Chapter 21: Watch Out! There Are Bears Everywhere.

Well, I have discovered something very interesting indeed! In my last e-mail I commented that all Vancouverites are dressed up as though they are heading out to slay a bear. What I didn’t realize at the time is that human-bear interactions are reaching epidemic proportions here in British Columbia. The other day the daily paper….(Actually I have to stop here to offer a brief aside on false advertising in the media, and a further rant on the weather here in Vancouver. Do you know what our local rag is called? The Vancouver Sun. Ha, ha, ha, ha! It’s just sooooooo inappropriately named! It’s been bucketing rain, and each morning as I cycle to the gym I get ice burn on my hands. But I guess you can’t have a daily paper called the Vancouver
Rain-Damp-Grey-Freezing-Weather-Just-10-Frigging-Days-Before-the-Summer-Solstice.)

Anyway, back to the daily paper, the so-called Vancouver Sun, which published an article which was basically a scorecard of “Us Humans” versus “Dem Bears”. And the humans don’t come out too well: some 20 bear attacks recently, many of them fatal! Last week the paper carried gruesome photos of a man currently in hospital. It seems he was biking in the mountains somewhere near the city, and he came around a bend and saw a grizzly not far away from him. So, he dropped his bike and started to run. (Go figure! But perhaps he had rain leaking into his head, causing some brain rot.) Anyway, the grizzly charged him, caught him, and began savagely chewing on his neck. Something about the cologne perhaps? Musk for Men? And just a few days ago the Vancouver Sun (sounds of me snickering sarcastically as I write this) reported that wildlife officials had shot the black bear which mauled and killed another young man recently. This was their third attempt. The previous two attempts were cases of mistaken identity (fatal for the bears concerned) but wildlife officials said that this third corpse was indeed the bear which ate the young man. They were able to confirm this from – brace yourselves folks – dental records!

What is it about older European ladies which makes it impossible for them to throw anything out from their refrigerator? Is it a gene which remains inactive until 65 and then kicks in with all the tenacious ferocity of a new senior citizen claiming an admission discount at the movies? Or perhaps it’s the fact that they’ve all lived through WW II and deeply embedded in their psyches is a rabid fear that all which stands between them and probable starvation is that one little bag of whatever-it-is, mouldering away at the back of the refrigerator. My Mum’s fridge is chock full of small opaque plastic bags. They scare me. I pulled one out the other day, with a particularly oily condensation obscuring clear vision of its contents, and held it up for her inspection.

“What is this?”

“Food.” She replied firmly and decisively.

“Maybe once upon a time” I said, “But that’s now a debatable proposition”. And just this morning Mum pulled out of the refrigerator a plastic bag of salad, marked Use by May 2.

“Do you think it’s still good?” she asked. (Today is June 12, and it is salad!). She then proceeded to open it, to sniff if and to nibble on it, despite my horrified reaction. My brother Martin has clearly got Mum’s number though, because when he comes to eat here, he grills her thoroughly as to the ingredients, mode of preparation, length and means of storage, etc, etc. Still, it’s not as bad as an occasion years ago, when I was staying with my friend’s grandmother in Lisbon. In a tureen of soup which she served to us I found: a used matchstick, a metal cap to a bottle of Gordon’s gin, and two dead flies.

But Mum is nothing if not a good sport. As part of a photography assignment for a course I am taking she has agreed to let me take her down to the train depot, and photograph her in her bathrobe and slippers, standing in front of a series of grain trains.

And life continues to amuse. Today at the gym, I nearly fell off the treadmill when I overheard this conversation between a man and a woman on the two treadmills beside me.

“Yeah, it’s a great summer camp for the kids, and it’s cheap.”

“Is it a religious camp?”

“No, it’s not. It’s a horse camp, they get to keep their horses for a whole week.”

“That’s nice. Is there religion involved?”

“I don’t think so. Why? Are you religious?”

“No, I’m not religious. I mean, I like religion. I mean, I really like religion. Religion’s OK, you know, but I’m not religious myself. No, no, no, no, no! Did you say it was a Christian camp?”

Folks, you will understand why I had to get off my treadmill to see who this bimbo was. She looked normal, though, no sign of obvious brain damage, aside from what came out of her mouth.

I’m also going to yoga classes. It’s easy. I’m a natural, my teacher tells me. I’ve been accepted into a writers’ workshop at the University in July. Life is good, despite the rain.