CHAPTER THE SECOND -- SEATTLE TO VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

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In which the first international border is crossed and an empire of inexpensive baked goods is revealed

Sunday, 20 September, 2026 — Wednesday, 23 September, 2026.

After an early morning departure from the Panama Hotel, we made our way back down the hill to the Seattle train station and embarked on the northbound train.*  The ride was pleasingly scenic and otherwise largely uneventful, which is just as it should be.

Arrival in Vancouver included the train being driven into a sort of secure foreigner-cage, clearly designed to stop escaping Americans** from immediately leaping from the train and scampering away into the freedom of the nearby British Columbian woods without first demonstrating possession of a passport.  We dutifully refrained from any unsanctioned scampering.  As a reward, we were soon allowed into the fabled land of moose and maple syrup.*******

It was at this moment that the Author realized that the proper time to set up a Canadian data plan via the Airalo app (more on this in later installments) would have been before the train crossed the border, as, while the Vancouver train station itself did offer free WiFi, said WiFi — at least at that time — did not include any internet access and was thus rather less useful than might have been envisioned.  Therefore, a taxi was engaged by the old-fashioned method of "waving at a taxi".  We were rapidly driven to our hotel (the Hotel Willo, which was lovely), where we left our luggage, logged into the hotel’s WiFi, and set up our Airalo data plans.

Unbelievably, a bit of messing about on Google Maps revealed that there was an eyeglasses repair shop a not-too-distant stroll away from the hotel, which opened, conveniently, at noon.  On Sunday!  Already, Vancouver was endearing itself to us.  We thus walked down to the shop, handed over the Author’s abused glasses, and ate lunch at a restaurant nearby.  About an hour later, we returned to the shop and retrieved the glasses, now in fine fettle once more.  (The Author does not remember exactly how much the repair cost, but does remember being pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t significantly more.)

We spent a lovely several days in Vancouver, checking off items on our list of goals, and finding new goals we didn’t know we had until we saw them.  Among other entertainments, we:

  • Spent a beautiful summer-like day in Stanley Park, which contains more attractions than we could possibly see in a day, and is not to be missed under any circumstances
  • Gawked at the endearingly out-of-tune Gastown Steam Clock and watched the steel balls solemnly rolling around within.
  • Rode a double-decker tourist bus around the city, hearing historical tidbits and watching other passengers embark and quickly hit their heads on the low ceiling.
  • Ate breakfast******** at a French bakery and had a lovely conversation with a British couple at the next table.
  • Tried poutine, which we of course found tasty, but it turned out to be the sort of thing the Author would associate with “hearty truck-stop food for people who ignore the concept of heart disease” rather than the “food you’d find at a fancy restaurant with cloth napkins and a sommelier” as the Frenchness of the name had automatically suggested to the Author’s not-so-distant Appalachian DNA.*********
  • Discovered the vast real estate empire of a man named Tim Horton, who apparently had secured retail space in such ubiquitous quantity as to make crullers available no more than an eight-minute walk from virtually any point in the city.
  • Did laundry in the hotel laundry room.**********

It turns out that much of our time in Vancouver was spent wishing we had more time in Vancouver.  But we didn’t, and so… we left for Maui.


The aforementioned Steam Clock. Vancouverites aren't actually all tiny; this is just what humans look like from the Author's natural elevation.

RETIREMENT TAKEAWAY: Considering this was just a whistlestop and we haven’t been there long enough to come anywhere near an educated conclusion, it thoroughly intrigued us.  If we were richer, we’d almost certainly add it to the list of “need to look at this seriously” locations.  However, it’s still in the Pacific Northwest and therefore still suffers from the “rent will crush you” problem.

* If the Reader ever takes this journey, the Reader is strongly advised to secure a window seat on the port (left) side of the train.  The views of the water and islands are well worth the trouble!

** The Author uses the term advisedly, as “American” should, by rights, apply to all persons hailing from anywhere from Prudhoe Bay to Tierra del Fuego.  But “USAian” rolls off the tongue like a particularly adhesive cinder block***, so “American” it remains until a more satisfactory alternative can be found.

*** Or “breeze block”, for the benefit of all of the UK and UK-adjacent Readers**** of this blog.

**** For the record, the Author currently estimates the exact number of said Readers to closely approach, if not precisely equal, zero.*****

***** This fact, of course, renders the last several sets of asterisks largely useless and, by this point, perhaps even distinctly irritating to the Reader. ******

****** The Author tenders his most abject apologies to the Reader, and intends sincerely to endeavor to attempt to try to more successfully at least partially contain the Author’s asterisqual enthusiasms in future.

******* By way of clarification, “moose” and “maple syrup” are intended to be read as separate items, not as a combination like “bacon and eggs” or “fish and chips”.  The Author, sadly, knows of no such Canadian National Dish as may have been inadvertently implied, and regrets any unwarranted Getting Up of the Reader’s Hopes.

******** To be scrupulously honest, at this particular meal, the line between “breakfast” and “dessert” was not only blurred, but erased entirely under a relentless tide of whipped cream, strawberries, and happiness.  ‘Twas glorious indeed.

********* Some would call it “hillbilly DNA”, but the Author’s family was of a higher class than the term “hillbilly” would suggest.  The preferred term is, therefore, “hillwilliam”, and the Reader will be thanked to remember that.

********** This one wasn’t quite as glamorous as the others, but was important nonetheless.


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