The whole time we were in Cuba, I thought this beer was from Guatemala. Turns out I was wrong.
Last month I took the ferry from Victoria to Vancouver to spend a weekend with some family and friends. On Friday night I dined at the Flying Beaver in Richmond with my grandmother, and on Saturday I romped about the lower mainland with my great uncle. We had lunch at the Vancouver Lawn Tennis Club, perused his amazing jazz record collection, watched horse racing with a friend of his near the border at the Derby Bar (where I consumed three Budweiser’s- an appropriate atmosphere), and finished off the day with a mucho grande Italian feast at Nick’s Spaghetti House on Commercial. I was rather full. Then on Sunday afternoon, after some record shopping, I prepared to meet up with some friends for a few drinks.
Part 1 can be found here.
Around the fire were two couples, and they were drinking beers while listening to Led Zeppelin. Lots of Led Zeppelin; all night long. I was impressed. The wives did not talk much, but their husbands sure made up for it. Their names were Bobby and Jim, and they were both Vietnam War veterans. As a Canadian, this was a demographic that I was unlikely to ever encounter back home, so despite how much overlap there truly is in the Canadian and the American experience, this would certainly be a treat for me. They quickly got me involved in their game of blow darts, which involved shooting foot long darts out of a long pipe towards a target which was about twenty feet away. When I reasoned that my beer intake was starting to affect my aim, I bowed out of the competition. Jim would not be reigned in so easily though, and he began to flip throwing knives up into the air in an attempt to have them land point down in a target near his feet. Bobby admonished him that one day he might stab his own foot, and that got us onto the lovely topic of healthcare.
During May and June of 2014, I was employed as a tree planter in the southern interior of British Columbia. I quickly learned that while the occupation was not for me, the lifestyle wasn’t too bad the rest of the time, with ceaseless eating and substance (ab)use around the campfire being a rather pleasant way to spend one’s free time. We all tried many different varieties of beer, whisky, cigarettes etc. in a communal consumption designed to forget the pains of our labour. Every two weeks we would get two days off instead of one, always falling on a weekend, and during one of these longer breaks I decided to take a little trip down the Okanagan Valley into the Okanogan Valley, Washington State.
I didn’t really feel like partying this year on Hallowe’en night, so I decided to stay in and make a cream of radish soup. At about 21 o’clock I ventured out on foot to the grocery store to pick up some milk, and on the way I ended up crossing paths with a friend of mine, identified from other guys of the same name with the affectionate prefix “awkward.” He told me he was going to a house party later and that I was welcome to join him. I told him that I was planning on making some soup, but that I could perhaps stop by for a visit later on. After a successful milk purchase at the store, I headed home and crafted a fine soup.