Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:
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8/26/2009
That place with the maple leaf on its flag
Visiting the Okanagan Valley is way better when you're old enough to swim in the lakes without bursting into tears. It's also way better when you can hike, swim and enjoy the view with six feet worth of sexy, smokin'- hot blond man.
Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:
Scroll down or click here to see more
Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:
Scroll down or click here to see more
More of That Place
Ok, fine. I guess Texas isn't the only place with lovely sunsets:
But the lakes there are definitely better. Hands down. Like, you know, you can actually see your feet in the water and you don't feel like taking 700 showers after swimming in it:
But the lakes there are definitely better. Hands down. Like, you know, you can actually see your feet in the water and you don't feel like taking 700 showers after swimming in it:
8/17/2009
Where the roaches ain’t
Some of y’all may not know this, but I was not born in Glorious Fake Blonde City. Nor was I even born in Texas. Or in any other place where every carbonated drink - brown, clear or otherwise - is “Coke.” I was born in a far-off, exotic land where winters are white and potato chips come in ketchup flavor. No, no, not Hell - Canada, sillies. And by the way, ketchup chips are DELICIOUS. Also, I did not live in an igloo. (But I did get pulled to school by a team of Siberian sled dogs.)
I spent my first five years plus my childhood summer vacations in this place called Canada, eating chocolate Smarties, buying clothes from Marks & Spencer and watching Casey and Finnegan on Mr. Dressup. I learned the alphabet’s ending as x,y,”zed” and I won't look at you funny if you talk about parkades or tukes. If someone were to say to me that they were “on holiday with a bunch of Canucks,” I wouldn't for a second think that it involved Christmas trees and/or hockey players. In my mind, this makes me a proud Canadian-born Texan. But in my Canadian-raised mother’s eyes, I am nothing more than an American who knows that she was born some place vaguely north. So ok, maybe I went through a period of time during which I tried to forget everything from my Canadian roots. But that’s only because it’s hard to be taken seriously in a 2nd grade classroom when you ask to go to the “washroom” or you tell everyone that your brother is just around the corner in “grade 5.” Which is why, by the time I was 13 and had just spent my first summer away from home in Vermont, I had this conversation with my mother:
Me: OMG, mom. I can NOT eat this Aunt Jemimah syrup. I’ve had FRESH, PURE MAPLE SYRUP now. PURE MAPLE SYRUP. You know, from maple trees? They have maple trees in Vermont. Have you EVER had fresh, pure maple syrup from a maple tree?
She stares at me with incredulity – a stare that I fail to notice as I am too busy shaking my head and sighing with pity for the woman who thinks maple syrup comes from a plastic bottle.
Her: I. am. FROM CANADA.
I look up blankly.
Me: So you tried some Vermont syrup in Canada?
Her: Oh good GRIEF. Canada has its own maple trees.
Me: Ok, but do they have as many maple trees as Vermont?
Her: THE FLAG, bebe Me. HAVE YOU SEEN THE CANADIAN FLAG?
And that, y'all, was the day my mother knew for sure that the hot, summer Texas sun really did fry young and impressionable brains until every non-texan thought and memory had burnt to a crisp and fallen off into chicken-fried oblivion. But she accepted it. And probably didn't think too much about it. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. That's when I told her about my upcoming trip to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Me: Yeah, well I might not spend ALL my time in Vancouver. I kind of want to go see some place I’ve never seen. Like I might go to this place called The Okanagan Valley…
A pause that I could not just hear, but actually feel, even over the phone.
Her:: The Okanagan Valley?
Me: Yeah, so there’s a city called Vern-
Her: VERNON. There’s a city called Vernon in the Okanagan Valley. Which you’ve BEEN TO.
Me: What do you mean I’ve been there? I just learned how to spell "Okanagan" a couple of days ago.
Her: I mean that you’ve BEEN THERE. The cherries? Remember picking cherries? We have photos!
Silence.
Her: And the photos of you when you’re standing in the water, bawling because we left you out there to take a picture of you…
Me: Ooooh. You mean the ones where I’m standing in the ocean**?
Her: The ocean?
Me: Yes, I’m in the oc-
Her: You know what? You just enjoy your very first visit to the Okanagan Valley then.
**In case you’re, you know, TEXAN and are unable to tell from the name, the Okanagan Valley is full of lovely lakes, but nowhere near the ocean
I spent my first five years plus my childhood summer vacations in this place called Canada, eating chocolate Smarties, buying clothes from Marks & Spencer and watching Casey and Finnegan on Mr. Dressup. I learned the alphabet’s ending as x,y,”zed” and I won't look at you funny if you talk about parkades or tukes. If someone were to say to me that they were “on holiday with a bunch of Canucks,” I wouldn't for a second think that it involved Christmas trees and/or hockey players. In my mind, this makes me a proud Canadian-born Texan. But in my Canadian-raised mother’s eyes, I am nothing more than an American who knows that she was born some place vaguely north. So ok, maybe I went through a period of time during which I tried to forget everything from my Canadian roots. But that’s only because it’s hard to be taken seriously in a 2nd grade classroom when you ask to go to the “washroom” or you tell everyone that your brother is just around the corner in “grade 5.” Which is why, by the time I was 13 and had just spent my first summer away from home in Vermont, I had this conversation with my mother:
Me: OMG, mom. I can NOT eat this Aunt Jemimah syrup. I’ve had FRESH, PURE MAPLE SYRUP now. PURE MAPLE SYRUP. You know, from maple trees? They have maple trees in Vermont. Have you EVER had fresh, pure maple syrup from a maple tree?
She stares at me with incredulity – a stare that I fail to notice as I am too busy shaking my head and sighing with pity for the woman who thinks maple syrup comes from a plastic bottle.
Her: I. am. FROM CANADA.
I look up blankly.
Me: So you tried some Vermont syrup in Canada?
Her: Oh good GRIEF. Canada has its own maple trees.
Me: Ok, but do they have as many maple trees as Vermont?
Her: THE FLAG, bebe Me. HAVE YOU SEEN THE CANADIAN FLAG?
And that, y'all, was the day my mother knew for sure that the hot, summer Texas sun really did fry young and impressionable brains until every non-texan thought and memory had burnt to a crisp and fallen off into chicken-fried oblivion. But she accepted it. And probably didn't think too much about it. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. That's when I told her about my upcoming trip to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Me: Yeah, well I might not spend ALL my time in Vancouver. I kind of want to go see some place I’ve never seen. Like I might go to this place called The Okanagan Valley…
A pause that I could not just hear, but actually feel, even over the phone.
Her:: The Okanagan Valley?
Me: Yeah, so there’s a city called Vern-
Her: VERNON. There’s a city called Vernon in the Okanagan Valley. Which you’ve BEEN TO.
Me: What do you mean I’ve been there? I just learned how to spell "Okanagan" a couple of days ago.
Her: I mean that you’ve BEEN THERE. The cherries? Remember picking cherries? We have photos!
Silence.
Her: And the photos of you when you’re standing in the water, bawling because we left you out there to take a picture of you…
Me: Ooooh. You mean the ones where I’m standing in the ocean**?
Her: The ocean?
Me: Yes, I’m in the oc-
Her: You know what? You just enjoy your very first visit to the Okanagan Valley then.
**In case you’re, you know, TEXAN and are unable to tell from the name, the Okanagan Valley is full of lovely lakes, but nowhere near the ocean
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