Ferries ain’t no thing but a chicken wing to many Pacific Northwesties, but until I’d traveled to Nanaimo, a larger town on British Columbia’s Vancouver Island, I’d never taken one alone. Driving aboard was childishly thrilling, akin to reaching the next level of a video game; the worlds I’d conquered during my travels thus far—deserts, farmland, mountains—were all “played” on land. Here was the water level, and a new kind of notch in my figurative travel belt.
Oh Canada. Though your people barely let me through border patrol because my American money is too fancy for you, I drove onto your soil one August day and then didn’t want to leave. So many trees. So many mountains. So many rugged men who look like they live in those mountains. So many interesting international people who seemingly don’t hate each other just for being different.