four thousand kilometers in four and a half hours

I spent a week in Vancouver with my mother and sisters with record cold and rainy temperatures for the month of May. We stayed in the veritable bowels of the downtown city, and with such unseasonable conditions, it seemed to make sense that we take a trip to the mall which, after a week of very similar escapades, had me feeling perfectly claustrophobic and depressed. Downtown Vancouver is much like the downtown of any major Canadian city. Big gritty buildings, hoards of traffic and noise, a Starbucks on what seemed like every two blocks and the usual suspects of Holt Renfrew, Pottery Barn, Club Monaco, topped with a visit to the makeup counter of Chanel at the Bay. In my defense for initially taking pleasure from these activities, giving in to consumerism can be gratifying in a sickly way, sortof like binging on cookie dough ice cream and cheezies.

The majestic snow-capped mountains in the rainy ghostly glow of the atmosphere taunted me as I plodded through the noisy dusty street. It left me with a feeling of longing and malaise. I wanted to be on those big mountains in the middle of all that pure wildness. I wanted to smell the fresh air that I knew was there on those mountains. I felt caught in a cage.

I tried to buy things to get rid of that feeling, thought that maybe the real reason for my grumpy mood was that I needed new shoes or a new hat, or maybe a haircut. I despondently bought a frumpy t-shirt dress and leopard print socks at H&M. Started to think that vomiting would be the only way to get what at that point felt like a growing "thing" inside of me out.

I developed a seemingly permanent sick feeling in my gut, a dullness in my brain, a palpable heaviness. Tried to kill it with another cappuccino, I found that alcohol worked much better.

On the way to the airport on the Skytrain, a girl sat a few rows over in a dirty hoodie and jeans. She had sores on her face and she alternated between talking to herself and sleeping, muttering to beg some change. She had blue eyes and blond hair and she couldn't have been more than 20. Her deflated worn figure was a stark contrast to the shiny spaceship-like quality of the train's interior.

On the way home in the plane, I bought an Adbusters magazine which helped ease the existential crisis a bit. I read a speech by a vegan activist given just before he was sentenced to prison after his arson attacks on the Tandy Leather Factory and a foie gras restaurant.

The jet traveled four thousand kilometers in four and a half hours, almost all the way almost across the continent. I squished my nose against the airplane's window on the descent, examining the frost on the glass from the low temperatures of high altitude. I kept looking as we descended beneath the cloud cover until I could see St Joseph's Oratory reliably perched on Mont-Royal.

I came home to a lonely Montreal apartment, the cats had puked on the floor in my absence which I dutifully cleaned up, knowing that a sprinkle of water would help soften up the hardened splats.

I opened a beer and swept the floor, thinking about ways to stop that "thing" from getting inside me for once and for all.