A Hot One
3:15. To be honest I really do not know what day it is. Picked up the last of my stuff from Scott's house today. Stopped into the Cabin Tavern on the way back to the boat. Allowed Old Joe to depress me again. "Don't end up like me boy." He continued along with this rant until it reached its denouement with "If I had a penny for every sexual experience I have ever had I could buy a used Volkswagen. And it would be a hot one." And surmised his thoughts with "you know...you never know."
Made my way back to the boat. In the galley I was seized by a most bizarre sensation. Not a panic, but a diet panic, where I was unable to pack my rucksack and sift through the physical remnants of the last three months of my life. Decisions awaiting my attention pressed firmly like diabolical, yet still opposable thumbs upon my temples until I was pressed into a state of mild paralysis of mind rendering these time-sensitive decisions impossible. This feeling, like most, fades in time.
5:25. Greyhound is right on time. Driver sees the two Granny Smith apples in my pack and tells me "they may not like those at the border." I eat one apple and give one to the Brit with the eyebrow ring next to me. He rattles off an unintelligible series of words about being - I guess - stopped at the border on his way from BC before taking an overly aggressive bite from the apple and spitting out sour bits of spittle and "cheers."
Waiting for the rest of the passengers on the bus to pass through immigration I find out that a filmmaker and photographer is also into driving busses. The rest of the ride into Vancouver is spent talking not about customs, or apples, but film. Minolta versus Nikon. 200 ASA versus 400 ASA while photographing elk in the morning on the Olympic Peninsula. Digital versus Celluloid. We almost rear-ended a car in traffic coming into town as the bus driver gazed into the mountains framing Vancouver as two hot air balloons crossed the viewfinder that was not there. He told me that if he had a penny for every beautiful photo that he missed he would be driving his own bus. I asked if it would be a hot one. He said yes.
Made my way back to the boat. In the galley I was seized by a most bizarre sensation. Not a panic, but a diet panic, where I was unable to pack my rucksack and sift through the physical remnants of the last three months of my life. Decisions awaiting my attention pressed firmly like diabolical, yet still opposable thumbs upon my temples until I was pressed into a state of mild paralysis of mind rendering these time-sensitive decisions impossible. This feeling, like most, fades in time.
5:25. Greyhound is right on time. Driver sees the two Granny Smith apples in my pack and tells me "they may not like those at the border." I eat one apple and give one to the Brit with the eyebrow ring next to me. He rattles off an unintelligible series of words about being - I guess - stopped at the border on his way from BC before taking an overly aggressive bite from the apple and spitting out sour bits of spittle and "cheers."
Waiting for the rest of the passengers on the bus to pass through immigration I find out that a filmmaker and photographer is also into driving busses. The rest of the ride into Vancouver is spent talking not about customs, or apples, but film. Minolta versus Nikon. 200 ASA versus 400 ASA while photographing elk in the morning on the Olympic Peninsula. Digital versus Celluloid. We almost rear-ended a car in traffic coming into town as the bus driver gazed into the mountains framing Vancouver as two hot air balloons crossed the viewfinder that was not there. He told me that if he had a penny for every beautiful photo that he missed he would be driving his own bus. I asked if it would be a hot one. He said yes.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 10:33 PM
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