Gulch

Geographic Goodbyes

How do you say goodbye to an island? A week ago, I ended the four year relationship I had with Vancouver Island and the city of Victoria. Saying goodbye to my human friends followed a seemingly scripted custom: the awkward hug, the “see you soon” or “keep in touch." But for an island? I don’t think there is a tradition. I guess you can feel the embrace of a familiar beach or experience the "see you soon" of a favorite vista but, to me, these things are incomplete.

Like most human relationships, ending a long term affair with a large landmass is never easy. Sure, there will be the occasional weekend visit, where you end up looking at each other over a cup of coffee and thinking about how good the times where when you were still together. The island's wind might tussle your hair and maybe you'll let the waves flirt with your feet, but it just won't be the same.  You'll just be a guest, another tourist, someone who won't be around long enough to become really intimate with its coastlines and forests or streams and mountains. And when you see the locals, you'll think about how that used to be you and how the island used to be yours.

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Update: We posted a some pictures of our final summer on Vancouver Island (and a few other places) here.

Exploring The Good Life: Recent Updates to the Guides

My back was to the jazz trio; however, the cafe was so intimate that their slightly downbeat version of "Fly Me To The Moon" filled the room, combining and weaving with the conversations of the nearby tables to create a joyous energy.  In front of me was a slice of chocolate cake and a beer and I realized that I had stumbled into a bit of the good life. And, importantly, it wasn't located in some exotic or far-away place. Instead it was located less than a block away from where we live.

Jen and I started the travel guide section of this site, Gulch Guides, as a way to let readers find our travel recommendations without having to read through all of our, well, mental wanderings on this blog. Lately, though, we've been sticking close to home and have been happy to find a lot of the good life right here.  We are constantly adding to the Guides and I thought I'd cross-post some of the newest entries on what we consider the good life to be:

Detour Dessert Lounge (in Victoria)

Sometimes, only a late night slice of chocolate cake will do. Detour Dessert Lounge (14 Centennial Square / 250-298-8308) is an intimate place that serves not only delicious and moist cake but also a whole variety of other decadent treats. Combining a slice of cake (such as "the Lola", a chocolate cake layered with Bavarian icing and raspberry and topped with vanilla bean fudge) with a glass of wine or a beer while a live jazz band plays is a perfect way to slow down and really enjoy life. Detour has a large selection of vegan/vegetarian desserts and they have nicely balanced their menu to include sugar and gluten free items so that no one can use dietary restrictions as an excuse not to indulge.

In addition to desserts, they also have a small menu of regular food such as salads and nachos and they also serve good coffee. Most items are under $10. Detour is located in Victoria's Centennial Square and, despite the strip mall exterior, it has a sophisticated and hip feel on the inside and often features live music.

The Parrot Confectionery (in Helena)

The Parrot Confectionery (42 North Last Chance Gulch / 406-442-1470) first opened its doors in 1922 and has since reached near legendary status in Helena, across the state, and beyond for its handmade chocolates. The Parrot has been owned and operated by the same family since it opened and it feels like little has changed in this candy store/soda fountain/lunch café. There’s a jukebox, cozy booths, and a long counter behind which they serve up real soda fountain drinks like cherry phosphates and ice cream milkshakes.

The Parrot is most famous for their candy. They make over 120 different types of fine sweets and hand dipped chocolates, which they also ship worldwide. However, many locals go there for a different reason: they serve some of - if not the - best chili in town (it’s no sense asking, they keep the recipe secret). The Parrot is one of those types of special places that give a sense of permanence and stability that just doesn't normally exist in the modern world. So the next time it’s really cold and you’re feeling down, head to the Parrot and get a milkshake and bowl of chili, and the world will start to look pretty good again.

Sabri Naanwich (in Victoria)

Sometimes fusion food doesn’t have to be highbrow. Sabri Naanwich (1310 Douglas / 250-382-9668) combines the concepts of Indian food and sub sandwich shops in a way that works so well that one is left wondering why it isn’t more common. Sabri Naanwich is set up like many fast food style sandwich or wrap joints, only with an Indian flair: instead of bread, the whole thing starts with a warm piece of naan. Then, rather than deli meat as the main part of your sandwich, you get to pick from a number of different Indian-style dishes such as butter chicken, lamb and ginger, or garbanzo bean curry (at various spice levels). You then get to choose from an assortment of traditional sandwich pickings such as lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, and less traditional Indian condiments such as mango chutney or raita. The whole thing gets built before you and is served like a wrap. It is also delicious and cheap – most naandwiches range from $5 to $7 dollars.

Ordering a naanwich with butter chicken with jalapeños and mango chutney is a perfect combination of spicy and sweet and thus just might be in the running for the most perfect sandwich ever. Sabri’s advertises that naanwiches are fairly healthy - none of the meats are processed and there are many options for vegetarians and vegans. Be warned that the shop closes early - around 6pm - most nights.

Adrift in Editorial Waters

I put down my fountain pen, sighed, and picked up the last page of the story I had just written. I fanned it in the air in front of me until I was satisfied that the ink had dried and that it wouldn’t smear. I then put the page face down on the stack of papers on the side of my desk. I turned the stack over - rereading my title And So It Goes – and rolled the story into a tight tube. I pushed the rolled story down the neck of a green glass bottle until it fell all the way into bottle with a gentle ‘plink’. The bottle had once held wine but that was long gone and the glass had been washed, dried, and sterilized. I pushed the cork back into the mouth of the bottle and then sealed it in with some red wax.

I carried the bottle down Dallas Road until I reached the Breakwater at Ogden Point. At the end of the wall, I held up the bottle, peered in at my story, and then kissed the glass. With a burst of energy, I tossed the bottle in a high arc into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It landed in the cold waters with a satisfying splash, and I quickly lost sight of it as it drifted, I hoped, out to sea.

And that, I thought, is how most submissions go.

If you’ve never submitted a story or poem or article to be published, it can be a long, frustrating process. After a long time perfecting a piece – writing it, rewriting it, editing it - , you print it out, stick it the mail, and then wait. Months and even years can go by without a response. Editors ignore emails and even rejections letters sometimes never show up. Often, I thought, I’d have better luck just shoving my story in a bottle and throwing it in the ocean.

Two years ago, I took over as the Editor of Island Writer Magazine. Island Writer is published by the Victoria Writers’ Society and it completely run by volunteers. I’ve always thought it was impressive that Island Writer was limited to writers living on Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands and as Editor, I’ve been able to dive into the depths of talent living in this part of the world.

And, I’m sure, I’ve added to the frustration that many people feel when they send out a submission and never hear anything back. Being the Editor has been a learning process and here are a few things that I’ve learning along the way:

Editors should never announce time lines or deadlines. The science fiction author Douglas Adams once stated: “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” I’ve found that that whoosh is particularly loud if you’ve responded to a writer that you would let them know if their piece is included or not by a certain date. I’ve also found that just by saying out loud that the next issue will ready by a certain day, it will guarantee that on that specific day, the magazine will never, ever, be ready.

Editors should realize that emails multiply faster than the bunnies on the University of Victoria campus. For every email that you reply to, you’ll find that you’ll two more in your inbox to replace it. By the time you’ve answered each one, a deadline probably has whooshed by.

Editors shouldn’t give out too much information about how the next issue will turn out. Stating that the magazine have a specific number of pages or be a particular colour or focus on a set theme only guarantees it will never actually turn out that way. It’s best just to keep quiet and cagey about the whole affair until the magazine is actually ready. It might even be best not to admit that the magazine will even have words.

And so, after two years of being the editor of Island Writer Magazine, I’ve found that I’ve become as secretive, uncommunicative, and perpetually late as some of the editors to whom I’ve sent work. Unfortunately, I now understand why they are that way.

A secret of being an editor is that you get to work with great people who put in a lot of work to make the magazine look good. I would like to thank all of the members of the Editorial Board who have served with me.

I would also like to thank all of the writers and poets who have submitted to Island Writer during my time as Editor. I’m always amazed and humbled by the talent living in our community and I’ve enjoyed reading all of your stories, articles, and poems. The next time you feel like you might have better luck throwing your submission in the ocean and you head down to the shore, please keep an eye out for a story in a green bottle. I’m hoping to hear back from an editor about it any day now.

(Like the last couple of times, parts of this entry were adapted from my editorial in the current issue of Island Writer)

Possible Waits

The digital sign above the road stated “7pm Sailing: 100% Full”. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Then the digital sign flashed “9pm Sailing: Possible Waits” and, as clear as if a starting gun had been fired, we were off.

Suddenly, all of the traffic on the road sped up 15 kilometers per hour and what had been a leisurely commute into the ferry terminal became a game of Pole Position or Grand Theft Auto, with each driver thinking: “If only I can get there ahead of the person next to me I’ll get the last place on the ship.” Cars – station wagons full of kids, sedans driven by businessmen, SUV’s with dogs in the back – swerved, cut between lanes and accelerated into the curves, each driver knowing that if they didn’t get on the 9pm sailing, they wouldn’t be getting home that night.

One of the problems with living on an island is that sooner or later you either want to get on or off it. And, for me, when I'm not riding the Coho, that often means dealing with BC Ferries. BC Ferries uses the euphemism “Possible Waits” on their highway signs to indicate that the next sailing is 100% full and that if every car which has made a reservation shows up, you will be waiting for the next ferry. The possible wait can mean being stuck at the ferry terminal for at least two to three hours, or even until the next day if the last sailing of the day is full. “Possible Waits” though, is a good description of what the people who live on the BC coast and depend upon the Ferries deal with when starting or finishing a trip.

I slowed down as I entered the ferry terminal zone. Despite playing a lot of Atari 2600 racing games as a kid, the lane ahead of me was filled with cars that got to the terminal faster. I had been driving for the last six hours, flying for the 5 hours before that, and traveling for the last 11 days, and I just wanted to go home. I pulled up to the ticket seller and looked at my clock. It was 6:27pm.

I handed the ticket seller my credit card. He took it and swiped it.

“It looks like you’re on the 9pm ferry,” he said as he handed it back.

“Really? I made it? I’m guaranteed to be on it” I asked, relieved, not excited to be waiting for two and a half hours but glad to be making it home that night.

“Well, no, not if everyone who has made a reservation shows up,” the clerk responded.

“What? What happens then?”

“You get your money back and then you have to come back tomorrow.” He stated, and then, most likely noticing my clenched teeth, added, “You’ll probably make it.

He directed me to lane 40 and I counted 26 cars in the lane ahead of me.

To help rectify the Possible Waits situation, BC Ferries introduced a reservation system a few years ago. The reservations cost about $17, which is in addition to the $50 or so it costs for a car and driver to either get on or off Vancouver Island. The reservation systems lock you into a specific sailing though, which can be hard to manage if a person is driving from a long ways away or if they don't know what their exact schedule is, or if they want to keep a trip as inexpensive as possible.

For the next two and a half hours, I waited in my car in lane 40, hoping that I’d make it home that night. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I didn’t get on the 9pm Ferry. Sleeping in the car sounded like it could be a serious option. After all, I wanted to make sure I’d get a place on the ferry the next day.

At about 8:45, an announcement that the ferry would start loading came over the loudspeakers. The car in front of me, in what I considered an optimistic move, started its engine. The lane of cars next to ours, lane 39 I presumed, slowly drained onto the ferry.

And then after about 15 minutes, it happened. The brake lights on the car in front of me went off as it began to move. I quickly started my car, released the brake, and slowly drove down lane 40, up a ramp, and onto a brightly lit ferry. A crew member directed me forward until I was pushed up against the next car. By the time I pulled up the emergency brake, about four more cars drove on the ferry behind me, and the ship was full.

All the tension of the evening drained from me. Sure, I wouldn’t be getting home until after midnight but I would be getting home. As I locked my car and headed up to the passenger deck, I wondered momentarily when I would be leaving the island next.

I could possibly wait I thought.

Metaphorical Bridges

It was a fine spring afternoon when, needing inspiration, I went outside to look for a metaphor. It was the first warm day of the year, full of sunshine and cheer. I needed to get some fresh air and I rather suspected that the good weather, like the tourists that visit our fair city, would hang around Victoria for a day or two and then move on.

I strolled through Chinatown, eyeing the exotic fruits at the outdoor markets, before heading towards the Westsong Walkway. I was pondering how a harbour seal could be metaphorical (“his eyes shifted hungrily, like a seal waiting for a piece of fresh salmon to be dangled over the edge of the dock…hmmm, not bad”) when I stopped and looked up. Above me, sky blue steel girders arched towards the clouds.

I was halfway over the Johnson Street Bridge when I was struck by how iconic this blue bridge is. While less photographed than the other structures and buildings around the Inner Harbour, it is no less a part of what makes Victoria unique.

Built in 1920, the Johnson Street Bridge is a double bascule bridge, which means it uses the large gray concrete counterweights to balance the flat road and railroad sections, which can be raised separately to allow boat traffic to pass underneath. It was designed by the Strauss Bascule Company, whose chief engineer would go on to design the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Just as the Golden Gate does for its city, I believe that the Johnson Street Bridge helps make Victoria, well, Victoria. I had found my metaphor.

Writing is a lonely business. We often find ourselves at our computers or desks for long hours, ignoring our significant others and families. We may start writing a short story one afternoon and before we know it, seasons have passed, our kids are grown and our spouses are standing by the front door with two packed suitcases threatening to leave – or at least go on vacation to Mexico for a month – if we don’t spend more time with them.

“Of course, dear,” we say. “I have the perfect evening planned.”

“Great!” they exclaim. “Let me get my coat and you can tell me what we are doing on the way to the restaurant.”

“Restaurant?” we reply. “No, no, I thought you could read my story and then you could tell me what you thought.” We glance down at the pile of papers we are holding. “It’s only 142 pages.”

Several weeks later when our spouses call from Mexico to say that they finished the story while lying on a beach and sipping a margarita, our first question is always, “Well, what did you think?”

“I didn’t get it,” they inevitably reply. And it hits us: writing is a lonely business.

And here comes the metaphor I was seeking: it is important to have bridges to get us away from our computers and to connect us with people who are going through similar experiences, who can share their knowledge and listen to the things we have learned, who give us stories to read and who critique our writing in return.

On that note, I’m excited to note that the new issue of Island Writer Magazine, published by the Victoria Writers’ Society (VWS) and edited by yours truly in now available. It’s sold in bookstores throughout Victoria and via the VWS website.

My experiences of working as the Editor of Island Writer Magazine, as well as being part of the VWS, have taught me that writing shouldn't be a lonely activity. Indeed, most scribblings, musings, stories, and poems are much better when it's not.

Island Writer and the VWS are completely run by volunteers. Like the Johnson Street Bridge, the literary infrastructure that they (and everyone who has ever been part of the VWS and Island Writer) built, helps make Victoria unique. I’m always amazed and humbled by the talent of the writers and poets living in our community. Please keep on submitting and volunteering and I promise to remove all of the marine mammal and infrastructure metaphors from my next story before we review it at critique group.

(Like last time, parts of this entry were adapted from my editorial in the current issue of Island Writer)