07/30/04’s illustrious band:

Hatley Castle

Northwest Notes, Chapter 9

Brought to you by Hatley Castle.
[Sorry I left you hanging yesterday, but my mailbox coughed up a new album that needed listening to. Hey, even Media Sensations have hobbies, all right?]

Stop #3 on Saturday, July 10 was Hatley Castle. If Butchart Gardens is the Vegas of show gardens, Hatley Castle is the Buckingham Palace. Where the former wows the visitor with color and action, the latter impresses with stately elegance and sheer scope. Originally the home of the extremely wealthy Dunsmuir family, Hatley Castle evolved into a military training ground and is now part of Royal Roads University. Just to compare private homes for a minute, Sensational Acres -- house, garage, and grounds -- could have fit comfortably inside the first floor grand hall, with room to spare in the servants' wings. And there were two more floors above. And that was just the main house!

Anyway. The 600 or so acres at Hatley are maintained entirely by volunteers. One of them, our guide David Rutherford, spent several hours on his day off (like the previous two guides) showing us around. He walked us through the castle, even though it was closed for the weekend, to show us the artifacts and history of the Dunsmuir family. For some reason, this was much more interesting than the Azkaban history, possibly because David was simply showing it to us rather than preaching the Gospel According to Dunsmuir.

In fact, David spoke, from memory, about the property, buildings, plants, people, wildlife, history, and politics of the castle for about three hours straight. Three hours! He assured us that he was enjoying the tour as much as we were, since he seldom had a chance to walk the grounds any more. Clearly, the guy loved his job, and his pleasure earned him the title of Favorite Guide of the Week (with St. Joan running a close second).

The Hatley estate was incredible. In addition to having served as a location set for the filming of X-Men 2, which earned it high marks in this sci-fi buff's book, the Hatley grounds boasted an Edwardian garden, an Italianate garden, a Japanese expanse with a large pond/small lake and a fishing pagoda, a rose garden, a primeval forest, manicured lawns, a well-stocked pond/lake complete with fish ladders so the fish could swim upstream to spawn, enormous old trees, enormous young peacocks, a raccoon, and at least one garter snake. There are greenhouses and outbuildings and ocean views and grottoes and a waterwheel and some bonsai plantings and a croquet lawn, too. And the computer lab of Royal Roads University is housed in the old dairy building.

Whew! Breathless yet? We were, too. Could have stayed and wandered all day. But David had other things to get to, like his job as a regent of another college, so eventually we bid him farewell.

We were free for the rest of the day. We returned the trusty rented Grand Am at a terribly convenient location in downtown Victoria a block from the Crystal Garden Conservation Centre. We'd wanted to stop there earlier but didn't have enough time to justify the admission price. Saturday afternoon was a perfect time for ogling exotic tropical plants and animals. One of the first things we saw upon entering was a pair of flamingos, which caused me to burst briefly and flatly into song. Fortunately, I only know a few lines of this tune and quickly fell silent -- but not before slightly embarrassing G-Doc, who is not prone to sudden bursts of song himself.

The plants and the butterfly room were great, but my favorite part was being molested by one of the flamingos' friends, a puna ibis. Clearly the ibis was accustomed to visitors; it strode right up to G-Doc as we stood on the walkway admiring some fuchsias. G-Doc got out of the bird's way, but I stayed put. The ibis eyed me curiously, then began to investigate this obstacle in its path. Taptaptap went the long, curved bill on the top of my shoe. It tickled. Taptaptap on the shoelaces. Taptaptap on the other shoe. No luck. Not tasty. Taptaptap on the hem of my jeans. Taptaptap on my shin. Again, not a food source, but maybe good for something. The ibis grasped the cuff of my pants in its beak and began worrying the material this way and that, perhaps to see if it could be carried off and made into nesting material. Alas, another defeat; the material would not come loose. So with a final taptaptap on my shoe, the ibis gave me a disgusted look and returned to its pond.

According to St. Joan, the Crystal Garden, a lovely outpost of wilderness in the heart of the city is slated to be torn down soon and replaced with a multimedia centre of some kind. Why interact with real birds, butterflies, and plants when you could view reasonable facsimiles on a screen, right? Progress. Don't get Joan started on this topic, man. You'll get an earful.

Well, that was it for us. Nothing else at the conservatory could compare to being henpecked by an ibis, so we departed. We wound down our final evening in Canada in Chinatown, where I discovered that the Chinese-Canadian definition of "spicy" kung pao chicken differs markedly from the suburban Minnesotan version of same. But it was still good, and my sinuses remained crystal clear for the rest of the trip. And there was ice cream for dessert.

Next time: The Media Sensation's fame precedes her.

Today around the world: July 30 is System Administrator Appreciation Day here in the Colonies.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/28/04’s illustrious band:

Tim Horton's Bits

Northwest Notes, Chapter 8

Brought to you by Tim Horton. And his bits, of course.

Saturday, July 10 was garden tourism a go-go. And go we did. We kicked off with the gardens of Government House, where volunteer guide and gardener Hazel Van Slyke met us to conduct a tour on her day off. Government House is the residence and office of Her Honor, The Leftenant Governor of British Columbia, the Queen's representative in the province. (Lef-what? Leftenant -- the British/Canadian version of Lieutenant. Well, Hazel was a former Brit, so maybe not all Canadians pronounce it that way.) In fact, as we set out, we encountered one of Her Honor's aides arriving at the office in full braid-and-beret dress uniform. On a Saturday, yet.

The extensive GH grounds, which are the property of the taxpayers of BC, are open to the public from dawn 'til dusk. Numerous garden "rooms" are each supervised and maintained by a staff of volunteers like Hazel. I don't know enough about plants to accurately describe the place, other than to say it's grand, but I did really enjoy the duck pond. Hit the link above for useful information.

Stop #2: Azkaban. Er, I mean Abkhazi Garden. Guess I've been reading a little too much Harry Potter, eh? Anyway, Abkhazi was once a private home with an impressive urban garden; now it's open to the public. We were served scalding tea in delicate china cups on the terrace overlooking the garden while waiting for our guide Dick, who had been delayed at home by a ceiling painting project (eggshell, by the looks of his hands).

Dick arrived by bicycle before the tea was cool enough drink -- like Hazel, on his day off -- and proceeded to regale us at great and rambling length with the history of the house and its owners. Something about a grand love story spanning many decades and continents. Dick meant well, I'm sure, but he was not a talented storyteller, and we did not care about the financial affairs of the homeowners' servants; we just wanted to see the garden already. But no amount of body language or suggestion of a tight schedule was going to stir Dick off that terrace until he had completed his spiel, which took him so long that I had time to figure out whether the turtle on the rock in the pond was real. It was; I saw it move ever so slowly, but still faster than Dick.

Abkhazi Garden, while small in contrast to where we'd just been, was comfortable and engaging, following the contours of the landscape and incorporating its many rock outcroppings. Poor Dick kept saying "Good for you!" every time G-Doc correctly identified a plant . . . which was every time G-Doc identified a plant. Dick did not seem to grasp the fact that he was talking to an expert, and G-Doc politely kept his corrections of the plant names to a murmur for my ears alone. Azkaban was nice, but we were relieved to escape its bounds in the end.

Our third scheduled stop was Hatley Castle, a short drive out of town. We had enough time to venture farther up the road to the village of Sooke in search of lunch. The twisty drive through evergreen forests reminded me very much of my home in the Black Hills, so I enjoyed it immensely. We stopped at a roadside park that turned to have a rugged trail down through the trees to a little bay, yet another inlet of the Pacific. We hopped from rock to rock, trying to avoid stepping on the squishy, stinky seaweed washed up on shore, and skipped stones into the ocean. Had we packed a picnic, it would have been the perfect spot. But we hadn't, and hunger drove us back up the hillside.

We agreed that it was time to have lunch at a Tim Hortons restaurant. (Perhaps my biggest beef with Canada is the missing apostrophe in that name, which ought to be a possessive. Would it kill ya to call it Horton's? Eh?) I'd been hearing about Tim Hortons from G-Doc ever since we entered the country, and he'd been hearing about it from his coworkers for weeks before we left, so clearly this was a must-see. Tim Hortons, owned by a popular Canadian hockey player, is sort of the Mr. Donut of Canada. Although you can get a basic sandwich or a bowl of soup there, the specialty of the house is coffee and donuts. And Tim Horton's Bits.

Once I got over my giggling fit (one of them, anyway), I learned that "bits," in this context, means donut holes. You can buy bits individually for $0.15 each or in multiples of 10 for even lower prices. (Why not by the dozen, the normal unit of measure for bulk quantities of donuts? G-Doc's theory is that Canadian bakeries operate on the metric system.) So we each got a forgettable sandwich and a box of bits and went away happy. Crispy/sugary on the outside, fluffy/lardy on the inside . . . them's good bits!

Tomorrow: The castle, the ibis, and the meaning of "spicy."

Today around the world: July 28 is Olavsoka Eve in the Faroe Islands.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/27/04’s illustrious band:

The Tangential Van

Northwest Notes, Chapter 7

Brought to you by Victoria, BC. It ain't called the City of Gardens for nothin', folks.

Our tour with St. Joan continued on Friday, July 9. After appreciating the elegance of Lily's spread, our next stop was to be Terry's country garden a little way out of town. Since we had a few minutes before our appointed arrival, Joan offered to convey us via the scenic route. Neither G-Doc nor I would have known the difference, so we agreed readily. And made sure our seatbelts were fastened.

Joan was a saint of a guide, she really was, but her driving was a bit . . . shall we say . . . frightening. She's not a multitasker, or at least not a gifted one. That means that when she was just driving, she drove very well, and when she was just talking with us, she was eloquent and amusing. It was when she tried to combine the two that things got scary. We had, for instance, several near-misses with pedestrians and the many souls hardy enough to tackle Victoria's hills on bikes, numerous twitching stops and starts, and a couple of sudden swerves that left our knuckles white on the armrests.

Our route also followed the twists and turns of Joan's conversation, which was anything but linear. This resulted in our seeing Beacon Hill Park and North America's tallest freestanding totem pole twice (once from each side) and the city's oldest cemetery three times; we kept repassing landmarks as Joan thought of more things to show us "just over there." Every time her thoughts took a tangent, the van followed, so that by the time G-Doc and I were left to navigate Victoria on our own the following day, we were able to find our way around quite well. Still, did I mention that Joan did all this entirely on a volunteer basis?

So we reached Terry's by a route that would have shaken even the most determined of tails and were pleasantly surprised by yet another style of garden. Terry's garden combined the space and care of Lily's with the slightly overgrown exuberance of Birgit's. The result was an overall sense of charm and comfort, of new things to be discovered just around the corner in yet another outdoor "room." I could have spent an hour gazing Zenlike into the centers of dahlias, but Joan sheepdogged me back to G-Doc's side whenever I strayed.

On the way back to town, we thanked Joan profusely and sincerely for both the formal and impromptu tours. She inquired as to our plans for the next day and was dismayed to learn that we weren't scheduled for a proper tour of Victoria. Were we expected for dinner anywhere, she asked, or did we have a few minutes?

Next thing we knew, the minivan was twisting its way up to the top of Mt. Tolmie, the highest point in town. From there we overlooked not only the city below, but also several mountain ranges, the Pacific Ocean, the San Juan Islands, and the hazy shapes of Washington and Vancouver across the way. Spectacular! We also heard a rambling story about people who farm British Columbia's largest cash crop which, because it's an illegal one, was never mentioned by name -- possibly the most interesting discussion of plant life I heard all week.

By then it was dinnertime, and since G-Doc and I had no firm plans, Super Guide offered to help us with that, too. After a harrowing but mercifully brief ride through the teeming downtown streets, St. Joan escorted us to a favorite pub near the bay for burgers, beer, and more plant talk. She also revised our next day's itinerary for us to allow more time for sight-seeing, advising that we wouldn't need to spend as much time as planned at this place and that, and we should just tell so-and-so that we needed to be on our way by 11:30. There! Done! Having little to contribute to the conversation, I spent a lot of time enjoying my fries and admiring the great variety of humanity passing by outside.

I was jolted back to the present by St. Joan's firm announcement that "OK, it's time for you to go now."

What? Excuse us? Was it something we said?

No, no, we hadn't offended. In fact, Joan had found us to be lovely company all day. But it was getting late, she noted, and, ever in tour guide mode, she advised us to stroll leisurely through Chinatown on our way back to the Mag. If we wanted to shop before things closed down for the night, it was time to set out. Now.

Who were we to argue with a saint? We thanked Joan yet again and hustled out as directed -- but not without stopping at the cash register to pay for Joan's meal, which was the only time we disobeyed her.

So we did walk back through Chinatown, where I wondered in one block-long, narrow shop if some grizzled character actor was about to slink out of the shadows and offer to sell me some alien seed pods or something. We also found a place called Market Square, a courtyard enclosed by shops. There was, to G-Doc's delight, a plant show and sale in progress in the square, so he parked me on a bench and spent half an hour making all kinds of new Canadian friends.

Back out on the street, a couple dodgy-looking characters tried to make friends with us, too. They claimed that their pickup had just gotten towed and that they needed a few bucks to get it out of impound. G-Doc and I distrusted them on sight. "Sorry!" we said. "We just arrived and have no Canadian money, and no American money either; only traveler' s cheques. Shall we find a Mountie for you?" No, a Mountie wouldn't be necessary, mumblemumble. And thus occurred my only real act of bodyguarding, if you can call it that.

The only unpleasant thing about Victoria, as far as I could tell -- and G-Doc differs with me on this -- is tiger ice cream. We found this on the menu at one of the many ice cream shops lining the sidewalks. (The Twin Cities should take a lesson!) Tiger ice cream is not made with real tigers; it's orange-flavored ice cream with stripes of black licorice running through it. Whose bright idea was that? "It's a kids' flavor," the scooper shrugged. "Ridiculous!" I exclaimed, licking the drips off my Oreo cone.

Back at the Mag, I found that my mini-fridge had malfunctioned, and the afternoon's leftover sandwich had become the evening's biohazard. A quick trip to the garbage can near the elevators took care of that, and I enjoyed a sound night's sleep before the busy day we had planned on the morrow.

Tomorrow: The Media Sensation grabs Tim Horton's Bits.

Today around the world: July 27 is Cross Atlantic Communication Day in the U.S. of A. Hey, England! Your shoe's untied!

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/26/04’s illustrious band:

St. Joan

Northwest Notes, Chapter 6

Brought to you by Victoria, BC. It ain't called the City of Gardens for nothin', folks.

At promptly 2:00 p.m., PDT, on Friday, July 9 G-Doc and I met Joan Lody, our guide for a trio of private garden tours. We knew immediately, from across the lobby, who she was. If the broad-brimmed canvas hat with the fake posy pinned to the brim hadn't given her away, the floral-print skirt would have. And she carried a clipboard, as all good guides do, regardless of milieu. She was a stout lady with a forthright face and a bad case of psoriasis on her hands, and the gleam in her eye suggested perhaps more zeal than we were prepared to deal with. G-Doc and I exchanged looks of trepidation. But when she lit up with delight at the prospect of showing a true gardening professional (and his chauffeur and bodyguard) some of Victoria's premier private gardens, we couldn't help but like her.

Joan turned out to have a heart as big as the world. She bustled us into her minivan without delay and headed up the hill (one of many) toward our first stop, the home of a woman named Birgit. Joan knew her Victoria geography and history at least as well as her gardens and pointed out enough landmarks that I made myself motion sick swiveling toward first one window and then another. We mentally bookmarked several places for visits the following afternoon when we had some free time.

Birgit's garden, not far from downtown, looked like a seed catalog had exploded over a small urban plot. It was a riot of color, texture, height, and depth, nonstop action in s small space -- the Jackie Chan of gardens, it seemed to me. And like Jackie, it was charming and inviting. This was the house and garden she'd grown up in, lovingly embellished. Birgit had built her own fences, gates, and arbors from sticks she gathered in the woods, and she'd fashioned several mosaics from stones she picked up on the beach. She had a patio, secreted from the street by tall grasses, painted in a black and white checkerboard pattern. To the side sat large wooden blocks for playing checkers, which she recalled doing by the hour as a child.

It was in Birgit's garden that I first got to experience plants that smelled like chocolate, peanut butter, or pineapple when I rubbed their leaves between my fingers. This gave me the wild notion of planting a junk food garden, where all the plants smelled like something good to eat. But it looks like I'll have to put my grand plans on hold, for G-Doc informs me that the plants in Victoria's near-Mediterranean climate would not fare well here in the snow belt.

Next up was Lily's garden. It was as we approached Lily's yard that Joan first displayed her saint-like tendencies. We had to cross the street at a dangerous corner, where a sharp bend in the street prevented oncoming drivers from seeing pedestrians until they were upon them. Joan remarked that this was the point in the tour where she usually flung her body between her tour group and onrushing cars. G-Doc and I laughed, looked both ways, and started to cross. But Joan barked at us to Get back! Startled, we did, and watched with no small horror as she strode into the street and planted herself squarely in the path of oncoming traffic, legs wide, arms akimbo. She was serious! We hustled across to safety, and so, fortunately, did Joan.

Lily's garden was about as different from Birgit's as the Mag was from the BBL&S. Lily lived in the Uplands, one of the highest hills in town with one of the grandest views out over the ocean and mountain ranges beyond. Upscale indeed. Birgit had no grass at all in her small plot, but you could have played a few holes of golf on Lily's manicured lawn. Rather than crowding eagerly to the fenceline begging to be admired, Lily's borders lounged at a discrete distance, the plants each a comfortable distance from the others. The whole spread was beautifully arranged, an excellent example of suburban garden design. Lots of hostas.

By the time we were halfway through Lily's garden, it had been a couple hours since my bottle of water at lunch, and I needed to use the washroom (that's the bathroom to Americans). Lily pointed me into the kids' bathroom off the kitchen of her large and lovely home, where I gratefully availed myself of the facilities while the others continued their rounds. Upon finishing, it's my habit to lower the lid; I have cats at home, and therefore a fear of what could end up in the toilet if I didn't cover it. So I reached behind me with my usual deft flick of the wrist -- and the lid flew into the bathtub.

No, my chi is not really that powerful. The lightweight plastic lid had not, as it turned out, been attached to the toilet seat at the hinges, but merely propped against the tank, and my little love tap turned it into a discus. The clatter was unbelievable, and I thanked my lucky stars that the rest of the group was probably at the far end of the yard by now. I quickly returned the lid to its original, upright position and headed back out.

Joan met me at the back door with a slightly quizzical expression on her earnest face. I was sure she'd heard the commode commotion, but I wasn't going to bring it up unless she did. After a moment, she apparently decided against it. Instead, apparently accustomed to returning wayward chicks to the flock, she herded me back to the tour group (which consisted only of Lily and G-Doc) with a firm, "Kimberly, we're going to the side yard now." Yes, ma'am. And I stuck close to the group for the rest of our time at Lily's.

Tomorrow: St. Joan gets us high.

Today around the world: July 26 is the Day of Iansa in Brazil.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/23/04’s illustrious band:

Vector: Victoria

Northwest Notes, Chapter 5

Brought to you by the Victoria, BC. It ain't called the City of Gardens for nothin', folks.

Friday, July 9 was the day we bid a fond farewell to the BBL&S -- but not right away. Checkout time wasn't until noon, so G-Doc and I went our separate ways for the morning. After a three-course gourmet breakfast -- did I mention the three-course gourmet breakfasts? -- he opted for a return trip to Butchart Gardens to enjoy the plants without getting detoured to the toolsheds, and got rained on for the first and only time of our trip.

I had expressed interest in getting a massage in the spa part of the BBL&S, whereupon PR maven (and fine dining companion) Jessica informed me that it would, of course, be complimentary. Of course! As were the tea in the Tranquillity Lounge beforehand and the aromatic steam shower afterward. The massage was as good as the food, and Chloe, my masseuse, earned a generous tip. Viva la BBL&S!

Come noon, we packed up the Grand Am and headed south to the city of Victoria. With G-Doc in charge of maps and me at the wheel, we drove straight into the city, straight downtown, and straight to the curb outside our hotel, the botanically named Magnolia. The Mag, as we called it, was a model of European elegance of a certain era, stolid where the BBL&S had been serene, a trifle worn around the edges. No homemade cookies, no hand-carved candleholders, no Sommelier Brian lecturing us about wine. It was the perfect location for what we wanted to do, though, so we liked it just fine.

We had reached the Mag with an hour to spare before our afternoon engagement with Joan, who was to guide us to three private gardens in Victoria. After dumping our car with the valet (!) and our baggage in our rooms (G-Doc got a corner room with a view of the bay, the lucky so-and-so), we hit the streets in search of eats. There were plenty of storefront cafes downtown offering prepackaged sandwiches and pastries, including the ubiquitous Nanaimo Bar, the composition of which we never did determine.

The problem we ran into was finding someplace whose prepared sandwiches weren't slimy with mayonnaise, a substance neither of us can abide. Eventually we did, however, and devoured half a sandwich apiece on the way back to the Mag to meet our guide. The remainders went into the little fridges in our rooms, which in my case turned out not to be such a good idea.

So we descended to the Mag lobby and immediately spotted the personage who could only be Joan, Garden Guide Extraordinnaire . . . and here we end for the day, because Joan deserves a chapter all her own. This is what's known in the media biz as a cliffhanger. See you Monday!

Next time: St. Joan and the Tangential Minivan -- for real this time, I promise.

Yesterday around the world: July 22 was Pi Approximation Day. I forgot to explain that this date was chosen because when you write it European style, it's 22/7. Sister-san points out that March 14, or 3.14, would have been an equally good choice.

Today around the world: July 23 is Revolution Day in Egypt.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/22/04’s illustrious band:

Escape from Beacon Street

Northwest Notes, Chapter 4

Brought to you by the Horticulture Centre of the Pacific of beautiful, bountiful British Columbia. That's a British-style Centre with an R-E, eh?

After the dazzling tour of Butchart Gardens in the morning, Thursday, July 8 continued with -- what else? -- food. At lunchtime, we met the generous souls from ConTech, who had sponsored our trip, at the Victoria State Winery. We dined on the deck at the foot of a mountain, and although it was July, heaters in the ceiling took the edge off a slight chill. Anthony, Karen and Eric were very pleasant company, patiently answering our questions about Canadians (yes, most of them really are that nice) and real estate prices (no, G-Doc and I cannot afford to move to BC). They insisted that we have dessert, and we were happy to comply. Although we were at a winery, no one ordered any alcohol. Our hosts didn't want to get drowsy on their back to work, and after the previous evening's sweaty bovine experience, G-Doc and I were pretty well wined out.

Our afternoon appointment was at the Horticulture Centre of the Pacific. This was the first place we were not greeted as visiting dignitaries; the head lady just thrust a map into G-Doc's hands and bade us enjoy the grounds. It was kind of a relief, actually. We'd been treated so enthusiastically already that we both felt as if we were imposing on the entire province's hospitality. The HCP is run entirely by volunteers, so I doubt anyone had time to squire us around anyway.

The five cultivated acres of the HCP seemed cozy compared to the sprawl of Butchart Gardens, but more manageable, and much less crowded. We enjoyed a quiet ramble until about 3:30. I was pretty pleased with myself, for under G-Doc's expert tutelage, I grew able to reliably identify hostas, fuchsias, South American verbena, hydrangeas, and the monkey puzzle tree. This represented a 500% increase in my floral knowledge base, as I was able to name only the hosta before.

Anyway, the rest of our day was free, so we decided that it was time for a drive. As G-Doc's appointed chauffeur, I remained at the wheel while he navigated. We stopped at a place that appeared to be a combination plant nursery and junkyard, a far cry from the manicured grounds we'd experienced thus far, but were frankly afraid of what might be lurking in the weeds and so left quickly.

Our wanderings took as far as the town of Sidney. We parked on Beacon Street around 4:30 and started prowling the many small bookstores, where G-Doc was mistaken for someone in his late 30s by a merchant who obviously needed to clean his glasses. When we stepped outside, we quickly became aware that on Thursdays, Beacon Street plays host to a farmers' market/arts & crafts fair/street fair starting at 5:00. It was already 5:05, so we hoofed it back to the rented Grand Am just as a street vendor was trying to figure out how to erect his tent around it. It took several minutes to ease away from the curb and down the now-blocked street, apologizing out both windows all the way. Dang tourists!

At this point, we started thinking about supper. We weren't actually hungry yet but figured we'd better plan ahead. It's a good thing we did, too, because outside downtown Victoria, there are apparently only half a dozen restaurants on Vancouver Island, one of them the Fine Dining Room back at the BBL&S and one a McDonald's, both of which were on our "no thanks" list. We drove around for at least another hour looking for someplace to eat and finding none. None! G-Doc had to keep his finger on the car radio's "seek" button the whole time, too; BC stations are way too fond of early 80s rock.

After passing up a few greasy-looking roadside diners, we eventually ended up back at the BBL&S, where we opted to eat in the attached pub rather than search further. Simple beers and bowls of pasta, followed by ice cream cones from the Chinese restaurant across the street, were just right. We wound down with a stroll through the neighborhood, which I can confidently say is rich in hostas and fuchsias and hydrangeas, but not in South American verbena or monkey puzzle trees. Plenty of arbutus trees, though, with their peculiar peeling bark and strawberry-colored underlayer. In fact, the Fine Dining Room was actually called the Arbutus Room.

I spent the next 45 minutes or so in the jacuzzi. Did I mention the jacuzzi? The bathtub is big enough for two and as deep as a hot tub. The touch of a button activates the air jets, a perfect antidote to a day spent trekking through gardens. I could have watched a movie while I soaked; the tub room was divided from the main room by a wall with a big shuttered window in the middle. Just throw back the shutters and you could see the TV, or look on through the room to the ocean/mountain scene beyond. I lit the five votive candles in their hand-carved holder and did just that.

Eventually I got my pruny self out of the tub and into one of the plush robes lurking in my closet (which is bigger than any closet back home at Sensational Acres by about 20 cubic feet), drained the tub, and settled on the bed to explore Canadian cable TV. You'll be happy to know that there's just much worthless drivel polluting the airwaves in French as in English.

Anyway, about 15 minutes after rising like Venus from the foam, I was startled by a sudden whooshing sound from the tub room. The jacuzzi air jets had come back on in the empty tub and were spouting merrily, noisily away. It took me a long 90 seconds to hit the right combination of buttons to turn them off. I almost called the front desk again, but was too embarrassed after having called for help with the reading lamps the night before. Exhausted from my efforts, I was soon sound asleep beneath the mountainous duvet.

Tomorrow: St. Joan and the Tangential Minivan.

Today around the world: July 22 is Pi approximation Day here at home (not to be confused with Pi Day, which of course is March 21).

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

07/21/04’s illustrious band:

Eyewash Station

Northwest Notes, Chapter 3

Brought to you by Butchart Gardens of beautiful, bountiful British Columbia. That's in Canada, eh?

Thursday, July 8 was pretty active. G-Doc and I spent the morning at Butchart Gardens, the Las Vegas of show gardens. Tickets were complimentary, thanks to our beloved organizer, Heather, of Tourism Victoria. Our guide was a guy named Paul who talked a lot about how he was phasing toward retirement after working at the gardens for a very, very long time. Paul currently works only three days a week, Tuesday through Thursday, and is gradually cutting back his hours. But he can't quit yet because he just found out that he needs $1,500 worth of dental work, and even in Canadian dollars, that's a lot of money. So he needs to keep the job for a while.

Paul knew the history of the Butchart family, their limestone mines, and the 55 acres of gardens Mrs. Butchart developed to rehabilitate the bleak pit that resulted from the mining. He also knew the name of every other employee we encountered and always stopped to give each of them some friendly ribbing.

Like many of the people we would encounter on our trip, Paul wasn't quite sure who I was, nor how to introduce me to his colleagues. G-Doc's presence, as a garden magazine editor touring gardens, was easy to explain. I however, was usually referred to as, "and . . . uh . . . Kim." Except by Paul, who couldn't remember my name and so presented me to a junior gardener as "Mr. Hancock's driver and bodyguard." Nice work if you can get it.

Because G-Doc and I were VIPs, Paul led us quickly through the public areas of Butchart Gardens and then treated us to a behind-the-scenes tour. We saw the greenhouses (all 22 of them!), the potting sheds, and compost heaps two stories high. He also showed us every toolshed on the property, and every emergency phone and eyewash station. Paul is very big on safety. G-Doc, in his natural element, proved far more adept at identifying the plants than Paul was and kept up a quiet commentary for my benefit. This did not seem to bother Paul, who had told us he was deaf in his left ear and apparently missed most of it.

Interestingly, the Butchart Gardens arborists (tree doctors) are world-renowned for their safety program. The do most of their work up in the trees, suspended by ropes and harnesses much like mountain climbers. They know how to administer first aid while dangling and how to rescue an injured coworker, all without damaging the tree. I wouldn't have minded seeing a demonstration, but no arborists were aloft at the time of our visit. Paul even showed us the shed where they hang their gear very neatly to dry.

Butchart Gardens also puts on a big fireworks display several nights a week, so we got to walk past the pyrotechnics equipment and storage areas. We were not, however, allowed very near it, nor near the shed where the actual explosives are kept. Paul is very big on safety.

To summarize, WOW. Vancouver Island, where we spent the Canadian portion of our trip, boasts an enviable microclimate that is a gardener's dream. All the gardens we visited were spectacular, but Butchart was designed with jaw dropping in mind. The weather was mild, sunny with temperatures in the high 70s/low 80s with moderate humidity, for most of our stay. We were told that it doesn't get very cold in the winter -- almost no snow, little frost -- and that parts of the island are almost subtropical. Plants grow on that island that would never survive in the icy Midwest, so G-Doc was beside himself with envy for flora he could only dream about. He couldn't even bring samples home to experiment with indoors; transporting plants across the border is illegal. So he had to content himself with touching everything in every plant nursery we passed. And I was happy to drive him and keep him safe from harm.

Tomorrow: I explain how it's possible to starve in Eden.

Today around the world: July 21 is Chungbacixi Festival (Paying Homage to the Holy Mountain) in Tibet.

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07/20/04’s illustrious band:

Sweaty Bovine Nature

Northwest Notes, Chapter 2

Brought to you by Brentwood Bay Lodge & Spa of beautiful, bountiful Victoria, British Columbia. That's in Canada, eh?

Yesterday, I promised to reveal what oysters, caribou, and dragons have in common. Today, the answer: all can be found in the Fine Dining Room of the BBL&S.

Our hostess for the evening of July 7 was Jessica, recent college graduate and newly minted PR director of the BBL&S. The lodge had been open for only five weeks, she explained, and since the Garden Doctor and I were VIPs, the management would be pleased to treat us to dinner and hear our feedback on the meal and service. G-Doc and I were happy to help out. Soon after arriving at the lodge, we ironed some appropriate clothing and met Jessica at a table with a perfect view of sunset over the bay and mountains.

G-Doc and I are both more likely to be found in restaurants that feature plastic trays and supersize options than in fine dining establishments, so we were gratified to learn that Jessica was in the same boat. Despite her employment, she had never had dinner at the lodge, and certainly not from Chef Brock's Menu Gastronomique. And certainly not with a different wine accompanying every course, and absolutely not with a . . . creative sommelier accompanying the wine.

The first dish proudly presented by Steven, our waiter, was the appetizer, a single fresh oyster in its shell on a bed of coarse sea salt, garnished with lemon and a sprig of . . . something. Steven waited expectantly for us to enjoy this delicacy so he could relay our appreciation to Chef Brock.

A glance around the table indicated that none of us was eager to tackle the gelatinous globs. G-Doc and I both avoid shellfish, and most other seafood, where we can. Jessica seemed equally inclined. So I took a deep breath and reached for my lemon wedge. I squeezed as much juice as possible over the oyster, then picked up a fork -- which I fervently hoped was the right fork, because we'd gotten no salad, an omission that threw off my cutlery rhythm for the rest of the meal. I speared the oyster and -- oops! -- dropped it in the salt pile. Twice. One crunchy chomp and down the hatch it went, followed, after what I hoped was a discrete interval, by a generous slug of the first wine of the evening. My companions followed suit, and we were able to send Steven back to the kitchen with a favorable report. I'm sure it was a terrific treat, if you like that sort of thing, but I'm sorry to say it was wasted on me.

Thankfully, the oyster was the most difficult thing we had to deal with for the rest of the meal. Since we were getting the VIP treatment, Chef Brock decided not to stick strictly to the Menu Gastronomique, but to send each of us a different dish for every course so we could all try a little bit of everything. Over the next two and a half hours, the three of us consumed bite-sized portions of:

• braised leg of rabbit, raspberry jus lie (a tough one for G-Doc, who has two pet bunnies)
  
• tamari-roasted black cod, Saanichton blackberry reduction
  
• seared Nass River sockeye fillet, pickled cucumber, potato reosti
  
• silver tail rockfish, braised organic leek, barley risotto
  
• wood-grilled leg of caribou, truffled mash, sweet cherry glaze
  
• a palate refreshment of fresh passionfruit sorbet
  
• seared Alaskan scallops and juan de fuca spot prawns, seasonal greens
  
• rock sole and Dungeness crab paupillette, braised fennel emulsion
  
• crown roast of rabbit, phoenix farm vegetables, blueberry jus lie
  
• hazelnut, lemon thyme and ginger crème brulee
  
• white wine-poached Anjou pear, flourless chocolate cake, red wine sabayon
  
• apple tarte tatin, maple caramel, crème anglais
  

Full yet? So were we!

But the food was only part of the fun. Chef Brock and his staff had paid at least as much attention to the presentation as to the cooking. When each new course arrived, each of us received a different-shaped white plate, huge, both canvas and frame for the art. Rectangles, squares, trapezoids, rhombuses, circles, and even a triangle drew our eyes to their centers. The entrees and sauces nestled there appeared as sculptures, each with its own banner sprig of garnish heralding its arrival. Every dish seemed to include fresh berries and herbs picked on lodge property that very day. It was a pleasure to receive each gift from the kitchen.

And the wine! As I mentioned, each course came with its own wine, and with the wine came Brian, the BBL&S sommelier, or wine steward. He wore the traditional uniform of black trousers and white shirt, topped by a bright yellow vest adorned with panda bears and bamboo trees. From a vest pocked peeked a pair of reading glasses with multicolored rims, but he never put them on. Rather than a slicked-back hairstyle, he sported a messy silver ponytail, and he always seemed to be gazing out the window.

As any good sommelier does, Brian educated us about the wines as he poured. To him, there's a story in every glass. The tale begins with the origin of the grapevines that produced each vintage, and with the name and lineage of the vintner. It progresses through growth conditions and the fermentation and bottling processes and reaches the peak of its suspense when the wine is purchased for someone's cellar.

For Brian, that's where the fun starts. The climax of the story occurs not in the drinking of the wine, it seems, but in the description of it. We expected him to tell us what scents to look for in the bouquet and what flavors to anticipate, what kind of body, what kind of finish. And we were not disappointed.

Words like lively, sassy, and melancholy didn't surprise us much. But when Brian informed us that a certain red wine had a "sweaty bovine nature," and later that a white produced a "slap of the baby dragon's tail on the finish," all three of us bit our tongues until poor Brian had disappeared back into the kitchen. Then we spent a few minutes asking each other whether he'd really just said what we thought he'd said, or whether we'd had too much already. (The sweaty bovine wine, incidentally, turned out to be the unanimous favorite.)

When the sun had set and Brian had made his final, effervescent retreat, Steven reappeared with another special VIP offering: If we liked, both chef and sommelier would autograph our menus. We accepted eagerly, of course, and mine is sitting in its folder on my desk as I write.

Fortunately, G-Doc and I ate only this single dinner in the Fine Dining Room. The experience, while grand, was a bit overwhelming. Had the meal not been complimentary, we never would have attempted it, certainly not with five or six different wines to boot. Nonetheless, we're glad to have had the adventure. And don't even get me started on the three-course gourmet breakfasts we enjoyed the following two mornings.

Today around the world: July 20 is ____.

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07/19/04’s illustrious band:

Eh Plus

The moment you’ve all been waiting for: Northwest Notes, Chapter 1!

Brought to you by Brentwood Bay Lodge & Spa of beautiful, bountiful Victoria, British Columbia. That's in Canada, eh?

Last year, my friend Skeeter moved to Des Moines to take a new job as editor of Garden Doctor magazine, a Better Homes & Gardens publication. Look him up; he’s on a newsstand not far from where you’re sitting right now. There’s two things you need to know about this man: (1) Skeeter will henceforth be known as the Garden Doctor, or G-Doc to his nearest and dearest, and (2) he knows the botanical and common names of every plant on this Earth. All of 'em.

A few months back, G-Doc attended a garden writers’ conference. He threw his business card into a fishbowl at somebody’s booth for a chance to win a trip for two to Victoria, BC, and promptly forgot about it. But he remembered right quick when the sponsors, those nice, generous people at ConTech, called to tell him he’d won. I found out about it when G-Doc called me to ask if I’d like to be Traveler #2. With airfare, car rental, lodging, and garden tours paid for? Would I ever!

So on Wednesday, July 7, we took to the skies. G-Doc flew from Des Moines to the Twin Cities, where I joined him in boarding a flight for Seattle. From there, we caught a 16-seat puddle-jumper to Victoria. There were only two other passengers aboard. Pilots Robert and Brian set us down safely half an hour later at Victoria International Airport.

The stringent customs procedure consisted of a nice man in a uniform saying, "Welcome to Canada, eh? What brings you here today?" He glanced at our passports -- mine acquired at great expense in a needless hurry, G-Doc's expired (don't tell anyone!) -- and waved us on through. The young men at the Budget car rental desk were equally glad to see us and hooked us up with a tan Grand Am, maps, and directions without delay.

G-Doc would rather navigate than drive, while the reverse is true for me, so the division of duties was easy. Once I figured out how to turn off the windshield wipers, we were on our way. I had been worried that G-Doc would try to tune the car radio to a country music station, which would have resulted in an unfortunate international incident. Fortunately, he spent the whole trip trying to find his favorite Canadian rockers, the Tragically Hip, on the radio, so all was well. Bounded by mountains, meadows, woods, and sea, we zoomed off down the coast toward the Brentwood Bay Lodge & Spa.

The directions supplied by our good friends at Tourism Victoria were excellent, and we reached the lodge about 20 minutes and only one "Ohmygod" later. The lodge staff had been instructed to treat us like royalty, which they commenced doing as soon as we arrived. PR Director Jessica rushed to the front desk to greet us personally, conduct us to our rooms, and invite us to join her for dinner in the dining room -- which we quickly discovered was not just a dining room, but a Fine Dining Room.

We had time before dinner to iron and change into FDR-appropriate clothing, which I was immediately glad Mother Media had insisted I pack. But before I did that, I spent a few minutes getting acquainted with my room. It turned out to be the most simply designe yet the most posh and comfortable hotel room I've ever stayed in. Key features included, but were by no means limited to:

• a private patio overlooking the BBL&S's aromatherapy garden, where therapeutic herbs for the spa and culinary herbs for the FDR grew in tidy, fragrant rows;
  
• a view, beyond the plantings, of the lodge's private beach and bay, with wooded mountains looming on the other side;
  
• homemade cookies next to the votive candle on the hearth of the gas fireplace;
  
• a mini-bar stocked not only with beer and tiny bottles of booze, but also homemade granola, candy bars from a local confectioner, and a couple bottles of wine from vintners just up the road;
  
• a bed so vast that I couldn't reach the sides while lying in the middle; I had to set my alarm a few minutes early the next morning to allow time to crawl to the edge;
  
• a duvet so fluffy it took 20 minutes to fully squash down under the weight of my purse;
  
• a bath towel so big it could have served as an area rug in my first apartment. And my second. When I towel-turbaned my hair after a shower, I had to duck through doorways;
  
• cotton bathrobes so thick that when I put one on along with the towel turban, I looked like a reject from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade;
  
• an array of touchpads, switches, and dimmers so complex that I had to consult G-Doc to figure out how to turn off the bedside lamps -- and I actually had to call the front desk for help in turning out the last of the four lights in my bathroom;
  
• a two-person jacuzzi with, through a shuttered gap in the wall, a view over the bed, out the sliding glass doors, across the patio, and through the aromatherapy garden, of water and mountains.
  

Why would anyone ever want to leave such a palace? Well, did I mention that the evening's meal in the FDR, hosted by the ebullient Jessica, was on the house? That's one reason, and a really good one. Stay tuned tomorrow, when I reveal what oysters, caribou, and dragons have in common.

Today around the world: July 19 is when the French celebrate the birthday of Edgar Degas.

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07/05/04’s illustrious band:

Redhanded

Brought to you by Mother Nature.

Today finds me inkfingered, stainlipped, purplefooted, and fullbellied, my hair streaked mauve in a few places from where I pushed it back with juicy hands. I’ve been playing among the mulberries again.

When I was little, I would often come in from outdoors with my feet stained purple from running barefoot beneath the mulberry trees, crushing fallen berries with my toes and heels. This was a trial for Mother Media, who always admonished me to wear shoes out there so I could take them off at the door rather than tracking berry-mud throughout the house. But somehow I always forgot and dashed out headlong without them.

Old habits die hard, apparently. I noticed today that the branches dangling into my airspace from a neighbor’s tree were laden with plump, ripe fruit, so I spent half an hour denuding twiglets and smooshing sweet mulberries between my teeth. When I finished, full at last, I looked like I’d been applying cheap melted lipstick in the dark. My feet were worse, though, from tromping about on a soft carpet of fallen fruit as I feasted. They were so wet that I left purple footprints on the driveway as I searched out the garden hose. My fingers and lips have come (mostly) clean, but the tough, dry soles of my feet still look bruised. And that’s just fine.

I passed a glorious Fourth yesterday and hope you did, too. I was successful in my quest to avoid driving anywhere, although I did walk to brunch and take the extra-long way home. I spent the afternoon and evening lounging in my hammock with books, cats, and daydreams, feeling about as free as one can. Perfect day for it.

And speaking of perfect days, I’m headed off for an actual vacation the day after tomorrow! I’ll be joining Skeeter in a tour of some of the most fabulous gardens in British Columbia, followed by a quick stop in Seattle to visit Amy 2.0. It’s been an excessively long time since I traveled for a purpose other than to visit family, so I’m really looking forward to this jaunt. Not that I don’t enjoy the family trips, of course, but this one is just for me. I anticipate that my biggest worry will be Skeeter wanting to play country music on the radio in our rental car. If I can talk him out of that, it should be a spectacular week.

So ciao for now, and I’ll see you around the 14th with a whole new set of stores from up north.

Today around the world: July 5 is Peace & Unity Day in Rwanda. I’ll drink to that.

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07/01/04’s illustrious band:

Manbag II

Brought to you by Sister-san and Chef Jeff. Sister-san writes:

Last Thursday Jeff called me at work to say, "Did you tell your mom that we couldn't find our laptop bag?" I said I didn't think I had, but he said that an Eddie Bauer laptop bag had come in the mail.

When I got home, he said, "Look at this backpack -- it's for a laptop -- you must've told your mom that ours was missing."

I sat and examined the bag, opening zippers, poking in pockets, admiring all the storage. I said, "Is there something specific that makes you think this is for a laptop??" He told me that it was obvious, if I'd just open the largest compartment. In there I found a nice padded piece, perfect size for wrapping around a laptop to protect it. I said, "Hmm," and continued to prod and poke around with the bag as we watched TV.

Finally I began to wonder why some of the compartments seemed to be waterproof. "Jeff, I think this is a diaper bag -- in a nicely manly black color."

"Oooooohhhh! Here are some bottle-sized pockets, and that laptop pad must be a changing pad! Now it makes sense!"

So, that's the story of the laptop backpack. It is, indeed, very nice and convenient-looking. Now I need to figure out whether I'll need my own, or if we can share -- after all, only one of us will be on "baby duty" at a time, right?

P.S. We found our actual laptop bag -- don't send us one!

Editor’s note: A manbag, in case you’re wondering, is the masculine equivalent of the purse.

Today around the world: July 1 is Canada Day. Guess where!

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