Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

We did, in fact, make it back across the border. And without much fuss whatsoever, which was good because my car door had been acting up and I wasn’t sure if they’d frown upon me crawling through my window like I was practicing for NASCAR or something. Border patrol is another breed entirely. But nonetheless, with little more than a raised eyebrow and a gentle chiding to renew his passport we were admitted.

I’m gonna say it was a relaxing stay in Quebec, what with all the eating and lounging I did it was pretty much an optimal hiatus. I didn’t bring back any souvenirs besides loose change and the makings for poutine (Canadian delicacy of french fries topped with hot gravy and melting squeaky cheese). I didn’t buy potatoes because, c’mon, those are not exactly novelty items, but the gravy is a special canned kind with a wonderful spice to it, and the cheese was freshly cheesified the very morning it was bought.

We did glance at some souvenir sweatshirts at the Red Bull Crashed Ice finale but they were an ungodly $75 and I have way too many sweatshirts as is. The track was pretty swamped with people trying to catch a glimpse of the race, and since I’m on the stunted side of the height chart I didn’t get to see much of the competitors, but the course was very impressive in itself.

We hung out by the finish line for the longest time, standing around the big projector screens to watch the action as it happened. The commentators got to sit on a throne-like ice platform and bar to get a prime view of the action as the four competitors vied for first place in the world championships.

I kept seeing this guy crossing the crowd of people with a tray of drinks and wondered why they were so excited to fill their stomachs with ice-cold Red Bull when it was beyond chilly outside. Then he put the tray down and it was beer. Everything suddenly became clear.