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

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