Diary of a snail — Episode #1
I know you are but what am I?
Bianca and me took the ferry to Vancouver on Sunday morning at 9. Now we’re in a peaceful suburbian area, enjoying the non-migratory life after 3 weeks of intense road trip. Our host is Robin the forester, one of the elders of the temporary village we created two months ago leaded by Randy the shaman.
During the two weeks on the island the relationship between Bianca and me has developed, molded and twisted infinite times, every day we were some different thing. I recall Fred’s amusement when, speaking about relationships, he asked me “how much is one plus one?” No, not two. The answer seems to be three. To explain it, he picks a pen and draws two overlapping circles, the aureas of two coexisting persons. The circles are two, but the line divides three figures: the one in between, the relationship, has its own identity, independent and unpredictable.
Saturday we were supposed to visit Fred and his wife Ruth at the island called Saturna, but we got a flat tire Friday evening in Ucluelet and the spare tire wouldn’t cooperate: it seems that Dodge Gran Caravans like Bianca’s have the spare tire screwed under the vehicle, exposed to encrusting rust km after km. The attachment seemed to be stuck. Our attempts in the parking of the grocery store ended up attracting a little crowd of men ready to help: at least 4 of them layed flat on the asphalt, under the troubled car. In vain. We had to wait until the next day for the winning knight.
I came to Canada 4 months ago, after several tours in Europe and America following that certain something that drives us, the newly converted to nomadism. Bianca, landed from Australia one year ago, blends right in, abusing of “sorry”s like a local. We met on facebook when I was working in a hostel in Jasper, I slept on her couch and I initiated her to hitchhiking, because the Dodge Caravan didn’t materialize yet. We traveled the beautiful highway cutting the canadian rockies from Jasper to Canmore, on the rear seats of a family of Korean immigrants. We met quite recently, but she’s like a sister: we love each other a lot and we’re completely, visceraly, dramatically different.
Robin, our vedic astrologic charts in his hands, states that we’re poles apart, the worst combination ever. While I listen to him I look carefully at my travel companion. Busy on the midnight snack, salad parmesan and sauerkraut, she doesn’t notice my inquisitive eye. There’s something clashing between us, and I keep finding red, wild hair in my stuff, like little reminders.
