour. With such delights on the menu as the Grand Slamwich (Fried bread drenched in maple syrup, bacon, sausage, scrambled egg, a ridiculous amount of processed cheese and fried potato bits) we seemed to have found a winner.
Twenty minutes later though, we were wondering how long it would be before we could talk without getting out of breath. As good as a Denny’s breakfast is, I think I’ll only be having them sparingly. A triple heart bypass is not on my list of things to achieve in Canada.

Yesterday was both productive and extremely fortunate. We got Canadian phones and bank accounts set up, and managed to get a decent deal on both. One thing that has become apparent about Canada though is their determination to charge you for the most ridiculous things. You have to pay to have a bank account, for example, and my account only lets me make 25 debit card transactions (including taking money out of cash machines) before they start charging 65 cents each time. Silly. More bizarre is the monthly charge for the privilege of caller ID on your phone. This isn’t some fancy feature that we don’t get in England; caller ID is the remarkable technological breakthrough of being able to see which of your contacts is ringing you. I actually had to get the guy in the shop to explain to me what caller ID was, because I didn’t think they’d be cheeky enough to charge you for what is essentially a basic function of any phone back home. Still, I got a decent phone for about £18 and now I don’t have to put up with my Sony Ericsson turning itself off every five minutes.

After orientation yesterday we headed to Chinatown, via the heroin district. In the space of two minutes we were given directions to a vintage Chinese furniture shop by some weird old man, and followed down the street by a homeless guy asking for drug money. We found our way out of Smackville easy enough though, and discovered what is officially my favourite Chinese restaurant. Foo’s Ho-Ho Restaurant is run by a tiny Chinese lady, who I can only presume is the titular Foo, and she was amazing. Bustling round the plastic tables, she put all her energy into making sure every customer in the place was happy and knew that their dinner was on its way. I almost went for the standard beef in black bean sauce, but decided to be a bit more adventurous and plumped for the special steamed sole (but still in black bean sauce. It’s almost as good as gravy). For just under $20 I got two beers, two egg rolls and the nicest Chinese meal I think I’ve ever eaten. Foo-king excellent.

Last night we managed to stumble across more goodness. After another burger for dinner in an Irish bar called Johnnie Fox’s, we paid about £3 for a luxury Snakebite – which sat alongside Black’n’Tan and Irish Shandy on the menu – and almost enjoyed a game of baseball on the telly. We then somehow managed to blag free tickets into a battle of the bands gig, at which the best band was the house band doing Zeppelin covers as part of ‘British Night’. After a few too many rum and/or Southern Comfort and cokes and a pact to play ‘Stonehenge’ by Spinal Tap at an open mic night in Whistler, Nick and I continued our stumbling back to the hostel, blissfully unaware of the artery-attack to come the following morning.

According to an Aussie who lives there, jobs are fairly easy to come by in Whistler, so the priority today is getting a house. Once I have my own bed and can finally empty my Tardis-proportioned hand luggage, the adventure can properly begin.

Today’s wisdom: in Denny’s, honesty is the best policy. Ordering food is the worst.

NOTE: just passed through a place called Furry Creek. Megalolz.