The Sister Dearest Series: Part Two

I’ll admit - it was a little strange having Sister Dearest in Banff.

Strange in the way that absolutely nothing has changed in the 12 months since I’ve been out of the country. We still cracked the same personal jokes, still bantered like we were the Gilmore Girls, still obsessed over poached eggs and espresso coffee and still couldn’t understand when people said we looked exactly alike.

I just don’t see it, people.

I did my best to give Sister Dearest the royal Banff treatment, right down to pizza at Aardarks after stumbling home from a 2am dance session at HooDoo’s. It’s something she would probably prefer to forget, but midnight pizza is crucial to anyone’s overall Banff experience.

Thanks to it being Spring Break, I had to work most of the days she was here but we found time to ride most afternoons, leaving my days-off free for more interesting things.

Like dog-sledding.

Dog-sledding is a long-practiced Canadian tradition, originally used to transport produce and medicine back in the day when there were no highways or semi-trailers. Now, dog-sledding does more for the tourism trade than it does anything else, putting willing (and sometimes unwilling) tourists in the driving seat of seven over-excited huskies.

The dogs were gorgeous, but not quite as gorgeous as our tour guide, Phil. Phil was especially gorgeous when he was holding a puppy. I regret to admit, I may have shamelessly lusted in his direction in hope that we might live happily ever after in his mountain lodge.

After Phil and the huskies, Sister Dearest and I took a break from Sunshine and went riding at Lake Louise. I hadn’t been to The Lake since the start of the season when the runs were covered in ice and the snow-guns were working overtime. I was pleasantly surprised at the conditions and the steeper terrain, a welcome change from Sunshine. We spent the better part of an hour building a pathetic-looking kicker off a green run on Larch and the better part of an hour throwing ourselves off it as we took photos.

The expiry date on Sister Dearest and I’s time together came all too quickly and before I knew it, I was standing on the footpath waving goodbye to her as she headed back to Calgary airport. Being back together after so long apart was like reuniting Lorelei and Rory and then cancelling the Gilmore Girls all over again.

Who knows when we will see each other again, but until then, we will always have our memories of Banff.

And Phil.

Ciao for now. xo

The Sister Dearest Series: Part One

It’s been a month after the fact, but my sister was here. In Banff. With me. 

Thought I should tell you all. It seemed like something worthy of blogging about. Even if it has been almost a month since she was here.

Tale of the tardy blogger strikes again.

Given that it had been six months since we had last seen each other (the last time being our jaunt in ol’ N.Y.C), we decided the occasion should be marked by a little trip to Whistler, BC – home of the 2010 Winter Olympics and pretty much every sexually transmitted disease known to man, thanks to the hordes of 20-something snowboard and skiing extremists who flood its village every winter season.

As Bethany was flying in from Sydney, we decided to meet in Vancouver and make stop-over. We spent a whole 24 hours there which was just enough time for me to decide that I wanted to move there after summer camp finishes in August – consequently adding another 12 months to my never ending North American adventure.

While 24 hours definitely wasn’t sufficient time to see everything Vancouver has to offer, we squeezed in as much as possible to our time-pressed itinerary. Such experiences included:

- Afternoon tea with Zosia Cassie, my beloved bunk director from Appel Farm
- An afternoon stroll through the famous Stanley Park

- Breakfast at 'Crave' on Main Street. No espresso coffee, but deliciously gooey poached eggs made up for it

- Shopping, wandering and more shopping
- Lunch in Yaletown, the yuppie-ville of Vancouver where sister dearest fit right in

But the real gem in the Vancouver crown was dinner at 'Salt', a wine-and-cheese bar where the menu consists of nothing but cheese, meats and condiments and all you drink is wine, wine and more wine. We had a lovely waiter who received a rather generous tip, given that he was considerably more delicious than the blue-cheese cheesecake he recommended for dessert.

From Vancouver, we made the two and a half hour bus trip to Whistler where I was reunited with Clare Thomas, another Appel Farm friend who was to be our host for the next two days. Even on arrival, it was clear why Whistler reigns supreme as the leading destination for snow bums. Not only is Whistler Village like an alpine country town that you just want to paint red, but the mountain is so close you can see the runs from the highway exit.

It must be awfully nice dragging one’s hungover butt out of bed and stumbling straight onto the mountain. Instead of, say, a 40 minute bus and gondola commute that could make any iron stomach churn with last night’s bad decisions.

We spent two days riding Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, a fairly expensive experience which was without a doubt, worth every penny. Both mountains are a bevy of green, blue and black runs where one not only experiences every form of terrain, but every form of weather as well. The mountains are both so high that riding from top to bottom can take you from bluebird sunshine to snow to white-out to spring slush in all of 20 minutes. We were there Monday and Tuesday and even then, the lift lines were that bit too long, which only made me wonder what the weekend warriors must put up with every Saturday and Sunday.

When we weren’t snowboarding ourselves into a powder high, we were experiencing the village’s evening delights. With Clare as our guide, we visited Moe Joe’s club, Longhorns Saloon, did a spot of karaoke at Crystal Lounge (okay, so I did a spot of karaoke while Clare and Sister Dearest watched) and ate a few too many late-night poutines from Zog’s (where I’d make a reference to Peak Season – MTV’s reality TV representation of working in a snow town – but that would mean admitting that I’ve watched an episode.... or seven.)

Despite trying not to, I found myself constantly comparing Whistler with Banff and feeling just that wee-bit jealous. It is easy to be immediately smitten with everything Whistler has to offer – the village atmosphere, the incredible mountain conditions, the simple satisfaction of saying that’s where you did a season. It was so different to what I’ve known for the last half of the year and with Banff beginning to feel like the winter of my discontent, I wondered if I had made the right decision choosing Sunshine Village.

But on returning to Banff, with Sister Dearest in tow, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of the town I’ve called home for seven months. The Rocky Mountains looming tall in every direction, being recognised as ‘that girl who sings at Bruno’s’ when I’m walking down the street and the days when the sky on top of Goat’s Eye mountain is so blue and so clear that there’s nothing hidden on the national park’s rocky outcrop.

Fine. I heart Banff.

Whatever.

Ciao for now. xo

Luck of the Irish

I'm going to skip the part where I apologise for, once again, letting an entire month go by without posting anything about my travels. 

Instead, I'm going to move right along to St Patrick's Day.

It seems one thing Banff knows how to do (other than be blisteringly cold) is celebrate holidays which have nothing much to do with the town or Canada itself. Much like Australia Day, St Patrick's Day is celebrated with all the green gusto Ireland has to offer, thanks to its community of Irish ex-pats. In fact, it's incredible the amount of people of sudden Irish-descent who crawl out of the woodwork when this holiday rolls around every year.

However, it seems celebrating the shamrock is as good an excuse as any to wear as much greenery as possible and drink until your thirsty again, no matter what your citizenship.

And if it's one thing the locals of Banff feel comfortable doing it's getting dressed up, getting drunk and ultimately making fools of themselves.

Which, of course, is exactly what we did. I wouldn't want to mess around with tradition now.

After a few beers at Bruno's (it was a Thursday night afterall and therefore my musical duties were required. I wore a hat in the shape of an over-flowing pint especially for the occassion), we headed to the ever lovely HooDoo nightclub, a hot spot frequented by old men with bloodshot eyes and roaming hands who've confused themselves for being 30 years younger than what they are. The old men were few and far between once us young-ens took over the dance floor with all the bravado of Michael Flatley. Lucky for my housemates and I, we had practiced our best Riverdance kicks in the comfort of our own kitchen before leaving the house.

Okay, so it was under the supervision of a few vodka-cokes.

Fiddle-dee-dee potatoes.

Ciao for now. xo