“Crisp and clean. No caffeine.”

RZA , Coffee and Cigarettes

Our jetlag wrenched us from sleep at 2am. In an act of cruelty that frankly jeopardizes Canada’s inclusion in the commonwealth there was no coffee or tea making facilities in the hotel room. I took to twitter to voice my anguish and was told that North American electrical circuits don’t support kettles, that this was very strange and Canadian hotels usually did provide tea and coffee facilities, that hotels in Canada never offer tea and coffee making facilities and that this was a clear sign of the apocalypse. I can’t believe people sometimes crowd source on social media which wild mushrooms are safe to eat.

We had been told that the diner downstairs was very good by the guy on the desk and google told me it opened at 6am so we just had to wait it out cold turkey. At 6.10am we shuffled downstairs, and wandered the 5 meters along the snow-covered footpath to the warm golden glow of a Cora chain diner. Inside we were the first customers. A small energetic Asian Canadian lady welcomed us warmly and directed us to a table. We started our order with 2x lattes 2x pots of English breakfast tea. Our host enquired if we were expecting 2 more guests. “No, we just really need this, we are addicts” we responded.

Canadian diner fare is a curious and all-encompassing discipline. Plates come loaded with pork products, eggs and fresh temperate and tropical fruit and custard and cream and pancakes or waffles and each plate would feed a family of 4. We broke our groggy fast enthusiastically as egg yoke and hollandaise found communion with maple syrup, bacon fat, custard and fresh pineapple, mandarin and apple. I ordered something called English Cream which turned out to be a vanilla dairyfood like substance inspired vaguely by Crème Anglaise. As we sat there more customers arrived. Many didn’t need to order , the host knew what they wanted, it was what they had every morning.  An old gentleman came in , shook the winter from his coat, folded it by his side and popped an old school gentleman’s hat on top of it. The host came across and told us he was almost 100 and appeared every morning at 6.30am.

We returned to our room significantly more human than we were an hour before. After some rest and a shower we set off for Grenville Island. We wandered through snow piled streets across to the waterfront facing Granville Island. In the distance snow covered mountains peeped through the clouds. We walked up to where the False Creek Ferrys departed to take us across to the ‘island’ . After buying a ticket from a suitably friendly and engaging conductor (very Canada) we climbed aboard the iconic little boat. The skipper was clad in a Crusaders Rugby waterproof jacket. Rugby follows one everywhere.
Granville Island is not actually an island. It is a wee peninsula that extends into the bay. Perhaps Miramar could run a similar racket and ferries could charge tourists to get them from Queens Wharf to the Weta Cave before setting sail for the airport.
The ’island’ is known for good restaurants, food businesses and a brewery. We wandered the streets along to the Granville Island Brewery. The taproom had a warm cozy pleasing air , it was comfortably alive with couples and groups of 30 somethings passing a winter’s Saturday morning. I had a mild amber ale called English Bay, a West Coast IPA and a very good saison flavoured with chamomile. We then wandered on to a seafood restaurant and feasted on oysters and scallops and tuna. Then it was a ferry ride across the creek and we wandered back to the hotel for an afternoon nap.

 As an impressive sun set burnt across the sky we clawed our way out of slumber, pulled ourselves together without the aid of a caffeine dose and caught an uber to Vancouver’s China town. Our first choice was China Town BBQ and it was clearly a good one considering the queue that stretched down the pavement. Fearing that joining the queue would result in a recreation of Seinfeld’s The Chinese Restaurant episode we crossed the road and took a table at The Jade Dynasty. I ordered up a storm and we proceeded to chase and position pieces of Szechuan beef, pak choy, and chili speckled dumplings around the paper covered table with inexpertly driven chop sticks . Next to us a table of English travellers discussed in horrified and awed tones how their hotel rooms had no kettle, tea nor coffee. There was something comforting that we were not alone in our ordeal. Finally we caught an uber back to the hotel and made another attempt at a night’s sleep.