Friday, August 18, 2017
This was a long day. If you make it to the end, your prize will be a drunken night-out blog. You’re welcome.
It was another early morning to beat the crowds to the trails. We were up at 6 am, and breezed through our now expedited routine of making breakfast burritos and sandwiches for lunch before the sun comes up. We got to Lake Louise just after the sun had come up around 7 am and already had to fight Suzanne’s mom (read: Asian tourists obsessed with selfies) for some pictures. What are all these older Asian couples doing with the thousands of pictures they take anyway? No one reads your blog, Asian mom. Get the fuck out of the way. Canadians are far too easygoing and agreeable to tell a group of Chinese tourists where to shove their tripod, but us Americans are not. See Canada, we’re good for something.
After an obligatory jumping picture (see above), we set off on the hike to the Lake Agnes tea house, which starts at the base of Lake Louise. The house was very enjoyable, obviously because we beat all the ass holes who have zero value for their own personal time and choose to fight hoards of other tourists just to catch another hour of sleep. Marissa spent the majority of the hike asking everyone we passed “how are the bathroom’s up there? Asking for a friend” at our insistence. Maybe you had to be there. The Lake Agnes tea house is an adorable little lakeside wood cabin at the top of a mountain which serves tea and other nibbles. They have to hike in most of their provisions and get annual helicopter deliveries to supply their operation. We are probably the first people to BYOBreakfast burritos with our tea. Even the waitress wanted a bite. This isn’t 1882, I need bacon with my tea and crumpets at the end of a hike. Someone make me a shirt that says “Will Hike for Bacon”. By the time we made our way back down the trail, the hoards of basics who slept in had begun to make their way up. We passed an aggressive amount of families, many of which were hiking with babies on their backs. One dad, in particular, had a baby strapped to his back and another strapped to his chest. Super dad for the win. Let the record show if my future husband wants to take our toddlers hiking with us instead of springing for a babysitter, he can carry both of them too.
After our hike, we hauled ass out of Lake Louise and down to the town of Golden in British Columbia for our white water rafting adventure on the Kicking Horse river with Alpine rafting. If there is one thing you can always count on, it’s cute white water rafting guides. Also, beautiful scenery…but priorities. I was particularly looking forward to a hot guy yelling commands at me in a cute Canadian accent. There are very few situations in which I’ll follow directions from a man without argument, and rafting is one of them. Ok, rafting is the only one. It took us about 5 minutes to realize we did not pick the hot guide Company. We picked the chill, granola rafting guide Company. Probably for the best – I’ve been making an effort to not bite random men’s arms while in Canada and a hot rafting guide would have made that impossible. But let the record show, if I did bite a Canadian’s arm, he would probably apologize to me for getting in the way of my teeth. “Soorry, soorry, didn’t see your teeth there.”
We changed into our wet suits that made us look like members of the star fleet academy and loaded up with life jackets and helmets. Stina and I had to wait until we got to the river to get our helmets because that’s where they keep the youth sizes. Team tiny head for the win, once again. A mild mannered, unassuming family of three from Minnesota was unlucky enough to be paired with Troop 638 for the day. I hope they like class three rapids with a side of curse words because that is what they are going to get. Our rafting guide’s name was Bill (although I continue to refer to him as Tom or Tim – if your name is basic, you can’t be offended by the confusion). Bill was a super chill dude from Ontario with long dreadlocks. Dreadlocks long enough to get him fired from his last rafting job. I would think dreads would be an extra qualification for a job like rafting guide instead of a hindrance. Personally, when I see dreadlocks I think to myself, there is a guy who can pull me out of the river and teach me to live off the land should we find ourselves in a Lost situation. You know, as long as I don’t have to touch or smell the dreads while we are depending on each other for survival in the wilderness. Because, ew.
On the bus ride down the to the river, the guide asked who has experience rafting class 4 rapids. I raised my hands enthusiastically, thrilled that we were actually going to get big water this late in the season. That guide was a fucking liar. Passing these mild class 3’s off as a class 4 might work on some newbies from Minnesota, but not this bitch. I’m not the most outdoorsy girl you’ve ever met, but I will jam through a fucking class four with a shit eating grin any day of the week. I have an internal rating system based on how much I fear for my life, and this trip was disappointingly safe. We still had a great day on the river. Our guide got us stuck on a rock and instead of obeying his commands I decided to film him on my GoPro because it was a class three so, really, what’s the hurry?
After rafting, we were starving and ate our picnic lunch out of the back of Bertha (our Yukon, keep up). Everyone was staring at us as if we had invented the idea of food in the middle of the day. One mom commented on what a good idea it was to bring lunch. You planned at rafting trip from 11:30 am to 3:30 pm and didn’t formulate a plan to feed your family? I don’t have kids, but I’m pretty sure keeping them fed is Mom 101. Does that sound judgmental? Good, because I meant it to.
We headed straight from our rafting adventure in Golden, BC to Banff, Alberta. We checked in to our two-bedroom suite at the Fox Hotel and Suites in Banff, and after an aggressive fight with the world’s worst luggage cart, we were finally cracking open a few bottles of wine. You try maneuvering five bags of luggage to the third floor on the equivalent of a rusted CVS shopping cart and see how big of a drink you need. First order of business was to head down to the hot tub grotto in our hotel and give our tired muscles a break. The grotto at our hotel looks like Hugh Hefner designed the hot tub area for the Hampton Inn. The best mix of bougie and basic you have ever seen. After two days of non-stop hiking, driving and rafting, I would have put on bunny ears and served creepy old men cigars to sit in that thing. Thank god we got some rest because we had quite the drama ahead of us at…
SPILLGATE – BANFF, 2017
We had dinner reservations at the Park Distillery in Banff. The resaurant distills its own vodka and gin on-site and is also the only distillery in a National Park. We started the night off with a few of their vodka and gin flights – which basically consisted of six shots of flavored booze per flight. I asked if we could get our booze chilled, but was told that the bartender recommends they be tasted at room temperature, as chilling them would just water them down. This obviously begs the question as to why you don’t just keep your vodka in a fucking freezer, but I was trying to be a good sport. So I sipped room temperature vodka like a poor Russian girl at communist summer camp. We all ordered a round of drinks with our vodka tasting, because a shot without a drink is like a hog without its sidecar – it still works, but its far less fun. Stina’s drink was bright red and called the “Beehive”. Our waitress, who had just knocked over an empty bottle of wine at the table next to us, proceeded to accidentally backhand Stina’s drink like a pimp on payday, spilling the red concoction all over Stina’s white shirt and my skinny shirt (the shirt that makes me look skinny). We all jumped up and screamed for soda water STAT. Suz and Linds tended to our wounds with more efficiency and speed than a Red Cross worker in a hurricane named after a fat chick. Suz even ran down to the drug store to get a Tide-to-go pen. After about twenty minutes of frantic maneuvering, we were finally able to return to our meal. A different red headed waitress brought a drink to Stina and told her it was on the house. ONE DRINK. I don’t know how hospitality works in Canada, but one drink does not make up for a fucking blood bath at dinner. We asked to speak to the Manager and were told that we already did – the red headed slut who brought Stina her do-over drink, yet did not introduce herself as the manager or provide any form of apology, was the actual Manager of this establishment. Her name was Micayla. She was a bitch. She came back to our table and said: “Your waitress told me you wanted to speak to me?” How she managed to pull off both condescension and ignorance in one fell swoop is beyond me, and truly a testament to her lack of tact and professionalism. Of course we want to talk you, dumb bitch, we just had a drink spilled all over us by your waitress after which we weren’t provided so much as a fucking apology and nowhere near an adequate form of remediation. I know you’re busy on your summer break from University, fucking your way through the greasy busboys while you play Assistant Manager at a restaurant in a town as big as my ass hole, but we are adults and we expect to be treated as such. Do I sound bitter? Horrid customer service does that to me. In our clumsy waitresses’ defense, she was very sweet and apologetic about it. It was an honest mistake and we had no intention of punishing her for it. She had also only been working a week – big surprise. But as the manager on duty of an overpriced restraurant, it’s your job to make things right and to treat your customers with some respect. We eventually came to an agreement on our bill that we were happy with, after far more discussion than should have ever been necessary. I think I speak for all of Troop 638 when I say there is only one red-headed boss bitch in Banff, her name is Lindsay and she’s with us. So go fuck yourself, Micayla.
After SPILLGATE, we were determined to turn up. We had pictured nightlife in Banff to be something similar to Park City or Aspen. Upscale clientele with a zero fucks, bottle popping vacation mentality. In actuality, it’s more like National Lampoons mountain vacation. We walked into our first bar, The Devils Gap, took a shot and immediately walked the fuck out. The Devil’s Gap was more like The Tooth Gap, or The Gap Between Asses and Pants among its patrons. Strike one. We then tried Wild Bill’s because we heard there was a mechanical bull, and I’m always down to get trashy on a mechanical bull. Turns out, the bull was not running and there was a cover charge because of a “local band”. I’ve already seen the “local restaurant management” so bar for locals is low a this point. Strike 2. We turned around and tried another bar, also with a cover charge. Sure, it was only $5 per person, but as women who are fucking Twelves in Canada, paying even a minuscule amount to enter a shitty dive bar somehow seemed egregious. We may be 8’s in California, but the metric system is very kind of us tan Californian girls up here. We decided on one last try at the Dancing Sasquatch – a club that numerous guides and waiters had mentioned to us over the past few days. We show our IDs and are once again stopped by some Canadian 5s asking for a cover of $10. We laughed in their faces and turned around. The boys in line immediately started complaining to the bouncers that they were letting the only chicks leave the otherwise Canadian Bacon Fest (see what I did there?), at which point the bouncers chased us down the block and asked us to return for free. Duh.
First order of business in the Dancing Sasquatch – get shots. Second order of business – find the actual Dancing Sasquatch. Turns out, the Sasquatch on any given night is just the drunkest, most ridiculous boy in the bar. Took us about four seconds to spot the big guy in jeans and a denim vest dropping it like it’s hot. Sasquatch in a summertime Canadian tuxedo. The people watching was amazing, if not sometimes frightening. At one point, a fight broke out on the dance floor. A few of the bouncers swooped in to break it up. Everyone apologized to each other after which they all started dancing together like an episode of drunk Barney. Even the bouncers started dancing with the guys, I shit you not. We momentarily pondered if we were actually in a gay club, as the dance floor was all men who seemed to have zero qualms about personal space with other men. We were assured it was not. A drunk guy hit on Suzanne and Linds while simultaneously being kicked out by a bouncer for being too drunk – Suzanne assured the bouncer he was sober enough to buy them drinks and ask if he could kindly wait for their transaction to close before kicking the guy out. The bouncer obliged. Because, Canadians. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times – they are the teddy bears of the world. Except, of course, that bitch Micayla.
Around midnight, we reached the point where the drunken dancing among Canadian sevens had turned into hopefully humping. So we took our hot, level twelve, drunk asses home.