Conreport Day 1
The city still bounced and vibrated and spoke with a thousand voices of a thousand machines all night long.
The last thing I did before stepping out the door was grab my hat. It's black, pork pie in style. For those unfamiliar with vintage headwear fashions, a pork pie hat is shaped like a pork pie. Pork pies are cooked in little cup-shaped dishes, with the pastry top draped over the cup and tucked in around the sides, creating a well defined lip and a round bit in the middle. It's not the most common of styles, but maybe that's why I like it.
I don't wear the hat as often as I should. Sometimes I wear it when I'm heading out on foot during midday, because it does a fine job of keeping the sun out of my eyes. The times when I wear it most, however, are when I'm traveling.
Today I was heading out to catch a bus. Then a boat, a bus, a plane, and a taxi. My destination would be San Diego, California, but I wasn't going to arrive until late that night. It was 8 in the morning, and my day had just begun.
The plan was simple, head to the peers and catch the Clipper to Seattle. Airfare's cheaper there, no boarders to cross and no Canadian flight taxes. The thing about traveling is it's always hard to decide how to dress because you end up entering and leaving so many different buildings and structures and vehicles that trying to prepare for each environment is like trying to prepare meals for a support group for food allergy sufferers. Whatever the temperature and weather, I always find use for a good hat. Adding reputability to my appearance while crossing the boarder's just half of it.
Crossing the boarder used to mean being sent to a little room and interrogated by a grim-faced customs agent who stared at me as if, with enough concentration, his X-Ray vision would kick in and he'd be able to see the bomb or the drugs or whatever it was I was clearly smuggling into his country. Now it seems apathy and experience make me much less suspicious of a character. What's that say about the world?
Airport security reminded me that I should go out of my way to pick socks without holes on days that I fly. Airplanes reminded me what boredom was. They connect the things with little tunnels that smell like diesel and traveling. Ever notice that traveling has a smell? It does, and I hate it. I'm always unreasonably happy to be arriving at my location. There's a thrill of being someplace new, or, at least, different, but mostly, for me, there is the thrill of being able to move once again.
The city greeted me with a lukewarm blast of air and a dazzling display of red and blue. The cops were crowding around, clogging the taxi line that waited to take the tourists to their hotels. A man had been struck, and, judging by the lengthy CPR process, killed by a taxi van. I didn't linger. It seemed disrespectful to stand and stare, always does. I know if it was me, I'd want a bit of privacy.
Taxis were blocked by cops, cops were blocked by ambulances, and ambulances weren't about to move for any reason. Lacking baggage, I'm a good deal faster than the average airplane goer, and so I was first in line for the taxis. Didn't do me much good, as they weren't moving.
A short, harmless looking woman was organizing the quickly growing crowd, forming people into lineups and trying to get the taxis to back out and line up on the other side. Ever tried to organize angry taxi drivers? Doesn't help that none of them speak English well. I'm not exaggerating, either. I know it's a stereotype, but I've yet to have a taxi driver from America that doesn't have some sort of foreign accent. At the same time, I've yet to have one that does from Canada. Then again, most of our immigrants are Americans.
Despite the best efforts of the unwashed masses to get ahead of me in the line, I found a taxi, with the aid of the short woman, and directed him to my hotel. Everything was familiar, nothing changed a bit in the year or so I'd been away. It was glorious. Ever been to a city twice? The second time it's just as new, without the intimidating unknowns lurking around every corner, unless you count the people, but they live in my city too.
The hotel still had a fantastic lobby. They still had a friendly, if overworked front-desk-man, and they still had a decrepit, claustrophobic elevator. I remembered that I usually took the stairs. Being situated on the second floor made this option even more tempting. The room still didn't have air conditioning, but I was still happy to be there.
The city still bounced and vibrated and spoke with a thousand voices of a thousand machines all night long. No greater lullaby has ever been written. I was asleep in minutes.
The last thing I did before stepping out the door was grab my hat. It's black, pork pie in style. For those unfamiliar with vintage headwear fashions, a pork pie hat is shaped like a pork pie. Pork pies are cooked in little cup-shaped dishes, with the pastry top draped over the cup and tucked in around the sides, creating a well defined lip and a round bit in the middle. It's not the most common of styles, but maybe that's why I like it.
I don't wear the hat as often as I should. Sometimes I wear it when I'm heading out on foot during midday, because it does a fine job of keeping the sun out of my eyes. The times when I wear it most, however, are when I'm traveling.
Today I was heading out to catch a bus. Then a boat, a bus, a plane, and a taxi. My destination would be San Diego, California, but I wasn't going to arrive until late that night. It was 8 in the morning, and my day had just begun.
The plan was simple, head to the peers and catch the Clipper to Seattle. Airfare's cheaper there, no boarders to cross and no Canadian flight taxes. The thing about traveling is it's always hard to decide how to dress because you end up entering and leaving so many different buildings and structures and vehicles that trying to prepare for each environment is like trying to prepare meals for a support group for food allergy sufferers. Whatever the temperature and weather, I always find use for a good hat. Adding reputability to my appearance while crossing the boarder's just half of it.
Crossing the boarder used to mean being sent to a little room and interrogated by a grim-faced customs agent who stared at me as if, with enough concentration, his X-Ray vision would kick in and he'd be able to see the bomb or the drugs or whatever it was I was clearly smuggling into his country. Now it seems apathy and experience make me much less suspicious of a character. What's that say about the world?
Airport security reminded me that I should go out of my way to pick socks without holes on days that I fly. Airplanes reminded me what boredom was. They connect the things with little tunnels that smell like diesel and traveling. Ever notice that traveling has a smell? It does, and I hate it. I'm always unreasonably happy to be arriving at my location. There's a thrill of being someplace new, or, at least, different, but mostly, for me, there is the thrill of being able to move once again.
The city greeted me with a lukewarm blast of air and a dazzling display of red and blue. The cops were crowding around, clogging the taxi line that waited to take the tourists to their hotels. A man had been struck, and, judging by the lengthy CPR process, killed by a taxi van. I didn't linger. It seemed disrespectful to stand and stare, always does. I know if it was me, I'd want a bit of privacy.
Taxis were blocked by cops, cops were blocked by ambulances, and ambulances weren't about to move for any reason. Lacking baggage, I'm a good deal faster than the average airplane goer, and so I was first in line for the taxis. Didn't do me much good, as they weren't moving.
A short, harmless looking woman was organizing the quickly growing crowd, forming people into lineups and trying to get the taxis to back out and line up on the other side. Ever tried to organize angry taxi drivers? Doesn't help that none of them speak English well. I'm not exaggerating, either. I know it's a stereotype, but I've yet to have a taxi driver from America that doesn't have some sort of foreign accent. At the same time, I've yet to have one that does from Canada. Then again, most of our immigrants are Americans.
Despite the best efforts of the unwashed masses to get ahead of me in the line, I found a taxi, with the aid of the short woman, and directed him to my hotel. Everything was familiar, nothing changed a bit in the year or so I'd been away. It was glorious. Ever been to a city twice? The second time it's just as new, without the intimidating unknowns lurking around every corner, unless you count the people, but they live in my city too.
The hotel still had a fantastic lobby. They still had a friendly, if overworked front-desk-man, and they still had a decrepit, claustrophobic elevator. I remembered that I usually took the stairs. Being situated on the second floor made this option even more tempting. The room still didn't have air conditioning, but I was still happy to be there.
The city still bounced and vibrated and spoke with a thousand voices of a thousand machines all night long. No greater lullaby has ever been written. I was asleep in minutes.