Clearing Customs

I arrived in Whistler last night! The internet wasn’t cooperating so the post is only going up now.

It was a fairly uneventful day of traveling. I was flying solo because my dad’s airline miles were on United, whereas my friends all chose American Airlines. I left Providence at 7:15AM EST and finally arrived at the Cleanevent Camp at 10:30PM local time, or 1:30AM EST. Then it was time to settle in, meet people, clean up, etc. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The only thing of real note between my two flights were the gates I boarded in: C15 in Boston and B14 from my layover in Chicago. Fourteen and fifteen are my two lucky numbers, so I smiled to myself at this friendly omen.

When I arrived at the Vancouver airport it was quite a trek to get to customs, but I can’t complain because along the way there were beautiful aboriginal exhibits, complete with extensive water features. If I hadn’t been alone and anxious to clear customs, I would have stopped for a few photo opps. Perhaps on the return trip.

I had expected long lines at immigration, but was pleasantly surprised to find that the only passengers there were the ones who had disembarked just before me from my flight. Line 15 caught my eye and I patiently waited my turn. The man behind the counter wasn’t openly smiling, but he had kind eyes and a gentle demeanor.

As I mentioned in my previous post, one of my friends (Marc) had been denied at the border crossing the day before, but I was careful to hide the twang of nervousness that tickled the back of my brain. After handing over my passport, the customs agent asked the purpose of my visit and I responded as instructed: “I am a volunteer intern for a company called Cleanevent in Whistler”. When he requested documentation to that effect, I presented the letter I had received via email that morning. I apologized for its wrinkles, and after reading through the pages briefly he said “Okay, have a nice trip”, and I was free to enter the country.

Once at baggage claim I received a text from Marc asking me to let him know when I got in. Assuming that he, too, was at the airport to wait for the shuttle I called him back expecting to meet up soon. Unfortunately luck had not been on his side today, as he was again denied entry into Canada. He told me he would stay the night in Seattle and try again, and expressed his frustration at the unfairness of the situation. I have to agree with him there – why is the same document permissible for me, yet not for him?

Luggage in hand, I headed upstairs to the foodcourt where I enjoyed sushi and free wireless. The football game was on, and whenever I heard wild cheering I turned to watch the screen. I kept hearing cowbells, but it wasn’t until after the game had ended that I saw where they were coming from. A group of Canadians were decked out in bells and other metal that added to the cling and clatter. One even had a giant Canadian flag. They walked around cheering, not at the game, but out of excitement and patriotism inspired by the imminent Games. While the racket wasn’t pretty, I appreciated their enthusiasm.

Time at the airport passed quickly and soon the other five girls joined me. We lounged at the Fairmont briefly before our shuttle arrived. Don, a older Irishman, loaded our many bags into the van and I hopped in shotgun to help with the navigation. Though hired as a driver for Cleanevent, it was Don’s first airport pickup and the quickly descending darkness complicated things.

I helped Don scout out the signs along the road to find our way. There were sections with many meaningless signs and stretches with minimal signage, but what was frustrating was that even main route numbers were not clearly marked. There are no bright blue interstate signs here, which made choosing the right route more like a scavenger hunt.

The other thing Don wanted me to watch for were changes in speed limits. It was sometimes hard to pick them out amongst the sea of other signs, and Don also had to concern himself with translating the kilometers per hour from the signs into the miles per hour that were marked with large numbers on his speedometer. Police officers were everywhere, and he didn’t want to get pulled over for speeding.

I learned that night that there is only one road from Vancouver to Whistler. To increase efficiency on Highway 99, two lanes became three. Yellow stakes with reflectors on top were placed in the road to create a middle lane, which sometimes flowed toward Whistler and other times away. There were signs on the side of the road to let you know the direction of the middle lane, but it changed based on the time of day and the exact location of the stretch of three lanes.

Another effect the three lanes had was to push the outer lanes towards or sometimes into the shoulder. There was also a bike lane, but I hope nobody risks that perilous cycling trip with the extra Olympics traffic on the road. There were stretches of road with profound darkness, which made the glare of oncoming headlights and the glow of the reflectors particularly unpleasant. The stakes in the road also cause shadows when the cars passed such that once I thought a person was trying to cross the road.

During the ride I began to casually ask Don questions, unable to quench my innate inquisitiveness. Some he was able to answer, some he wasn’t, and some he didn’t elaborate on because he was concentrating so hard on the road ahead.

Supposedly the views would have been spectacular had there been daylight to see by. We hugged a steep rocky face on our right, but we were told that the black abyss to our left was at times a another steep drop, at others a harbor. Again, the trip back may be the time to enjoy this.

After what seemed an eternity of anticipation (which had begun in October), we arrived at the place we will call home for the next three weeks…