Viewing the Olympics in HD is one thing. Let me assure you, viewing them in real life is quite something else.
The trek has now been made from the Sugar Shack to Mauler HQ.
And this is right.
It's difficult to describe the increasing level of excitement that seems to be permeating the atmosphere the farther west you go. Like the pioneers following the Oregon Trail, the First Mate and I packed up some dried meats and boarded our Air Canada covered wagon, not fully knowing what to expect as we ventured towards the sunset.
What we've found appears to be the Olympic spirit.
A brief stopover in the YYZ revealed a gate dedicated solely to Vancouver flights, and (perhaps unsurprisingly) multiple kiosks hoping to shuck some garbs upon the unsuspecting Latvians, Croatians, and Koreans that were about to join us on our cross-country adventure.
Let's call it the first trading post.
As we took our seats, the number of people donning the red, black, and white made it seem that - following a brief instructional video apprising us on the virtues of seat-belt attachment and removal, cabin depressurization reaction techniques, and deplaning procedures in the unlikely event of a water landing - we were going to break out in a rousing rendition of O Canada.
Four and a half hours later, it hit.
Holy crap. Here we were.
The arrivals area was chock-full of Olympic mania, HBC-sanctioned merchandise, and big screen tv's. Needless to say I consider it a more than promising sign that we reached the baggage carousel just in time to see Canada's favorite cougar - Cheryl Bernard - draw to the button for an extra-end victory.
It's on.
Leaving the airport, it's as if the city just wanted to say hello. And welcome.
What's the first thing we see?
Byen-v'noo?
Hello, indeed.
- the Skip
