Earlier, Canada won its first ever Olympic gold medal on home soil, thanks to Alexandre Bilodeau and his amazing mogul skills, and people are happy. We go downtown to celebrate (‘we’ being me, my two housemates and their German friend who is about to leave Canada after several months), having seen on the telly that all the action is happening near Robson Square. This is indeed true, and there are a vast number of Canadians, who regularly chant ‘CA-NA-DA! CA-NA-DA!’ During a quiet period, the German and I try to start a chant of ‘GER-MA-NY! GER-MA-NY!’ It doesn’t catch on.
We arrive just in time to see a well cool light/smoke/fireworks/laser show (which actually happens every night at the moment, but feels more special because of the whole medal thing), an excerpt of which is presented here for your entertainment:
Following that, there is a band playing on the other side of the open air ice rink that’s there; who they are I have no idea, but they sound fun. And are. We spend much time jumping up and down to the music, until they finish. We decide that we need more music, and so we must head to a club. Then, I remember the big party I mentioned a while back, but wasn’t at. Turned out that it too was a regular event, despite being in a big tent, and so we go there. It seems to be one of the cheapest places, and the music sounds like run-of-the-mill school disco stuff – a recipe for an all-round good time.
Most of you are probably vaguely aware of the rule that after any American family sitcom has been going a while, it must eventually have the bloke-meets-girl-and-everything-that-can-go-wrong-does-go-wrong-but-in-a-humorous-manner episode. Turns out: actual basis in truth. It is actually possible to guess someone’s age at 27 then adjust it to 30 based on a look of derision, before being informed it’s actually 23.
Following the inevitable “I’m going to the washroom, wait here, I’ll be right back”-except-there’s-not-a-chance-in-hell-I-will-be-but-I-want-to-see-how-long-you’re-pathetic-enough-to-wait-for-me (not that I blame her in the slightest), we decide the music’s not good enough. We request a better song, and (very surprisingly, based on his previous choices) the DJ seems to become incredibly offended that we might even think to bring up the teeniest possibility of there being a chance that he could play one of the best songs of forever. A housemate says something rather rude, I apologise on his behalf, and we leave in disgust.
On the way home, the German (by far the drunkenest of us all) gets up to much mischief, largely involving a video camera on his phone. He videos an arrest, interviews some homeless people, interviews a policeman about horseriding, and then decides he wants a sandwich. Reluctantly, we go to Subway, and yet that turns into one of the best decisions ever made, and I actually cheer with joy as I hear what is playing on Sandwich Radio.
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