It’s an English Beat morning a winter away from the Whistler dream. Cool, quiet, Saturday train rides, long prairie sunshine shadows and paved pathes…and I am so far from right here right now.
Haven’t found the words for this place quite yet, or maybe in the dream of 15 months in Dolce and Gabbana suits and champagne cocktails I have imagined the morning will wake with Wedge in the window down the long drive and the old guy at Peaks Coffee 1997, will say ‘did you see the snowline?’
Slim suits and shiny shoes and tie clips and cufflinks have traded places in the closets with the Primo Down jacket and my skiboot liners…literally. The city has the same closets as Whistler, but like Sliding Doors and failed games they have traded places.
The commute is still 40 minutes…here, that is 15 by bus, 20 by train and the other 5 lost somewhere between the stops taking photos down broken sidewalks in stolen moments between the crowds and the homeless empty hats. I get off three blocks early and walk past the empty faces and the unimaginable marbled landscape of the urban myth… and grab a Tazo chai latte at Starbucks before the Wednesday morning boardroom.
In Whistler that was 2 minutes, or so, to Alpine Cafe for a 2 minute Tazo Chai latte and a home made rice krispy square. 2 more minutes and I’m across the only street light en route linking turns on the longboard down the valley trail for 30 more. Photos, and tunes, quiet and cool, twisting along the River of Golden Dreams, past the gravel pit, over the tracks and around the golf course to the village.
A thousand miles east the routine is familiar, friendly faces have aged, the kids ride bikes, we walk to school and play wall ball til the bell rings, we cook pepperoni pizzas in the oven and in the distance I can see the Rockies from the bedroom window…
I smell winter…
…and accross the valley in Whistler or there below the pale blue prairie sunset, I wish I were anywhere but right here right now with my skis on my back and the wind on my face, a winter away.