Canadian Coast to Coast

At Linate I meet up with Stanley right on time, despite having been driven by my sister Stordita who strangely took the right ring road. Without even managing to tell the check-in girl that we want a nice window seat, we have our boarding passes in hand.. Row 31, let's hope for the best! We immediately let the girls at MPX know our position so that they get assigned seats nearby. I sail through customs because my tactic of exiting with my ID card to circumvent the Italian state always works. The policeman even tries to ask me where I'm headed and I answer "London", then he, unconvinced (also because he just saw my friend go through with her passport), ventures a "but are you staying there?" and I, who have studied my little lesson by heart and have a good 6 years of experience behind me (of recycling the same stamp), answer without hesitation "yes".

The trip goes well, we're even served hot pizza with seconds. We arrive in London well ahead of time, we move from Terminal 1 to 4 and wait for the rest of the group. Unexpectedly the second group to arrive is Fabio and Simona's. Incredible and even more crazy is that they're also in row 31 without us having told them anything. There was a 1 in 300 chance and they nailed it. We know from a text, after about an hour, that the last part of the sextet has landed, so we decide to calmly move to the gate to meet them. We board the legendary 777 and the 2 latecomers don't even have row 31, but are sitting separately from each other too….no comment! The trip is calm, the window practically useless. From Sheffield to Montreal airport it's one compact bed of clouds, 5 and a half hours of irritating whiteness, of drying-off movies and disgusting English food.

It's infernally hot and there's insane humidity, in your face to those who claimed that Canada isn't hot in summer. At the rent-a-car begins our first contact with this bilingual country where nobody actually speaks two languages, where nobody really knows even one, but only a mix of two, and where if you speak one they answer in the other and vice versa, in short a real Babel. I have to dust off my school French because all the others are stuck at English and the only one who claims to have studied it at school (but doesn't look like it) decides she has to act shy and carefully avoids intervening. We're assigned a Pontiac Montana with Ontario plates - yours to discover as the plate says (every State in fact has its own famous phrase), automatic transmission, horrible wine color, 6 seats and 6 suitcases, not one more, which are packed in very skillfully.

So the roles are assigned: Fabio, our poor man in the middle of a herd of women, at the wheel of the vehicle, me as Navigator, as well as polyglot interpreter, Simona as the pregnant woman to be protected and the others as passengers. With ease I lead the group without errors and without hesitation straight to the B&B. The keys are in the mailbox, because in this peaceful country there's no need to lock the door, everyone's too honest. We're assigned 2 apartments adjacent on the first floor of a Victorian house with a very particular external staircase. They're very nice, even if they smell of old, and very large, with a living room, kitchen and even a DVD player. As soon as I touch the bed I fall asleep instantly, without even noticing what the others are doing.

I wake up calmly in the morning, the only one of all not to have woken up at dawn or in the middle of the night and not to have suffered from jet lag. The noise is deafening. Every morning in this city there's the most technological and intelligent garbage collection that the world can boast. The garbage is all put together in special plastic baskets. A worker does the sorting by hand, piece by piece, next to the truck, proceeding calmly. So 4 hours every morning to do 4 houses. But separating plastic from paper, etc. before collection like all the "underdeveloped" countries of the world do is too banal?? The landlady kindly left us a bag with very fresh croissants from the night before, so fresh that if you throw them they bounce off the walls. Maybe it's the humidity, or given that the house smells of old the croissants have to adapt too?? It's a mystery....

The first real day of discovering Canada and Quebec begins. Montreal disappoints me a lot. Maybe it's the oppressive muggy heat, maybe it's that it doesn't have a real identity. I could be anywhere in the world. It has a bit of Dublin, given that Dublin (which I didn't even like) is perhaps prettier. It's a mix of old and new badly matched, residential neighborhoods with hilarious Victorian houses, skyscrapers, mega mansions at the top of the hill overlooking the city, parks, underground tunnels full of shops to defend against the winter cold, extending beneath the city for 25 km, suburbs like the ugliest of the American provinces and the St. Lawrence River, but nothing special, absolutely anonymous. The thing I like most is the mezzanine of the metro, maybe because of the air conditioning, maybe because it's very high tech and particular.

Disappointed by the city we try to console ourselves with French-style cuisine. Precisely because we're in "French" territory we go to eat at Schwartz's, the most famous (and rich) Jew in the city. After a long queue to get in we find ourselves eating smoked meat at the counter in a really run-down and poor place. I, who am half vegetarian, enjoy with satisfaction the famous sandwich mentioned in every respectable guidebook. It's unmissable, lip-smacking good!! At this point, being in the trendiest city in Quebec, we go to a "tidy" venue. We get turned away by the bodyguard, but not because of our clothing as would happen in Milan, but because we have the water bottle in our hand. All 6 of us cleverly hidden in the backpack, we present ourselves at the door again and settle into the venue. It's very '70s, with orange plastic armchairs shaped like hands.

The menu is a vinyl record with crooked stickers attached showing famous TV characters. Each name corresponds to an improbable cocktail, very colorful (chemically) and nicely strong (in alcohol content). We start noticing the local fauna for the first time. Canadians are remarkable, perhaps the most handsome men I've ever seen in my travels, almost better than the Norwegians spotted in Peru, and all the girls, pregnant or not, single or free, agree with me.

We leave Montreal because time is short and the km awaiting us are many, not before taking a look at the former Olympic Village and the largest Botanical Garden in the world. In an old building a Biodome has been created, with inside all the different climates and landscapes that can be found in the world, from the arctic, to the Laurentian forest, to the jungle, etc. The real on-the-road vacation begins, with the planned itinerary of going up the St. Lawrence to the Gaspesie peninsula, following the lighthouse route. The city disappears, houses thin out and all become pretty, made of wood and super colorful, the river widens until you can't see the other bank, the landscape is remarkable, but above all our cell phone abandons us forever. We're far from civilization, from mass tourism, from stress, from everyday life. About 2,500 km of nothing await us, that is, of woods and parks.

A true paradise, especially because the good weather continues to assist us. One of the first places where we decide to stop to make one of the famous "cultural" stops recommended by Stanley is Grondines where there's supposedly an old mill. We get there after exhausting searches, crossing a covered iron bridge, the corpse of a poor raccoon on the roadside and a ghost town of 4 houses. What according to Stanley is the mill is actually a little house where you even pay 3 dollars to enter. It's closed because it's already 5 and in Canada people have dinner at 6, so we end up shortly after in a village named Cap-Santè, where there's supposedly the most beautiful street in all of Quebec….maybe, but to me these little towns all look the same, all cute, with the wooden house and the well-kept garden.

Why should this one be prettier than the others? We arrive in Quebec City in the late afternoon, that is, at dinner time for Canadians. Bernard, the owner of the B&B we've booked, gets yanked from the table and has to run to open for us because we forgot to warn him we were arriving (he lives elsewhere). First rule of the place: take off your shoes and lift the suitcase to avoid ruining the precious parquet floor. It's not easy though, because 2 floors await us on a staircase that's as slippery as it is steep and narrow. We make it. Us sisters are put in a room all pink and aqua green very childlike, Fabio & Simo in a very nice one with a whirlpool tub. We look like the Brady Bunch on vacation… Bernard immediately assaults us to tell us all about Quebec City in a nutshell, armed with a map and plenty of enthusiasm.

The chosen victims are me and Stanley because we know English (and to think I had hoped to get away with pretending not to speak French). He dries us out for about half an hour, repeating the same things to us very slowly several times, making us believe it will take a week to visit the city. When dinner time comes I pass the scepter and the map to Stanley because I'm tired of navigating, telling her to show us the way to the restaurant. We walk uphill for hours and hours (Quebec City is super steep and perched atop a hill being an old fortified city) to reach the infamous restaurant, only to discover later that it was a few hundred meters from the hotel. At the "Omelette" we run into the bilingualism problem again; the waitresses don't understand a thing. To order simple mineral water we sweat seven shirts and strange things arrive.

You speak English and they answer in French, and vice versa, but in fact they speak a language that's completely strange. Better to go to sleep.

Our beloved Bernard welcomes us the next day in his kitchen and has us taste the real Canadian breakfast for the first time since we arrived. You should know that in Italy with the pace we have it would be impossible to put it into practice, unless you wake up at the first light of dawn. It takes about an hour to finish the delicious crepe filled with diced apple and cream that he prepared for us, bread and cheese, bread and jam, fresh juice, coffee, cereal, etc. The city is extraordinary and worth the trip on its own. It's structured on 2 levels (although to me they seem endless), lower town and fortified upper town. It feels like walking in a museum, in a city where time has stopped. We walk all day in this endless up-and-down, without missing a single corner. We take 3,000 photos, we get sunburned, and above all we start firming up our glutes.

We leave Quebec City knowing we'll be back, celebrating with yet another giant crepe from Bernard, which this time is with peppers (which I adore, but at breakfast they're pretty strange). The idea for the day is to go visit an Indian Reserve and buy their handicrafts, with the awareness that the money will go toward their livelihood. All full of good intentions we take Highway 73 in search of Wendake. With difficulty we find the Indian Reserve, maybe because it's all a pretense and Wendake at the bottom is nothing but a very banal little town with the usual 4 wooden houses. The "real" Reserve however turns out to be the most marketing thing of the whole trip, a kind of fake village reconstructed for tourists where you even pay 15 dollars to enter. We're greeted by "the wolf man", a Huron (according to him) who looks like a perfectly normal Canadian in disguise.

And we who were expecting real Indians!!! The guy explains that by now they no longer have the somatic features of Indians because some time ago they were almost all exterminated, and to ensure the continuity of the race they mixed with the "invaders", with the enemy in short. A bit disappointed we drive toward Riviere du Loup, the first stop of the Gaspesie peninsula. We take the highway to speed up, given the road limits on the state and provincial roads. There's not a living soul, in reality it doesn't even seem like a highway, the limits are low anyway and sometimes, sitting in the car, looking around at all those woods, you almost have the sensation of standing still. The lunch break with baguette, cooked ham and cheese is at Kamuraska, famous for its hundred all-different roofs. It's very pretty, especially at low tide, when the St.

Lawrence retreats and you can walk in the middle of the river, obviously in the mud. On the way we thus arrive at Riviere du Loup. The Waterfall, the only attraction of the place, is truly embarrassing it's so ugly We find lodging for the night in Sainte Simone, near Trois Pistoles. The number of houses in this cheerful town drops from 4 to 2. The trip is getting more and more interesting. The night is young and we decide to do the big bowling night. We're the only patrons of the place, it's about 11 pm and we only have half an hour available because at 11:30 it closes its doors!!!! Excitement!!!!

Sunday, after yet another light breakfast of fruit and cream crepes, warm muffins, bread and jam, etc, is dedicated entirely to discovering our first Park (you can't go to Canada and not go to the Parks). It's Bic National Park. It's simply beautiful. There's the forest, an endless series of bays, coves and beaches overlooking the ocean, but above all it's "packed" with seals!!! It's truly an extraordinary place, the beaches are postcard-perfect, they make you want to spend time there with the person you love (ideal for 4 women and a couple, no??) and you can walk for km in woods full of adorable squirrels. After the visit to Bic Park we get back in the car, for a change. Endless towns follow, all made from the same mold, with the same church of the same color and the same wooden houses with the same garden and the same mailbox.

We stop near Carleton, a little town known for the microclimate where everyone swims and old people come to spend the winter.

We spent a night in a beautiful B&B occupied only by us 6 in a place called Maria and the next morning, loading the car to leave, we have a nice surprise: a tire is flat, we've got a flat, or rather the tire self-flatted because it was worn. The old landlady of the B&B gives us a hand to partially inflate it with an electric pump, allowing us to reach the first mechanic on the road. Once again we encounter the hospitality and courtesy of these people. We wander around in search of the lost tire, the only hope to continue the trip, after Robert, the mechanic who assisted us in Maria, temporarily mounted the spare donut on for us. By pure luck we run into a Pontiac dealership in the middle of nowhere. After setting off again with the new tire, we stop in a town that seems apparently bigger, do the shopping, and eat hidden away, sneaking into a campground by the sea.

The further we go, the more the earth turns red and the sea blue. The contrast is splendid, we're approaching the jagged coastlines of the extreme tip of the Gaspesie, by now the St. Lawrence has given way to the ocean. The planned destination is Percè, famous for a big cliff with a hole, a kind of immense Capri sea stack reachable on foot at low tide. Stan and I waste a bit of time with the usual "running errands" and searching for a place for the night before visiting this town, the first with a few tourists (though only and exclusively locals). This time we go for it and book an entire little house with an amazing view of the sea, a bit far from the city center, after which, since we're super pumped and super efficient, we also go to book the boat trip for the next day.

We board for Ile Bonaventure. We reach the island after seeing a lot of seals. Half of Ile Bonaventure is inhabited by gannets, white and smelly birds. We go trekking. After a day in the woods we return to the mainland to continue on to Gaspé, the tip of the Gaspesie, the point of no return, the one from which we will turn back west, where there is nothing except yet another park, Fourillon Park.

After 8 km of uphill walks in Fourillon Park in pursuit of the lighthouse (which we then find beautiful on the tip of the cliff) and the discovery of a porcupine (the first wild animal we encountered in the woods), we decide to go kayaking. Our attempt is aborted by the guide who advises against it because the wind is picking up too much and we might not be able to get back. A real shame, but better not to risk it. The most surreal experiences, who knows why, always happen to us at restaurants. Despite the arguments the night before over the service (obligation to pay 15% extra) and the table arrangement (the guy wanted to split us up two by two at a table for 4 so we wouldn't be sitting too close together and after a long discussion we managed to get a 3+3), we have to go back to the only restaurant in Gaspé with a kitchen open after 8 pm, the Brise Bise.

After about 10 days spent eating salmon and French stuff, we get a craving for pizza. It looks inviting. I order one with peppers, but somehow I get a pizza with ham and sweet cheese.

There are many kilometers to go back east, endless kilometers without meeting a living soul, except for the occasional hitchhiker, of roads that seem like roller coaster tracks the way they go up and down steeply and curve in parabolas, of isolated wooden houses under restoration. Halfway along Route 132 we take a hike in Gaspesie National Park. We reach the top exhausted and sweaty, but we have to run off immediately, because the wind is so strong it shows no mercy and we are freezing. On the way down, I am called out by an elderly gentleman in front of me who tells me to be quiet so as not to disturb the moose....well yes, we see the moose!!!! We continue toward Matane, where we have to take the ferry to cross the St. Lawrence and finish the loop on the other side. We stay in a Motel, where they shove us into our first six-person room.

It's very fun being all together like a family, there's a lot of pajama party vibes.....

The crossing of the Pontiac and its 6.5 occupants happens very relaxedly. To reach the other side of the St. Lawrence by ferry at Baie Comeau, at a relatively narrow point, takes about 2 and a half hours. We take advantage of it to take a nap. We are in whale territory and in a part of Quebec that points north, so the temperature drops. In the evening in the middle of the woods we hit 7 degrees, not bad compared to the humid 32 at the start in Montreal!!! But that doesn't scare us at all. We are in Tadoussac and our goal is the white whales. Along the way we see numerous spouts. Great, that means they are heading our way, but since we want to see them up close, we book a dinghy excursion at the first light of dawn the next day like true adventurers.

The cold is polar. They dress us like cod fishermen, with anti-freeze and anti-water oilskins, gloves, wool hats, etc.. We think we are more than warm, but we don't yet know that we will risk freezing. I will always remember the dinghy trip as a nightmare. I think I hated the whales that day. The sky is strange, completely overcast and the clouds are so low that it feels like you can touch them by raising your arm. The landscape around us is surreal, it reminds me of certain scenes in the fog in the movie Moby Dick. We are in the hands of a young guy named Jerome. We see the usual curious seals looking at us as if we were aliens, a couple of specimens of the famous Monkey Whales, a mother dolphin with her calf and several belugas.

I had never seen a beluga before, I am excited; they are very white and look like icebergs, and on top of that they stand out remarkably in the gloomy landscape. We reach the dock frozen, but happy. To recover from the cold we console ourselves with a pantagruelic brunch of gauffres, crepes, croissants, hot chocolate with cream, eggs, etc. It's not over yet though, because there is another river to bypass and this time the system is brilliant. Since it was not possible to build a bridge due to the shape of the landscape, the cars are loaded onto a barge that takes you to your destination in 5 minutes. A bit seasickness-inducing, but very interesting undoubtedly. We are in Santa Catherine and, after yet another uphill walk, we are about to witness a rare event in nature without knowing it. At this point on the promontory, sometimes you can see the belugas of which, in the entire St.

Lawrence, only a few specimens remain. Sure, we just saw them, but we are not satisfied, they were too far away. Our wish is granted and, under pouring rain, we see about a hundred of these mammals migrating, all together, just a few meters from us. The sea turns white, a spectacle of nature, a rare event. I can say with pride that we were there!!! But the best of the vacation is yet to come. We head toward a remote village at the top of a fjord, in a place untouched and isolated from the rest of Quebec, where we have decided to go kayaking. It's evening though, and the only B&B we find, after several searches on the Internet, is just outside Anse Saint Jean. We arrive at a small villa complete with a basement that really gives off horror house vibes. We enter the house and are welcomed by a couple of 80-year-olds who invite us to leave our shoes outside.

2 rooms are in the basement, one upstairs. We have really ended up in the horror house. It is furnished in a maniacal way, it is cleaner than clean, there is nothing out of place, it's tacky, full of objects, but not ordinary furniture objects, rather dolls and stuffed animals, arranged like living beings throughout the house. We go to dinner at the only restaurant within a 10 km radius. It's a very nice bistro that reminds us of an Irish Pub. We eat very well, the cuisine is experimental. And during dinner a band comes to play. The evening is splendid, our last dinner too. Too bad the waitress ruins everything with the tip story. She tells us she "is sorry," but we still owe her 10 dollars!!!!

Guys, I can guarantee you that none of us slept better in the entire vacation, not to mention the breakfast. We need energy to do 3 hours of kayaking in the fjord and so the nice couple sets up a Christmas-style banquet. There are other guests besides us, a couple from Toronto, and we make conversation in front of a table lavishly set, with pancakes and maple syrup, poached eggs, very sweet fresh fruit, bread and cheese, bread and jam in 5 different flavors, warm freshly baked muffins, cedar and Port jelly, pork pie, all homemade. I felt like I was at a 5-star place!!! The Toronto couple warns us that for the morning there is a 94% chance of rain. Thanks a lot!!! Our kayak guide is Louis and the lady announces him to us as a real hunk. He is truly the ugliest Canadian we have come across.

I, Stanley and Frodo set off with the kayak after a brief lesson onshore, the others go for a walk in the forest. We paddle in the fjord for almost 3 hours. It's all stunning, the landscape mystical. Louis also tells us the legend of the dragon. At a certain point the feared rain arrives, but it is very light. If this is the predicted rain, it's just fine. When there are about 20 minutes left to shore, though, the universal flood comes down, a wall of water. We can't even see where we are going, we are in the grip of despair. The goal is to reach the dock as soon as possible, wherever it may be. Once we reach shore exhausted, we can't even lift the kayak to put it safely away. Luckily we are all in one piece and dry under our suits, but we still have to get back to the car and in those 2 minutes of travel we manage to take a shower. There is not a single part of us that is spared.

The guys who stayed on land laugh heartily seeing us in such a state and, despite everything, I too have never had so much fun in my life.... It's the second-to-last day all together, so as soon as we arrive in Quebec City and see our beloved Bernard again, we decide to get over our blues by indulging in frantic shopping, the best anti-depressant in the world after chocolate. And then truly the last dinner all together.

The next morning we are already resigned to the idea of finding the famous "crepe Bernard" on our plate with who knows what secret ingredient, when instead croissants arrive on our plates!!! Hooray.... Loaded with packages we head to the "huge" Quebec City airport. Last photo together and then the goodbyes, strangely very composed. I will go to Vancouver, Cri will go home, the rest of the troop will continue by car toward Ontario and Niagara Falls. The Canadair with the maple leaf (the national symbol) awaits us. Toronto, after a 2-hour flight, is at the gates. We give it a look from above because you can really see all of it, but it doesn't inspire us. Too much concrete after 2 weeks of woods and sea....I land just in time to jump onto the other plane that will take me to Vancouver, waving goodbye to Stanley on the run and with a bit of a lump in my throat.

A whole adventure of my own awaits me. On the Toronto – Vancouver flight, I have the seat by the window, but on the wing. You can't see much, but enough. I am about to cross all of Canada from east to west. I will have an overview of this enormous State. Next to me is a young dad with his 4-year-old daughter. We start chatting, he is from Miami. A flight attendant approaches, who after what happened with Air France a few weeks earlier right here in Toronto, instructs us occupants of the 2 rows on the wing on how to intervene in case of an accident. The lives of the people on board and of the crew are therefore in my hands, the thought electrifies me. Even though we haven't taken off yet, I start looking out the window to understand how to jump off the wing in case of an accident, how high the drop is, how to turn the hatch handle, what could potentially catch fire, etc..

This sense of responsibility fortunately keeps me alert and will ensure that, through telepathy, I will truly save the plane from imminent impact. Shortly after, in fact, while we are taxiing, I am contemplating the very tall CNN Tower of Toronto from afar. The sky is clear, Ontario is flat and although the city center is far away, you can see it very well. At a certain point when the engines are at full throttle I see on the left a small tourist plane coming straight toward us, or rather coming from left to right perpendicular to the runway, almost as if it were landing from the wrong side. It's too low, what is it doing down there??. To myself I think "the pilot is probably just warming up the engines, but he won't really take off, I mean he knows what he's doing and there's air traffic control anyway...". Instead he really does it, he takes off.

In my head I scream at that idiot pilot to stop, there's no way he doesn't see that little plane in front of him, I can see it from row 16, damn it!!! And behold, my stifled cry of terror reaches him telepathically. Mr. Pilot abruptly interrupts the takeoff run and slams on the brakes on the runway. I end up 4 rows forward despite the fastened seatbelts. Lucky that he had just started and hadn't lifted off yet, lucky that the runway was long. Over the microphone he tells us he apologizes, but he had to interrupt the takeoff because "inadvertently" a plane was crossing our runway!!!!!!! Inadvertently??? Wake up in the morning, idiot! We start over from scratch, the rest of the 5-hour flight fortunately is calm. Despite the pilots' choices, Air Canada is all in all a splendid airline, the seats are comfortable, you eat and drink great, the music is excellent, the movie too.

From above I cross all of Ontario with the Great Lakes (which are truly oceans of water), Manitoba and the mythical Saskatchewan with their prairies and wheat fields, finally Alberta with its great parks and here I am arriving in British Columbia, where the Rocky Mountains stand out with splendid untouched lakes at the top. Once the steep Rocky Mountains end, there is immediately Vancouver which is on a bay and from above looks beautiful. It's late afternoon and I start exploring the city center, downtown as they call it, just to understand where I am, what kind of city it is, what the vibe is. With a mango smoothie in hand (one of the many American junk things that Vancouverites are crazy about) I go around the symbolic places: Gastown, Canada Place, Waterfront. On the bay, seaplanes depart every 5 minutes.

It seems in fact that the locals get around like this, in short, seaplane instead of taxi because Vancouver is on a bay, but is also divided across various small islands.

The second day I explore this city of a thousand facets more calmly. I look again calmly at Gastown which is the old historic center, that of the first urban settlement, and it has the feel of old working-class England. It's a bit touristy for my tastes, maybe because the symbolic place of the city is found there, namely an ancient pendulum clock that runs on steam. Shops with souvenirs for tourists have taken the place of the old warehouses of the old port. Downtown instead vaguely reminds me of New York, with all those skyscrapers packed together and getting stranger and stranger along with the shopping malls. There is also a Chinatown like in all self-respecting cities, because the Asian presence is very strong. Half the population is in fact of Eastern origin and throughout the city you see its influences here and there, especially when it comes to food.

Every hundred meters there is a Starbucks, maybe because Vancouver is twinned with nearby Seattle, the homeland of this very famous and very fortunate chain. I try all the types of frappuccino in circulation, but the green tea one really doesn't go down well with me, even though it's the must of the summer and they even dedicated a sociological study to it in the newspaper. I fall madly in love with Granville Island, which you reach either by bridge or by seabus (a little boat-bus). It's a very pretty little island where the general market is located. It reminds me so much of the Fish Market in Sydney and in one stroke I feel "at home" and all the negativity goes away. I start to like this city. I spend an entire day on this island, going around the market among the thousand stalls of fruits and vegetables, meat and fish, local crafts, peculiar little restaurants.

On the dock there is a guy playing guitar and singing Bon Jovi songs. His direct competitor is the song of a seagull. It's an oasis of peace. Another place I lose my head over is Yaletown. It's a former industrial area where there were old warehouses that have now been renovated. It's the trendy neighborhood of the city with its restaurants, fashionable venues and boutiques of emerging designers. These former warehouses are all raised above the sidewalk. It's fantastic and I let loose with shopping, there are some crazy designers here, and then it feels a bit like being in Paddington and a bit in Woolloomooloo in Sydney. The sky is always clear, the sun warm, the people smiling and friendly. I feel wonderful.

The beauty of this incredible city is that you are in the most absolute modernity, but within a few minutes you can isolate yourself from the concrete, the traffic, the cars and find yourself alone meditating, breathing. The city is in fact full of beautiful beaches, and enormous parks, first among all Stanley Park (naturally dedicated to our friend). Stanley Park is worth the trip to this side of Canada. It is the largest urban park in the world, but it is not an ordinary park, rather a pristine forest still intact on the tip of the city center, with all its animals. The perimeter is 10 km and the locals call it Seawall Promenade.

In the following days I visit Kitsilano, the residential neighborhood on the south shore, and I plant myself on the beach to collect shells. A carved stone tells the story of this city, considered one of the rainiest in the world due to the Rocky Mountains and the pristine forest, and I think I must be really lucky, because since I arrived not a cloud has been seen and until the day of my departure sun is forecast.

The second-to-last day I decide to do a tour first of Lighthouse Park, then of the Museum of Anthropology (I have a fixation on lighthouses and totems in case you haven't figured it out yet) which is located inside UBC (the University of British Columbia). Lighthouse Park is pure pristine forest intact on the north shore of the city, 20 km from the Lion Gate Bridge. I am determined to look for the usual lighthouse and the raccoons and bears that I still haven't managed to see.. I am in a panic now, and on top of that there doesn't seem to be anyone else besides me in this place. Not a guard, not a tourist, no one. I am the only human being in the midst of nature, I am alone against nature. The trails are winding and up and down, the trees increasingly dense, I cross my fingers not to get lost. At a certain point I catch sight of the lighthouse and a cliff.

I sit there and look at the horizon, safe. There really is only me. I feel powerless and pumped up at the same time. It's incredible how 20 minutes from the center a place like this exists, unchanged from a thousand years ago. You hear nothing, except the sound of the ocean. After a few hours of pure relaxation and strange thoughts I go back into the forest and, again without meeting a living soul, I leave, returning satisfied to the urban jungle with the idea that man is truly small in the universe.

The last day is entirely dedicated to wild shopping. There are sales, but the shops have other special offers. It's No-Tax Day!!! I buy everything: jeans, earrings, t-shirts, books. I go back to the beach for a last goodbye to the sea, I go to eat noodles at the Japanese place and in tears, around 4 in the afternoon, I calmly head to the airport. In the waiting room I witness the most beautiful sunset of my entire life. Vancouver airport has its runway on the sea and the Rocky Mountains in the background with snow-capped peaks. The landscape on the horizon is incredible, the field is clear, the view perfect, the sunset is crazy. I am truly satisfied with my vacation. I board the 747 that will take me back to Europe and look for my seat.