#TheCup
Two days ago at #TheCup…
#TheCup I’m sweating in the sizzling heat, surrounded by hoards of swankily dressed socialites and festival guests, the ladies wear fancy dresses and wide-brimmed hats with bows, flowers, and veils; the gentlemen sport bowler hats, bow ties, and boat shoes.
I’m wearing a mint and lilac—I loathe purple (old ladies wear purple)—silk spaghetti-strap summer dress I haven’t been able to sell at the local consignment stores; with it, a matching lilac cardigan (Purple! Bought at Value Village for $6, I forgot to use my $2 coupon!), and a lilac (purple) Padding Bear-style straw hat I bought at Walmart ($15) specifically for this event.
My feet are sore and my Prada wedge sandals are ruined. The rough aggregate and molten asphalt have melted their delicate soles and replaced them with tiny embedded rocks that make me wobble like the tipsy party guests—surprisingly few of whom are taking selfies—under the scorchingly sunny sky.
A DJ is at one end of the stadium (that can be heard from the other end) pumping out techno versions of old classics (Think: AC/DC but with rave beats). With the horse race announcer’s voice rising above the roar of the crowd, I wonder in bemusement how it came to be that I, a highly sensory-sensitive introvert, who doesn’t drink alcohol or do drugs, spent almost $500 to get here.
I shall endeavour to tell you.
Flashback further…
I have been on Vancouver Island (The Island) for a while, spending time with family and hoping to heal from chronic fatigue while my gypsy soul decides where to go next. Back to Vancouver? Spain? I’m not sure.
The only potentially not-positive side effect is that I’m staying in a remote location making it easy to become a hermit. (Google Maps says it would take me 9.5 hours to walk to the nearest decent coffee shop, of which there are only two.)
A week or so ago before The Cup…
I decide I must re-enter life. Even though there has been some improvement in my health, my energy levels have stagnated over the past year. I use caffeine on filming days because that shit is magic. Unfortunately, that shit tickles my bladder which results in inconvenience and embarrassment. Apparently, I have a fussy bladder.
On non-caffeinated days, I nap at least once and am energetically parched by 5pm-7pm (depending on the season). This may be as good as it gets for me. I have decided to put it in God’s hands, I have done all I can.
Whether or not my condition is forever or for now, it’s time to stop waiting for improvement, start living again, and get out of my comfort zone.
The day after I make this self-declaration, a friend (we’ll call her Bo Peep) invites me to The Cup (formerly known as The Deighton Cup). Its tagline: Come Get Fancy!
This mega event is Vancouver’s version of The Kentucky Derby, the “highlight of the summer social calendar”.
Bo Peep is one of my do-not-cancel-plans-unless-dead friends (I take this oath seriously), and before I dare investigate what The Cup entails or notice the heat warning for the day, I enthusiastically agree and book a non-changeable, non-cancellable flight to Vancouver departing the day of the event. I have the perfect dress and shoes after all!
However, at this point, I don’t yet have the hat or heat-appropriate sun cover-up, know where I’ll stay (hotels are >$400 now that most Airbnb’s are shut down and Bo Peep’s Van pad is unavailable), or have a plan for how or when I’ll return to The Island. I don’t have a car. I will have an outfit! It’ll all work out. (Right, Father?)
In the meantime, Old Friends ( long-time friends; a couple) are visiting The Island from semi-afar. Without sharing the “where and when” details of the event, I tell them of my mission to find “a big, fancy, white hat”, preferably from the thrift store (I’m already spending too much for this “yes”), plus a white cardigan to match the not-thrifted white Prada wedges I plan to wear.
At VV, I find the aforementioned lilac cardigan, but my search for a white hat comes up short. I settle for the Wally’s straw hat. Meh, good enough. I’m already into this event by too much loot.
I don’t want to fork out 400+ beans at a hotel, but I also don’t want to sleep on a friend’s sofa in Van (I’ll be socially exhausted by the end of this excursion, and too tired to chitchat, which would be inevitable, Mr. Smith).
Bo Peep will be heading to the Sunshine Coast, a 40-minute ferry ride from Vancouver, for the weekend, so I take her up on her offer to sleep on the sofa where she’ll be staying (we’ll both be tired and not into an into-the-night chat fest). I’ll make my way home the following day, either by ferry (two) and bus (one), a >6hr journey ($); or by ferry to Vancouver, Uber to flight centre, and flying back to The Island on another harbour to harbour float plane jaunt, a <2hr journey ($$).
The night before The Cup…
Old Friends, my brother, and I go for dinner and I ask Old Friends if they’ll still be in town when I get back (they weren’t sure upon arriving). They tell me they’re getting up at 3:30AM the next morning so they can visit his father on the Sunshine Coast for a few days before heading home.
I ask, “Seriously? Does he have a spare bed?”
“He has a spare room. Four of them, actually.”
They invite me to stay. Woohoo, I have a bed! A whole room, in fact.
(You see how God supplies our needs when we trust Him?)
The day of The Cup…
Caffeine, because necessary!
My sister drives me to the float plane departure location.
I chose the least costly flight (it came with baggage restrictions), and I’m a notorious under-packer, so I bring a bag that full weighs two pounds. It contains back-up shoes, a nightie, a change of clothes, minimal toiletry basics, my wallet, and a phone charging cable. No purse, that’s it.
While waiting for the flight departure announcement, my sister and I talk about life, love, and relationships. She’s trying to decide if the relationship with her beau is worth another go, “Something has to change…I just can’t do it like we have been…” and I’m trying to decide if I’m ready to re-enter the dating market after being single for. fricken. ever. (By choice, sort of.)
Regarding her relationship, I tell her, “Well, everybody has flaws. The next guy will have different quirks. Maybe it’s worth another try?”
She sighs, “At least I’m not desperate.”
Then I tell her about my list of 101 flaws in myself (ex. I loathe sandy beaches #51, and camping #59) that some poor—but financially stable—guy would have to put up with.
She says, “You’re probably going to end up with someone—“
I finish her sentence, “—completely wrong for me! Yes, at least according to my list.”
She says, “Yep. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
We laugh.
The flight to Vancouver is smooth and serene.
When I arrive, I book a car share and set off on foot to locate it. My phone battery is low, but there’ll be a charging port in the car.
When I get to the spot where the car is supposed to be, it’s not there. (This happens sometimes.) There are no other cars available within a 20-minute walk so I check Lyft (like Uber). $42?? No way! I check the public bus schedule. Tired hot, and hungry, my brain isn’t tracking quite right. Google tells me the bus ($3) will get me to the event faster than waiting for the Lyft. I’m a bit overdressed for the bus but fuck it, OK.
(I could have been at the event by now if I had simply taken the bus to begin with.)
By the time I get to the bus stop and get on the bus, it’s rush hour traffic and I’m starting to melt.
There’s a group of five frat boys on the bus wearing their best pink pinstriped Ralph Lauren dress shirts and leather loafers yucking it up. I figure if my phone battery dies, I’ll follow them when they get off.
Forty-five minutes later, in gridlock traffic, the boys hop off the bus mid-stop because the driver has announced, “If you’re going to The Cup, you’ll get there faster by walking the last kilometre” slight pause, “or so.”
I get off the bus, and in my flat, back up sandals, follow the boisterous boys now a half block ahead of me.
I text Bo Peep my location and ETA and “battery almost dead”. She’ll meet me at the gate.
When I get to the event, I switch into my Pradas, and off I totter, realizing I haven’t worn heels since before the Panicdemic.
Bo Peep and I meet—she looks feminine as ever in a long pleated skirt and delicate top with a matching hat. Her alabaster skin, dark blue eyes, and red hair are both cute and striking.
I notice she’s wearing sensible shoes! If I had known that was an option(!)…but then, this blog mightn’t exist.
By this time, my phone has a single bar of battery life, so I stuff it in my bag. There may be a place to plug in, but I’m so dehydrated and distracted by sensory overload and the rivulets of sweat escaping my hairline, I can’t think straight.
She sneaks me into the air-conditioned VIP lounge, which is a brief heat reprieve, but is obnoxiously loud with another DJ pumping out club music for the super posh.
I can barely hear Bo Peep sitting next to me. To be fair, she has a high-octave, youthful voice (which matches her insanely young appearance, “Bo Peep” is adorably accurate) plus, I’m hard of hearing on that side.
By this point, it’s almost 4PM. I haven’t napped, am thirsty AF, and feeling peckish, so we venture out to find hydration and food.
Although there are plenty of booze and food options, low blood sugar and low sodium (from sweating) are causing analysis paralysis so I buy a bottle of water and we settle on sharing a Lee’s honey-glazed doughnut “to tide us over”.
We chat about life, love, and relationships. She’s starting her Master’s Degree in the fall, her doggie’s behaviour is good, she’s planning to improve a property she owns or sell it and buy another, and she’s giving online dating another chance. “I’d love a guy with a boat, but if not, I’ll get my own one day.” (Smart and beautiful, fellas, see they are out there!)
We decide to hit the grandstands to watch one of the horse races. We feel bad for the beautiful beasts. Poor things. On any other day, Bo Peep might call PETA to shut this thing down, but today she says, “I just hope they’re Arabians.”
Being in the bleachers with the announcer’s distinctive staccato beaming from the overhead speakers, I have a flash of memory, “Wow, this reminds me of when I was little and used to go to the horse races with my dad. I would collect all the colourful tickets off of the ground.” My mom would never have let me touch the filthy things. What a great memory!
Bo Peep mentions having “gamblers” in her family as well, a label I have never associated with my dad but realize must have been true.
When this race is done and won, and the crowd stands and collectively cheers or moans, we decide it’s time to hit the road.
I’m exhausted and she’s got a doggo missing his human momma.
En route to the Sunshine Coast ferry departure terminal, I thank Bo Peep for the ticket, “It was an interesting adventure. I’m glad you invited me.”
She replies apologetically, “It’s much more fun when it’s not so hot.” Adding, as an afterthought, “Or you’re on mushrooms.”
I laugh, assuring her, “I’m really glad I went.” It’s true.
Bo Peep’s next big event at the Exhibition Grounds will be Oktoberfest when she becomes a lager-swigging Heidi in a Bavarian costume.
After grabbing a quick dinner near the ferry dock, we wait outside in a shaded spot. An elderly lady tells me she likes my dress (purple) and hat (purple). I say, “Thank you!” while also thinking, “Of course you do!”
The Wind Down
Bo Peep drops me off at my Old Friend’s dad’s place, or at least I think is his dad’s place where I’m hoping everyone is ready to sleep. His dad is in his 90s, and Old Friends have been up since 3:30AM traveling after all.
Not so fast, Anna J.
I’m actually at Old Friend’s sister and brother-in-law’s home down the road from his dad’s place, and we’re about to have a late (for me) dinner on the deck.
His sister is vibrant and full of life and extroversion. And while I’m hoping some of her energy is contagious, my eyelids are heavy and I’m starting to nod off.
Before I accidentally catch a wink of shuteye, my Old Friends, smiling with mischief, present me with a big, white hat, “We got this for you.”
I say, “It would have been perfect for today!”
After dinner and chitchat and politically incorrect chuckles, darkness approaches, and the solar lights come alive in the dusky yard. It’s almost 10PM, my normal bedtime on less stimulating days.
Finally, my Old Friends suggest “getting dad home to bed, we’ve all had a long day…”—Thank you, Lord!—“…we just have to clear off the bed. Dad’s a bit of a hoarder.” Father Above, really? Are You trying to be funny?
I’m too tired to care about how many spiders are hiding amongst the dusty, bedazzled ball caps and trinkets and treasures. It’s dead quiet and I’m dead tired and slumber awaits.
Cut to: parchment-thin ceiling and chainsaw-sawing-logs snoring from the room above me.
Funny, indeed, Father.
The next morning, I’m stick-a-fork-in-me done. I need the shortest, solo-est route home.
I check the airlines.
All afternoon flights are sold out.
There’s one flight available and I have to leave five minutes ago to make it. Old Friend and I hop in his car, and I’m sped to the ferry with nary three minutes to spare. As soon as I’m on the boat, I book the flight, schedule a Lyft for when I get off this ship, and make it to the flight centre in time to catch the flight and my breath.
After landing, while the other passengers wait for their luggage to be hauled out of the pontoons, another light packer and I walk up the dock toward the parking lot where my sister is picking me up.
I say to him, “Another light packer.”
He replies amicably, “Yeah, I was only gone for 24 hours.”
I say, “Me, too.”
We walk along in silence for a few yards, me just steps behind him on the narrow, mildly undulating dock.
I say, “I’m not stalking you.”
Without glancing back he says, “I wish you were.”
I laugh, then ask, “Were you at The Cup?”
He replies, “Wreck Beach. Largest nudist beach…” I miss the next bit because my thoughts have shifted to his back and the new (nude) perspective I have of it.
I centre myself by the time he asks, “Have you ever been?”
I say, “To Wreck Beach? Nooo.” Then remember, “But I have been to the one [ nude beach] on Hornby [Island]. Once.” A long time ago.
He says something about camping and asks if I camped there. I blurt out, “Yes. I didn’t like it. I’m not an outdoorsy girl.” I want to add, “Or a nudist.”
He laughs and we drift apart in the parking lot.
As I’m walking up to meet my sister, Light Packer Né Nudist Man In A Van drives by, and through his rolled-down window says, “Have a nice day” in a trés cheeky, nudie-ish but cutie-ish kind of way.
I chuckle and reply, “You, too.”
When I meet up with my sister, she catches me up on her man situation, “…something has to change, buuut he is a great cuddle buddy, after all…” and I tell her about my adventures of the past 24 hours since she dropped me off, ending with, “…so I guess you’ll go back to your beau and I’ll end up bare-ass naked on a beach.”
“God does have a sense of humour, doesn’t He?”
“Indeed He does.”
We both laugh.
I left my soleless (soulless?) but adventure-filled Pradas with My Old Friend (F) should she wish to get them re-soled. They’re not worth a fraction of the sentimental value of the hat I was gifted, and their race track days are over, but the new memory they provided lives on.
What have we re-learned?
- Life does begin outside our comfort zones.
- Mishaps make for the most comedic memories.
- #TheCup (mine) is empty.
- Comfortable Shoes win by a length!
- I suck at gift-giving. (Flaw #102)
Homework:
- Continue seeking out new adventures.
- Moderation, Anna J.
- Nurture keeper friendships (and family, of course).
- Re-home high heels…
- …before I ruin them!
Forgive me for grammatical, punctuation, or other errors, I wrote this on my iPhone on a boat, in a back seat, on a float plane, and finally, on a treadmill. 😉
