Nightmare of 605
Ah, the open road to Vancouver, with Tim McGraw tunes on deck and the sun bestowing its benevolent rays—our journey to the coast promised nothing but bliss. But, as life would have it, the real show started well before Mr. McGraw’s long-awaited concert.
Our detour took us to the quaint realm of Wonnock, BC for a much-anticipated rendezvous with my Great Aunt Bernice. Pulling into her driveway, her mailbox flaunted a 'Welcome Kyle and Tora' banner. I must say, nothing strokes the ego like personalized signage. On the way down I had been talking up Aunt Bernice as a world-renowned Mac n’ Cheese architect. Tora was all ears and stomach.
Aunt Bernice, always one to surprise, regaled us with tales from her ‘time’ in jail… don’t worry, she volunteers at the women’s prison in Mission, BC. The anticipation for the legendary mac and cheese grew as fiercely as my imagined escape plans from Aunt's prison stories. Finally, the moment of truth arrived with steaming plates before us. But alas, the first bite revealed a culinary plot twist—it was mac and "where's the cheese?" Aunt Bernice's expression mirrored ours as she realized the critical ingredients were amiss. Ever the gentleman, I braved a second helping of the macaroni mirage while saying “Oh that’s not too bad!”. It was bad.
I Love you Aunt Bernice, regardless of your Mac and Cheese
As we ventured forth to Vancouver, it seemed the weather decided to mimic our lunch—soggy and unexpected. The weather app on my phone now said our 5-day 4 4-night vacation was to be full of rain. After checking in at the Century Plaza Hotel, we were handed our room keys for room 605. Upon entering the room, we found it to be as accommodating as a square wheel. We chose to stay at this hotel mainly because the website showed all the accessible amenities that I require, like roll-in showers, wider door frames, and roll-under beds.
The only amenity that was accessible was the roll-under bed… almost guys.
Like a collective of disgruntled Karens, we descended upon the hotel manager, hoping for a case of mistaken room identity. Sadly, the disappointing revelation was that our cramped quarters were indeed 'as advertised'. The actual accessible rooms were as elusive as Aunt Bernice's cheese—booked and unavailable. If you ask me, I would think roll-in showers should be in all accessible rooms regardless… but that's just my two cents for what it's worth.
With a sliver of hope, we clung to the evening manager's promise of a double shower room that might just accommodate my shower chair. With this new hope, we settled into 605 to get some shut-eye for the night.
But as soon as we approached the front desk the next morning, armed with optimism and the need for a proper shower. The day shift staff greeted our inquiries with blank stares as if the evening's promises were just fairy tales. After what seemed like a debate club meeting—where the existence of this mythical room was the hot topic—the day manager swooped in, not with a cape, but with a vibe that screamed 'tough titties said the kitties when the milk tasted shitty'
He insisted on personally inspecting a room that may become available, denying us even a peek. It felt less like customer service and more like a scene from a spy movie where information is on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, we didn't need to know. Dejected, we retreated to our room, only to be jolted by the shrill ring of the phone. It was the front desk, delivering the final blow: the room was a no-go. But, in a villainous twist of mercy, they offered to let us escape—er, check out—without charging for the upcoming night, as if releasing us from the clutches of room 605 was a benevolent act. The offer felt more like them sending us off to be somebody else's problem. With said offer, we then promptly called every hotel in the Downtown Vancouver area, to no avail. We were forced to pay the piper and reluctantly stay in 605.
On the morning of the concert, I declared it was high time for a shower, after all, what if I ran into a squadron of Victoria's Secret models? With the hotel management's care for us spiraling down the drain we unleashed our own brand of rebellion. We had no choice, so we laid down towels in the middle of the bathroom, used the shower wand, and started a soapy shower party. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right?
After the shower, feeling all refreshed we headed to the nearest Skytrain station that would take us directly to Rogers Arena. But, as luck would have it, the elevator at our nearest station was out for maintenance, and the backup station? Yep, its elevator was getting a total facelift. Of course, they were both inaccessible, like everything else. The kicker was we specifically chose the location of our hotel for the ease of being able to take the transit to the concert. Our carefully chosen base of operations was turning out to be as useful as a chocolate teapot.
With the crumbled transit plans, we had no choice but to drive ourselves and park at Costco, which conveniently offered event parking right next to the arena. A silver lining, at last!
Before the concert, there was just enough time to catch up with my pals Johnson and Amrit—you might remember them from ‘Nothing Like The First Time’. We treated ourselves to some fine dining at Frankie's Italian Kitchen, fueling up for Tim McGraw’s tunes.
Amrit (Left) and Johnson (the Asian guy) popped in for a surprise visit before the show.
Finally, the time was upon us!
For those of you who are not aware, I have hearing difficulties, and if there is any background noise I can’t make anything out. I call it the wall of noise.
Before the trip had commenced, I bought a pair of musician earplugs because I was told they dampen the sound but still leave enough sound going through to hear. I was excited to try them out and had my expectations set high. The earplugs had muffled the sound way too much and I could only make out one or two of Tim's hits. Tora enjoyed being serenaded by Mr. McGraw though.
Cant hear but I’m lookin on point!
By the end of the show, we were pretty tired and just wanted to go to bed, so we were looking on the bright side that we had the van close by and could quickly escape back to the hotel. But the universe had one more twist—locked elevators in the parkade at 9:30 PM. There was a ramp but it was fully barricaded and under lock and key. There I was, a stranded island in a sea of post-concert chaos with strangers and drunks while Tora, my knight in shining armor, sprinted to retrieve our chariot.
Reflecting on Tora's earlier jest that this trip would be too mundane for a blog post, she was overly prepared and didn’t plan on dropping me in the shower or anything like in “Vancouvercation”
The trip wasn’t a total bust, I did purchase a few vinyl records to add to my 300+ collection….a little humble brag doesn’t hurt anyone.
On closing all I can say is my new unlucky number is 605. Mic drop.
One of the few songs I could hear
