Ugh! No doubt you have been going through Rugged Fox withdrawal these last couple of weeks. If only a spicy double Caesar could take away the pain I wouldn’t have to update this website so much. This month has been eventful, to say the least. After returning home from San Francisco, I strapped on a pair of vintage burgundy Ingledew’s shoes, and dove right in to manager training at the restaurant. A week later, Mama Fox came to town and somewhere in between all that time, a Polish Prince swept me off my feet (literally). I had to stick my nose in a glass of Cline Zinfandel this morning just to refresh my memory about my trip to Sonoma and Napa Valley! Alas, here is your latest fix.

DISCLAIMER: this entry, just like this site, is for your entertainment. all events, characters and dialogue should be read as fictional.

Before we fell asleep Wednesday, Jacquie and I felt like we needed to add a touch of spice to our wine tour. So we decided to play newlyweds. Because of my experience as a local celebrity and Jacquie’s knowledge of being super hot, there was no question we had the star power necessary to pull each role off. After attending upwards of 300 weddings in the last two years, we also knew that in order to be convincing as a happy married couple, we needed a dark secret to hide. So after thirty seconds of light discussion, I decided to stretch myself in to the character of “Tom,” a closeted gay man, while Jacquie cast herself as my unassuming housewife, “Kate.”

At 7:00am Thursday morning, I reached over to hit snooze on my iPhone. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone through the pink curtains on the window, while the deafening sound of a jackhammer drowned out the chirp of any bird within a 25-mile radius. I stretched my arms up above my head, popped out my retainer on the night-stand, and rolled over to Jacquie’s side of the bed.

“Good morning beloved wife,” I said, really getting myself in to character. I ran my freshly-manicured fingertips through her tangled, unwashed hair and told her that she looked ravishing.

“So do you,” she said, turning around to meet her eyes with mine.

“I know.”

I had laid out my outfit for the day the night before because I knew we weren’t going to have much time to get ready in the morning. The Wine Tour Company could only pick us up from a hotel, so I had scheduled a cab to pick us up at 8:15 to drop us off at the nearest Travelodge.

“Do you mind if I hop in the shower first?” I asked Jacquie.

“No darling.” She placed her palms face-down on the mattress behind her back and propped herself up on the bed. Splaying her voluptuous chest in the air, she asked me if I wanted some company.

I shut her down so fast it didn’t even occur to me that she was speaking in character. It’s just that, you see, I have this personal shower routine that has taken six years and countless bottles of skin and hair products to perfect. Guy or girl, the first hour of each day is no time to mess around.

Fifty-two minutes later, I was just beginning to trim my Scottish eyebrows when I heard Jacquie’s fist smash up against the bathroom door.

“Fox you bitch! Let me in! The cab’s coming in fifteen and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet!”

I tried to buy myself an extra five minutes but she was already huffing and puffing, and I was afraid she was going to blow the door down.

With two minutes to spare, our cab pulled up in front of the hotel lobby. Jacquie stormed out the side door before it came to a full stop. She was upset with me because I left her with barely enough time to throw on a hat. I tried to explain to her as we drove down Valencia Street that only one of us had to look pretty; but she wouldn’t have it.

By the time I managed to pay the driver, she had returned from the lobby with a white Styrofoam cup of coffee, a mini-box of Fruit Loops, and an extra-large banana.

“Did you just steal continental breakfast?” I asked her, placing my wallet back inside my jacket pocket.

“You gotta problem with that?” She tossed a handful of Fruit Loops in her mouth and crunched down.

“No, of course not… it’s just that, you didn’t get me anything?”

“Here,” she passed me the banana, “chew on this.”

silver chariotAt 8:35 am, right on time, the grey bus (or as I like to call it, silver chariot) pulled up in front of us. A German lady behind the wheel opened up the automatic doors and I followed Jacquie to an empty seat in the back. We were the first stop en route downtown to pick up the rest of our supporting cast: a rich Colombian couple from the Marriott and their teenage daughter, a middle-class family on spring break from Boise, Idaho and two retired Australians who had just begun their lives at 65. Twenty minutes later we were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, passing Sausalito on our left, and entering in to wine country.

“So where are you two from?” asked the Boise housewife seated next to me. 

“Winnipeg,” said Jacquie. Good move I thought, the prairies are overflowing with gay men married to women. “I’m Kate and this is my husband, Tom,” she introduced us.

“I’m Sharon,” she smiled and shook both of our hands. She was dressed in white New Balance shoes, faded-denim jeans from Target, and a black-and-yellow University of Idaho sweater.

“So what brings you two out to sunny California?”

“Our honeymoon,” I said. “I have hearted San Francisco ever since the day the Olsen twins were born. We got married on Valentine’s Day last Feb and thought, you know why not, let’s do it! So we found a seat sale on West Jet, booked a luxury suite at the Travelodge and here we are.”

“We are really happy,” said Jacquie.

“Like super happy,” I echoed her. “Is that your family?”

Seated one row up, her two teenage kids looked devastated. I would be traumatized to if I was taken on a wine tour and was not old enough to drink. Her husband, a beefier man, was fast asleep in the seat next to her.

“Yes, that’s Andrew and Madison and my husband Vince, well he got a little too excited last night.”

“I understand,” I smiled.

“The kids were off school this week, and now that the two of us are working again, we managed to save up some money to take a trip this year. I’ve always wanted to see San Francisco since I was a little girl.”

“Well, as soon as we have a glass in our hands, we can cheers to an excellent trip.” 

Sharon’s attention shifted to the kids when they broke out in to a fight over the iPhone. I looked at Jacquie and she smiled back, which I assumed meant that we were talking again. As our silver chariot pulled up to the first winery in Sonoma, I stepped off the bus and took in a deep breath of fresh air. The scenery was amazing. The land stretched for miles in every direction, spotted with pockets of water that became the last traces of winter. I took Jacquie by the hand and led her up the hill to the Italian style villa.

“So, how’d we do?” I asked.

“Total pros,” said Jacquie.

I kissed her on the cheek and like a gentleman, opened up the door to the first tasting room of the day.

valencia street in the mission district

The following conversation took place on my iPhone at some point in February 2012.

Jacquie O: So about accommodations, do you mind staying in a hostel?

Rugged Fox: A hostel? Explain.

Jacquie O: It is kind of like a Travelodge but there are no walls between each room.

(dramatic pause)

Rugged Fox: We might as well just sleep under the Golden Gate bridge if that’s the case.

It should come as no surprise that when it comes to nightly skin routines and sleeping arrangements, I have a checklist of needs. I am not like most girls who can just pass out on the floor and throw their hair up in a ponytail the next morning looking like they did it on purpose.

My beauty is regimented. My face relies on at least eight ten to ten hours of sleep a night, and considering how much alcohol I consume on an hourly basis, three different moisturizing creams and one French mineral water spritz. Slumming it was not an option for my trip to San Francisco with Jacquie O.

I did my research and quoted Jacquie on a few numbers from a couple of boutique hotels at Union Square as well as the Fairmont in Nob Hill. I estimated that minus taxes, room service and mini-bar charges, we could easily stay four nights in the Gay Metropolis for just under $1,500. I realized it was about $1,200 more than the price she first had in mind; but to my knowledge, these “hostels” did not include leather sofas, remote-controlled fireplaces or 24-hour fitness rooms. Because she is a starving student and I have body image problems, I emailed her to explain we could just save the difference on food.

When I did not hear back from Jacquie for two weeks, I discovered a compromise online: air bnb. For hostel prices, we could stay in a two-bedroom apartment with wine glasses in the cupboard, a walk-in closet to hang all my clothes, and a bathroom without fluorescent lighting. After she gave me the go-ahead, I booked us a room for $60 a night in the sunny Mission District. I was sold as soon as I saw a picture of the room we would be staying in: four hot-pink walls, one make-up counter, and a bed big enough to fit two queens.

When I first checked in late Tuesday night, our host Marc was a perfect gentlemen. Earlier on in the night, he had lent Jacquie his iPhone so I could get in touch with her when I arrived from the airport with my missing bag. He also helped me up the stairs with my suitcase and poured me a glass of Napa Pinot when I took a seat on the couch. If he wasn’t married with two children, there is a good chance I would’ve texted Jacquie that night to stay somewhere else.

Apart from being pretty much the best place to stay ever, the location was perfect. Close to Mission and 26^th we were a fifteen minute walk from the Castro and two blocks from a subway station that put us downtown in five minutes. The neighbourhood was great and there was no shortage of corner stores to buy red wine. The best part was that we got to experience living in San Francisco without having to pay rent at the end of the month.

Jacquie O. in Dolores Park.Picking up from where my itinerary left off, the sun was shining when Jacquie and I woke up Wednesday morning. I stumbled out of bed to get us water and smiled when I saw that Marc had brewed us coffee before he left for work in the kitchen. Although I hadn’t slept in days, my liver was on life support, and I was still having nightmares about serving in the restaurant; at that exact moment, it hit me how excited and grateful I was to be on vacation. I started jumping up and down like Laura Linney in Love Actually and then gaining my composure, poured two cups of coffee to take back to the room.

“Good morning daaahling,” Jacquie said, sitting up and stretching her arms up above her head.

With Coco Chanel eyes and rich chocolate ganache hair, she looked like Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Even more fitting was the fact that she woke up beside a gay man.

 “You were great last night, by the way,” I passed her a coffee mug with a picture of Marc’s daughter’s on it.

 “I know,” she said, as if there were any doubt. “What did you want to do today muffin?”

 “Well, I figured we’d start with a couple of mimosas and see where the bubbles takes us from there.”

There are three things I hate in this world: pea soup, gay men who tip less than thirty-percent, and agendas, especially while traveling.  I don’t like planning ahead, showing up on time, or being expected to meet a deadline. I am water sign, which means I go with the flow, look great in earth colours, and act like Brenda Walsh when I get upset. Because Jacquie is a Taurus … I don’t know we just mesh really well, whatever. Stop asking me questions.

I started unpacking my suitcase and laying out clothing options for the day. Penguin boots, denim jeans and my new Guess navy blue jacket (50% off Winners, of course). Jacquie took a sip of coffee and opened her MacBook Pro to sort through ten-thousand new emails she received regarding her life as a smart person.

“I was thinking we could maybe take a walk down Valencia,” she said, pausing to take in my outfit. “Ya know, maybe check out Dolores Park and get lunch in the Castro, whatever you want to do.”

“That sounds perfect," I rolled up the legs of my jeans. "Now the only question is what shoes to wear.”

rugged fox photo shoot with sea lionsAfter leaving the apartment at an ambitious 10:00am, we spent the rest of the day on toe and heel. We had huevos rancheros for breakfast, climbed black diamond hills to shop in Noe Valley, and flirted with retail boys on Castro Street. We visited book shops, sex shops and shops that sold books about sex. We walked six blocks in the wrong direction to find a restaurant, and I signed a waiver to get cruised in the washroom at Gold’s Gym. Dehydrated and sore, we hopped a streetcar to Fisherman’s Wharf and I took a picture in front of sea lions.

The sun set behind us as we unlocked the gate to the apartment ten hours after we first left it. I ordered a pizza and we fell asleep watching TV shows on Hulu just because we could. The alarm clock went off first thing the next morning, and one hour later we were in a silver bus en route to Napa!

To be continued. Send your email address to rugged.fox@gmail.com to receive an email notification when the next post is published!

Do I tell you about my trip chronologically? Present you with a complete itinerary of my days, broken down hour-by-hour, with blank spaces during the late-nights I can’t remember? Or do I play you a highlight reel? Show you snapshots of the best places I visited and the memories I packed as souvenirs and took home with me. After much thought, I have decided to be versatile for a change and give you a little bit of both. However, before I can begin the story, I must introduce you to my leading lady first.

I know what you have been thinking this last week on Rugged Fox, “who is that gorgeous woman in the photographs?” Understandably, my first wives have been in an uproar about the entire photo album. I can’t even tell you how many threatening text messages I received during my trip.  “Who is that bitch?” “To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left.” “I will cut her like a knife.” The reaction of course varied across my readership. My parents, for example, were filled with hope; hope that I might still marry a girl. 

2001 st. theresa's valentine's day danceObvs it is not poss to introduce Jacquie O. in a single paragraph. She has been one of my most brilliant friends for thirteen years now, and recently became crowned as my Fairy Godmother after taking me to see La Cage Aux Folles at the Vancouver Playhouse (RIP). Prancing back in time for a sentence or two, I first met Jacquie on the gated steps of St. Theresa’s Academy in the fall of 1999. I knew I was in love with her from the moment I laid eyes on the cigarette dangling from her cherry lips.  

Dressed in a blue-plaid skirt that was hiked up six-inches too high, Jacquie broke every dress-code rule that was in the book. As the years went by, while nuns chased after her, she dated every hockey player, quarterback and student teacher in my Catholic school, St. Jude’s. In biblical terms she was a harlot and in gay male terms she was absolutely fabulous. In our final year of high school, I will never forget the school dance when she grinded up next to me for a song, and then turned to me afterwards and thanked me for not being like every other boy, jabbing her with my penis.

2003 st. jude's dramatic society. i played a dirty, rich old man while she acted as bubble-gum chewing hooker.Almost a decade after that dance, the two of us found each other together again living in Vancouver. While I serve the unofficial cast of Jersey Shore Friday and Saturday nights, she is busy completing her phD at Sex Ed U. She is writing her thesis on the “mating habits of gay men,” and unfortunately I am no help to her. I have not mated in thirteen months and my only habit is red wine. When she RSVP’d to speak at a sex conference in San Francisco, I jumped at the chance to go with her. Now on to the trip.

PILGRIMAGE ITINERARY

Monday night April 6^th  AKA the Night Before 

8:23pm. Impromptu photo shoot and packing party with one half-bottle of Wolf Blass Cab Sauv followed by a Moosehead for sleeping purposes.

**Special props to Love for being the only person to vote on my Castro outfit. The rest of you are dead to me.**

Tuesday morning April 7^th AKA the Pilgrimage

5:30am. Feelings of death and cab ride to the train station. 

5:45am. McDonald’s breakfast with two extra hash-browns, 20,000 calories, and more feelings of death.

6:15am. Conversation with US Customs Officer before boarding the train.

Officer: What is the purpose of your trip?

Rugged: Spiritual, sir. I am making a pilgrimage to Gay Mecca.

Officer:  Excuse me?

Rugged: I am going to the end of the rainbow, sir, San Francisco.

Officer: Do you consider yourself a threat to the United States of America?

Rugged: Only to the sanctity of marriage, sir. I could really only hurt a 2-for-1 sale.

Officer:  Welcome to the state of Washington.

6:30am. Pull out my laptop on the train car, crack my fingers, and prepare to continue writing my Pulitzer-prize winning novel.

11:15am. Wake up in Seattle with drool on the keyboard and 500 Microsoft Word pages filled with the letter “A.”

12:30pm. Arrive at Sea-Tac airport pretending like I am in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Smile when I am elected for extra-screening by the TSA Officer. This will be the most attention I get from a man the entire trip.

mmmm the land of cheap beer.12:36pm to 4:03pm – Consumption of delicious 20oz. pint while reading Catching Fire, the second book of The Hunger Games. CNN plays on every TV in the airport as tornadoes toss-trucks like Lego pieces in Fort Worth and Dallas, Texas. 400 flights cancelled. Flyers panic. I order another pint.

4:40pm – Line up for general boarding because my seat is so far back in the plane it is almost on the next flight. Apply Urban Ear headphones, and turn up latest download by Boots Factor to block out the sound of the screaming baby in the seat beside me. Cover nose when mother changes baby’s diaper and stuffs the soiled one in her purse under the seat.

6:36pm – Touch down at SFO, tired, dehydrated, cranky and no longer excited about the fact I have arrived in Gay Mecca.

7:02 pm – Discover I am the last person standing at the baggage carousel with no bag.

7:15 pm - Conversation with flaming United Airlines baggage attendant:

Attendant: Shut your face I love your hat!

Rugged: Shut your face! Thank you!

Attendant: How many I help you?

Rugged: I am a bag lady without a bag.

Attendant: Ohmygod, it appears for some reason it is on the next flight from Seattle. Would you like me to get delivered to you tomorrow?

Rugged: Bitch please.  I have at least two-outfit changes scheduled for tonight not to mention the fact that my face is so parched, it actually might fall off if I don’t apply moisturizer by tomorrow morning. I will wait.

Attendant: Ugh, I totes understand. Here is a $10 voucher for the Subway upstairs, it is happy hour so red wine is on for $3 a glass…

I was already at Subway ordering wine before he finished speaking.

happy hour at subway? I heart SFO.

10:05pm. Sixteen hours after departing Vancouver, I arrive at my final destination drenched, smelly and half-in-the-bag.  

10:10pm. Unzip suitcase to find a white piece of paper that says “your bag was elected for extra screening by the TSA.” Pour myself an extra-large glass of convenience store cab sauv to ease pain.

11:00pm. Catch a cab to meet Jacquie O. at an exquisite apartment downtown with our new friends from San Fran.

11:15pm. Instructed by our new friends from San Fran, that San Fran is not called “San Fran,” or “SF,” but only, “San Francisco.” I also learned that not every conversation is about me (please) and that covering up zucchini bread crumbs on a couch using pillows is not proper gay male decor.

1:00 am. Fabulousness sets in as the vino flows. Turn to Jacquie O. on the couch and say “I think I am really going to love it here.”

Stay tuned for my next post, when I will tell you about my first trip to the Castro, how Jacquie O. almost abandoned me after I wouldn’t stop singing the theme song to “Full House,” and how I got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to supermodel in front of sea lions.

pretentious and loving every minute of it

 singing the theme song to 'full house'

jacquie o is unsure on valencia st.

born to be a model

breathtaking wall art

stopped in our tracks

dolores park overlooking downtown

every gay boy's dream

harvey milk's hoodjacquie o working it at the wharf

these donuts are magnets

spilled drink? wrong! magnet.

combo #1 magnet

golden gate bridge

fabulous

sea lion chilling out

"i want a picture with the sea lions!!"

alcatraz

Anyways, my suitcase is still empty and my closet has thrown up all over my floor. I need an outfit to wear to the hottest club in town – and if that one is full, the hottest lesser-known under-rated club in the general area. I have photographed four outfits for you below to help me choose from! Please comment to let me know which one you like best and I will get a shot of the winning outfit when I am down there!

PS. I am assuming it is going to be sunny the entire time I am down there (even at night, indoors) hence the aviators.

 Vintage Ralph Lauren jeans from Bungalow in Toronto's Kensington Market. White leather belt by Mexx.

Deep purple V-Neck by American Apparel. Cerulean blue jeans by Club Monaco. Headphones by Urban Ears.

Black T by American Apparel. Black leather belt by Mexx. Denim Jeans by Penguin.

Navy blue jacket with detachable grey hood by Guess.

Until such a time as I can sit down and properly pump out some paragraphs; I am going to provide you with an inside look in to my studio apartment. I know there is a line-up of men out there just waiting for a chance to get inside my bedroom. Where they are exactly and when they will arrive I am unsure. In the meantime, however, I have taken this opportunity to present you with a photo essay of what life is like inside the Fox hole. So put your finger on that touch pad, and scroll down to go where only three men have gone before.

One nightstand. This is what the view looks like from the North-West end of my mattress. My nightstand is home to some of my most precious items including: my alarm clock, Ikea lamp, a snow-globe of my BFF Fiona and a postcard from the Deluxe Collector’s Edition DVD of Brokeback Mountain (RIP Heath Ledger). This image, captured from a scene in the film, is inspired by one of my favourite passages in the short story. “Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives.” – Annie Proulx

Inside the top drawer. What is great about this photograph is that apart from Allen Carr’s book, none of the items in this shelf have seen any use since I first put them there. I would like to take this moment to thank the nice lady at Little Sister's Bookstore for all the silicone lubricant samples, as well as remind everyone who never gets laid to always check the expiry date on your personal stash of condoms. In regards to the video camera, no comment.

All my Children. This is my family of designer shoulder-ware. I treat these bags with the utmost respect, and take them outside for walks at least one to seven times a week. Pacey is a rescue from a thrift-store on Vancouver Island. I found him abandoned in a corner with a price tag for $2.95. He is big enough to fit six magnums of wine or one small child; whichever comes first. He doesn’t like Public transit or dancing in the rain. Madison almost got put down last month after his zipper broke and a cat peed inside him in the same week. After bathing him in Febreze, I restored him enough to make short trips to the gym and back. Emmett is the eldest and Tristan is the most practical. Duncan pairs nicely with an editor's appointment and Newsy is perfect for nature walks.

To-do List.

Netflix killed the video store, almost. I am one of the only people I know who still rents videos. One of my favourite things to do while I am hungover is walk aimlessly around the video store down the street. Since my brain is too damaged to focus, it takes me anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours to decide on three videos to check out. Because I hope to one day make a career for myself as a writer, I feel it is important pay for whatever I watch, listen and read. In terms of karma, it is just a good investment.

Front foyer table.

Powder room essentials. These are the most used items in my bathroom cabinet. In case you were wondering, apart from gin or tequila, Burberry London is the official smell of Rugged Fox. Moroccan Oil does magic for dry hair. La Roche Posay was manufactured for redheads with extremely sensitive skin. And now that the sun is shining and the cherry blossoms are blooming, Clear Eyes is the only way I get to sleep at night without scratching my eyes out.

Virgin Mary.

Sexual Report Card. Magnetized to my fridge are pictures of my best friends, deceased poodle Diva, and my last STI test. The only exam you want to fail. When a picture-perfect first date in 2010 turned from Brokeback to Bareback right before my very eyes; I found myself sitting in an STI clinic four months later with a peppermint tea and a tight leash on my anxiety. I still believe your judgment is compromised when your legs are behind your ears. After years of sitting through safe-sex workshops, I said the one thing you should never say in bed with a guy you just met, “Sure it’s ok that you don’t want use a condom, now can you pass me my glass of wine?” Unaware of rapid testing at the time, I sat 122 days in purgatory not knowing how the test results would turn up. Now I have no problems taking every precaution before I cross home base.

Quote from the Bible of Rugged Fox.

Coffee table books. I am intellectual; therefore my coffee table is filled with "artsy" pictures of naked men. Spread open on top is Adam Raphael’s Room Service. Like one of those chocolate calendars at Christmas, everyday I flip the page and take a delicious bite out of different half-naked man in a different hotel room. Also featured is a German portfolio of American photographer Bruce Weber and Polaroids by Canadian artist Attila Richard Lukacs and Michael Morris.

Traveling Buddha.

James Dean light switch cover.

Bookshelf.

Saturday Globe & Mail: Style Section.

My journal. If you have ever read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, you will know about the morning pages. Every morning, first thing when I wake up I write three free-hand pages. My goal is to do this everyday except some mornings are better than others. I find my life to be much more grounded when I complete this exercise on a daily basis. By taking out the garbage, first thing, piling up in my head, I am able to think much more clearly throughout the rest of the day.

DVD Collection.

Top shelf books.

A Room with a View.

Currently reading.

I hope you enjoyed the private tour! Wish me luck in San Fran!

I giggled because if you saw my car on a GPS map, the flashing dot would have drawn three circles, two rectangles and one triangle before making its way outside a five kilometre radius. What can I say? I am a prairie boy. I am used to wheat-field highways that stretch as far as the eye can see. I am not accustomed to mountain roads that fill your windshield with rock and cut you off at every turn. It was ok though. I was in good spirits, no rush and had the bass of The Black Keys to keep me company.   

Just when I thought I was never going to make it, the road took an unexpected drop and I plunged in to the most remarkable view. Composed like a painting from my parent's living room, the canvas was brush-stroked with clouds that broke in to mountains, which disappeared behind trees that eventually faded in to water. Turning left on to Deep Cove road, I found a parking spot close to town and found a cute bistro for lunch.

Opening up my book, I took a sip of coffee and felt relived the city was far behind me. No skyscrapers, bus routes, six-lane highways or sky trains. The only sounds came from the kids on the playground, the birds in the sky and the waves washing up on to shore. Words fall short at this point so I took these photos for you to enjoy. 

I am exhausted. Last Monday, I finished the end of eight draining shifts at the restaurant. Every week brings a different section and a new cast of characters. Friday night, I served wild salmon and champagne to two ladies whose breasts cost more than my English degree. Saturday brunch, I placed house cocktails in front of five gay men whose colourful outfits could not make up for their complete lack of personality. Sunday dinner, I refilled draft Peronis for a table of Brits who accused me of taking a piss after I told them we were famous for our brussel sprouts. This has been my story for the last three years.

These days I spend so much time working at the restaurant that I have fallen out of touch with the world. Unless news breaks on Alberni Street or at either of the two Starbucks on the corner of Robson and Thurlow, there is a good chance I don’t know about it. That is why I did not learn until Monday afternoon, when I eavesdropped on a table’s conversation at lunch, that Vancouver has become the most expensive city in North America. Out-ranking San Francisco, Los Angeles and even New York, there is no question this mountain town is one expensive bitch.

This of course comes as no surprise. Three years ago, when I first announced I was breaking up with Winnipeg to pursue a LTR with YVR, my decision was mixed with a salad bar of reactions. Some were fresh and positive – “I can see you now strutting down the seawall in those boots, so fabulous!” – while others were wilted and dressed with grave concern. “Bitch, are you crazy?” burst out my roommate one night following an episode of Ab Fab. Pausing to take a sip from his vodka martini he continued his line of questioning, “Since when did you become rich?”

Judging from their responses, it appeared that the majority of my friends were not only concerned about my savings account, but my mental health as well. To them, Winnipeg was the faithful wife of thirty years while Vancouver was the femme fatale: the gorgeous twenty-something who would eventually leave me high and dry with nothing but debt and really attractive Facebook profile photos. “I just can’t understand why anyone would want to do that to themselves,” whispered one of the regulars at my old café.  

The answer was really quite simple: I needed to get out of Winnipeg and I needed to get out fast. I was wildly unhappy in my final year on the prairies. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t mend a broken heart and I was growing tired of RSVP’ing to my own pity party. Six nights a week out of seven, I would stumble home from Billabong with a gigantic VISA bill in my jean pocket and no memory as to why I decided to sleep in the hallway. By May 2009, my clothes were covered in dust and my arms were tired from picking myself back up. No matter how much it cost, Vancouver would be the price I would have to pay to start all over again. “Skyscrapers are a gay’s best friend,” I told myself.

no wonder i slept in the hallway - feb 2009 - wpg.

The high cost of life in this city did not hit me until I walked in to a wine store for the first time.  Making a B-line for Italy, I picked up my favourite bottle of Barbera D’alba and screamed when the price lit up on the cash register. My go-to bottle was ten dollars more than what I paid for it back home. I always tell people, it is not the rent that will bankrupt you in this city (unless you want to live downtown with a sixteenth-floor view of the sun setting over English Bay) it is the stick of the butter at the corner store or the Thursday night out with friends that will get you in the end.

It is remarkable how quickly, as humans, we adapt. Like everyone else, it was only a matter of months before I got over the price of life beside the Pacific Ocean. Plus, think how much I was getting in return! Freedom! Unlike the prairies (and pretty much any Canadian town, excluding Calgary, with a population under a million) I was free to dress however I wanted. For the first time I could walk down the street with my partner’s hand in mine and kiss him good night at the Sky Train station without fear of being stoned or verbally assaulted. (Of course I have been devastatingly single since I arrived here, so that has been a touch of a waste, but it is still a nice thought! lol)

Within weeks, the Ocean began to heal me. Sitting on a bench alongside False Creek, with a non-fat latte in my right hand, I began the process of letting go. “Alright bitch, let’s do this,” I said looking up to the mountains for strength. And so, one-by-one, I ripped off each bandage that covered up a painful memory from the past. As the years went by and the scars eventually began to fade, I learned to respect the cards I had been dealt in this life and cherish the individual they had made me become.

But nothing comes without a price, and as I grew richer in some areas of my life, I became much poorer in others. With expensive wine tastes, an obsession with French skin products, and a love affair with take-out coffee, I entered into life of indentured servitude at the restaurant. In order to keep up with the rising cost of my existence, I abandoned less profitable ventures like writing and poured my soul in to increasing wine sales and guest check averages. Counting my tips at the end of every shift, I developed a new addiction: money. I was am happy when I had have it, and upset when I didn’t don’t.

Walking passed Gucci, Tiffany’s, Hermes and Louis Vuitton everyday on the way to work it did not take me long before I became a material girl in a material world. The worst is when you have a closet full of clothes and no inspiration to get out of bed to wear them. I think one of the most challenging aspects of living in North America’s most expensive city is being constantly reminded of what you don’t have as opposed to what you do. In the words of Nina Simone, “Got my feet, got my toes, got my liver, got my blood, I’ve got life.”

That said… even though I make sure to thank Meryl Streep every night for everything I do have (including my CK bedsheets) there are a couple things I would like to add to the list, namely: a dog, time to write everyday and a dining room table big enough to host gigantic red wine dinner parties with all my best friends. Whether that story takes place in this town or the next, we will see.

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