Adieu, Canada. Your bike lanes and transit system are stellar, but we have other stars and stripes on the mind. The decibels emanating from our motley crew kickstart pacemakers and chafe the chaste Canadian sense of public decency. We are bold, brash Americans. We take up space unabashedly and they apologize.
So it’s a relief to be amongst big Olympic redwoods after our five mile vertical Odyssey. We barely made the ferry in the morning, but embarked on time and breezed through customs. This time they didn’t even check all of our passports, just ensured we weren’t running any Canada-grown vegetables or wildlife across state lines. Straight to Safeway we went, stocking up for two days before all the chips and brats were plucked from shelves.
Outside, we engaged in hacky sack, the new communal pastime. Ours was a ragged bag, adorned with maple leaf. Maple leaf rag. A Chevy rolled up and tossed us a plump, tightly knit sack, as if it were fresh off a neutered pitbull. This was a blessing, and we played all during lunch in the lush Port Angeles courthouse lawn. A man approached with purpose, claiming fifty years of hacksperience, and proved it. We learned how to flick it up without using hands, and stall it on the bill of the cap. He gave us the recipe for breaking in a new sack — park a car on it overnight. Seems a bit excessive, but who are pupils to question a master?
Then it was climb time. Tough, but we were tougher. Immediately upon arrival Annabelle, Phoebe and Zinnia made a fabulous pesto pasta with garlic bread, and we continued the hacking like George Washington on that cherry tree.
We’re in the heart of summer. Distant fireworks lub and dub, beating to the tune of American revelry. There is still perfection in this imperfect country. It lies nestled in the forests, wafts skyward from campfire meals and lives in the laughter of a bunch of kids playing simple games together. It is worth holding onto.