Vancouver and Whistler, Canada

Arriving in Vancouver meant another interrogation at customs. The border officer took one look at my passport full of South American stamps and decided I was worth questioning for a while. Apparently having visited a lot of countries makes you suspicious rather than interesting. Once they eventually let me through, I did what any rational person does upon arriving in Canada — went straight for poutine. Met a bloke called Christian at the hostel who became a good travel companion for the next few days.

After the excesses of the trip so far, I had a rare sober day and used it wisely. Did a city tour and then headed to Lynn Canyon Park with Erik, which is a beautiful suspension bridge and rainforest walk that’s essentially the free version of the more famous Capilano. The highlight of the park visit was JT paying $150 to jump into a freezing lake, which I watched from the safety of dry land with great amusement. That evening we went to the Old Spaghetti Factory for dinner, a chain restaurant that has no right being as enjoyable as it is.

We caught the bus up to Whistler, which is about two hours north and set in some absolutely stunning mountain scenery. The main event was a bungee jump, and I can say without hesitation it was amazing. There’s that moment standing on the edge where your brain is screaming at you not to jump, and then you do it anyway, and the freefall is unlike anything else. Pure adrenaline.

Back in Vancouver, the pub crawls were getting a bit out of hand. One night involved ciders at Buffalo Bills bar, where we ended up playing pool with a group of emo skaters. The kind of night that sounds made up but is entirely typical of hostel life.

We went to a Bon Iver concert, which I’ll be honest, I wasn’t a huge fan going in. But live music in a good venue has a way of winning you over, and it was still a cool experience even if I wasn’t singing along to every word.

The physical achievement of the trip was the Grouse Grind — a hiking trail that locals call “Mother Nature’s Stairmaster.” It’s basically an hour of relentless uphill climbing, no flat sections, no respite, just stairs carved into a mountain. Brutal. My legs were destroyed afterwards, and I’d picked up a sore throat that had me worried about being sick for the concert I’d been looking forward to more than anything else on the entire trip.

We spent a chilled day at Granville Island Markets, browsing food stalls and recovering, before the main event.

Jack White. I still struggle to find the words for this one. I wrote in my journal at the time that it was “the best thing I have seen this whole trip, possibly ever,” and looking back, that still holds up. When he walked out on stage, I genuinely couldn’t believe I was in the same room as him. I didn’t blink for the entire set. The energy, the musicianship, the way he commands a stage with just a guitar and that voice — it was something else entirely. I’ve been to plenty of gigs on this trip, and some of them have been great, but Jack White was on a completely different level. There are concerts you enjoy, concerts you remember, and then there are the rare ones that leave you genuinely speechless. This was the latter. If the whole trip had been building to one moment, it was that.