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).

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