Ed dropped us in hell - also known as Nanaimo BC - where you can't even buy a nanaimo bar. Second-hand two hours and no highway ride - we were so close to Victoria and a bed and shower we decided to buy into Buster's paradox, but as usual the legacy lasted for a four-hour wait. We managed to hitch a station wagon ride from an off-duty trucker to the other side of town, the side closest to Victoria. "You'll never get a lift to Victoria from downtown. People don't pick up hitch-hikers because they think they're prostitutes. I'll take you to a good spot."
The minivan hatchback halt-screeched right away, full of Quebec hippies. "You got room in there?"
"Parlez vous fracais?"
"Ah...oui. Est-que c'est-"
"Ahhh, you got any...um...mariJUana?"
"Oh. No, sorry."
"Ok, merci." Bullet departure.
"Well, at least we know people can stop here."
Labels: 2001, non-fiction, Travel, west coast