Our Dumb Blog

In the morning we woke up around 1 pm. Berck pulls all the curtains closed as far as they can go and is sure to shut the door to the bathroom, where there’s a window. By the time we got to the bus to go downtown, it was around four. I had forgotten my pocket watch and couldn’t turn my phone on, so I was pretty much clueless to what time it was, since Berck told me it didn’t matter and wouldn’t tell me what it was. We missed the first bus that came because I hadn’t found out how much it cost and if exact change was required. So we bought a couple of Cokes at the Subway across the street and then successfully caught one. I would have asked some of the other people waiting for the bus, but we were in a heavily Chinese area. All the businesses had signs in Chinese except for a couple of chain restaurants.

The bus ride from the hotel to the end downtown took about 45 minutes, I’d say. We got off and walked around. Vancouver is very much a city under construction, fueled by an intense excitement about the 2010 Winter Olympics. I’d hoped to wander around Canada Centre, but it was all fenced off with construction barriers, and I couldn’t figure out how to get in. Instead we headed southwest toward the Vancouver Hotel and then the art gallery. It was expensive, but Berck flashed his expired student ID and saved $5 Canadian. It wasn’t a bad collection, though naturally favoring Canadian artists, whether or not they were any good.

Next we headed down Robson Street. Berck had been feeling left out every time all the other pilots had been exiting the pub to smoke a cigarette. One of the students had been complaining about the pack he bought, that they were really strong but tasted terrible. Berck asked him what brand they were, and he said, “I dunno, warning label brand.” The whole pack was covered in warning labels, but we finally found the brand name on the flip top. They smelled really funny too, very familiar but neither Berck nor I could figure out what it was. The guy said, “It’s like tea or something.” Sure enough, they smelled exactly like rolled up black tea bags. Maybe that’s why they were so strong.

So Berck ducked into a tiny smoke shop that promised they had Cubans and asked the proprietor for two inexpensive but good cigars. “For who, for you and the lady?” the guy asked. He picked out a Romeo y Juliet for Berck and a big mild one for me. Then he offered to cut them for us, since we didn’t have one with us. As he put them into a Zip-loc, he said, “Forty-five dollars. I give you special discount, no tax.”

Next we stopped at Hon’s for some Chinese food, where we were seated with two plastic glasses of hot tea. Berck didn’t want to order, so I got us a couple of local beers, some fried dumplings, some tiny egg rolls, and some noodle soup with barbecued duck on top. The duck was possibly the best duck I’ve ever had, but the broth the noodles were in was fish based, and Berck wouldn’t eat it.

We took Robson down until it ended in Stanley Park and started walking along the harbor toward the totem poles, watching the crew rowers practicing. The sun was setting, and we were getting tired, so we walked back and caught the first bus downtown, then transferred to the 98 to take us back to the hotel. I’d brought a map I’d printed out, so I’d know when to get off.

Berck was hungry, so we went back to the Foggy Dew for supper for a steak sandwich, Caesar salad, and two black and tans. Back in the room, we cracked open some local beers Berck was keeping in his fridge and went out on the balcony to light up. My cigar was nice and mild; Berck’s was more bold, but they suited us. I’ve had a better cigar, but I’ve had a lot worse.

We went to bed around 1.

I’ve got the beginnings of an IOE schedule. What I’ve got so far is on Facebook. I’ve got 3 days of out of PHX starting Monday, then a day off on Thursday, then a 3 day trip out of DEN. They said to expect more DEN IOE after that.

We’ll come back Sunday.

Guess I picked a good one.

Wish I could be there, but all the flights are full :(

So sleepy. I got almost two hours of sleep last night. I’d hoped I would sleep on the plane, but we boarded right as the sun came up. My body reacted by waking up.

Berck got back from his check ride at 1 in the morning. I’d stayed up, and we went down to the Foggy Dew, the Irish Pub attached to the hotel, to celebrate. At 1 in the morning on a Saturday night, the pub was packed, and a cover band was doing a pretty good job of the most popular rock songs of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s. Everyone was gathered around the bar, leaving the private tables in the back corner empty. We sat at one, and Cindy came to wait on us, just as Berck was thinking he had better just serve himself at the bar. He ordered a Harp and I a Ricker’s White, which I ordered by asking Cindy, “What’s the white that comes with an orange?” I’d been watching commercials for it on TV while waiting for Berck to come back.

Berck knows the names of all the waitresses in the pub and which ones will give him good service. He’s also had everything that has interested him on the food menu and has started creating his own special orders. “Can I get the burger but instead of the burger get the steak instead?” Last call was at quarter to 2, and Berck started getting antsy that Cindy hadn’t reappeared. At ten till, she dashed up to our table and announced hurriedly, “Last call! Two more?” I’d actually wanted to try something else, but we both just quickly nodded in relief. She dashed off to fill our orders.

We were celebrating Berck passing his check ride. He’d misread one of his approach plates, mixing up a bolded line for a non-bolded one, that meant something important about altitude, but first officers are allowed three mistakes on a check ride. Captains aren’t allowed any. Berck didn’t know he was allowed three on his very first check ride, and he’s been much more relaxed about them since then. He’s got one more lesson tonight, and then he comes home tomorrow morning.

I arrived in Vancouver on a gorgeous day. The sun was shining, and you could see the mountains. I was sitting the front row right behind first class, so I didn’t have to wait for everyone else to get off the plane. I took the stairs whenever I could and got in front of the rest of my fellow passengers, as well as the passengers of a flight that was just letting out at the same time. Our captain had proudly announced that we were 13 minutes early, and it was probably a good thing. After racing to immigration, I then had to wait in the snaking line toward the border agents. Our flight landed at 1:20. I didn’t get outside to wait for the hotel van until 2:40. Waiting in line with my heavy backpack was miserable, but at least I had a good book. I made it till I was almost outside and then started looking for a phone to call the hotel to tell them to send the van. There was a big information desk nearby with several people sitting idly at it, so I went over to ask where I could find a phone. The girl I asked glanced down at the phone at her desk and said, “Well, you can use this one. Let me just dial the number for you.” Canadians are awfully nice. There’s an episode of How I Met Your Mother where Robin, a Canadian, is feeling homesick and finds a Canadian bar in New York City. She tests to see if the patrons are really Canadian by bumping into one who is just standing there with his beer. He turns around and says, “Oh, excuse me!”

On the van along with me was a flight crew, and then we stopped by the simulator training facility and picked up what I later learned were Berck’s fellow students and an instructor. Berck came and found me when I got to the lobby and suggested we head over to the Flying Beaver. This is a restaurant and airport all in one. You walk in and have to step over people’s luggage as they wait by the airline gate with the gate agents in their ties and blazers. Then you walk by the crowded bar and out into the dining area, where a fire crackles in a huge fireplace. There’s a glassed in room tacked on where you can sit and watch the planes. If you’re feeling really adventurous, or need a smoke, you can sit at the tables outside. There are glass barriers set up to block most of the wind, but we bundled up anyway. We ordered the local beer that was on special (I don’t remember what it was, but it was very good), and Berck suggested we try the pyrogi topped with chili sauce, sour cream, and chorizo. Yes, pyrogi and chorizo. I love it when Berck is culinarily adventurous. It was actually really good. We ordered a couple more delicious local beers that I don’t remember the names of and tucked into an order of chicken fingers and fries. When the fries were running out, I put the ketchup bottle in the basket to keep it from flying away in the wind.

We were eating in a corner of the patio that seem to escape the brunt of the wind, sitting on couch by a coffee table. A guy came and sat at the end of the coffee table and struck up a conversation with us. Canadians are so informal. He is fascinated by airplanes too, but instead of getting a pilot’s license like Berck, he got a job assembling airplanes for Viking. They now make some of the airplanes that De Havilland made. De Havilland made the Dashes that Berck will fly, though Bombardier makes the newer versions. The guy said making Dash parts is hard. Making Beaver parts is easy.

The Flying Beaver juts out over the water and has stairs down to the docks below where the seaplanes pull up. The planes land and take off along the harbor pretty much constantly. Whenever one took off, Berck and our dinner guest stopped quizzing each other about their jobs, grew silent, and turned to watch. Berck described it as an aircraft strip show.

The guy finished his food and bade us goodbye. He had just come over during a layover at the airport. We finished and then walked back to the hotel. It was very windy but warm enough if you weren’t right on the water. The sea planes fly directly over the street where the hotel is, so we could watch them all the way back.

We got back to the hotel right as the phone rang. It was one of Berck’s classmates, who he invited over from across the hall. As soon as she walked in, Berck looked up from his e-mail and said, “We’re furloughing. 100.” She’s about 80 from the bottom. Berck is above the cutoff. She was very distraught, and Berck offered for us to accompany her down to the pub so she didn’t have to drown her sorrows alone. She doesn’t look like a typical pilot at all, 22, petite, with trendy jeans, cute top, and dark brown hair with heavily highlighted strips. But she kept wondering what kind of flying job she could possibly get. True pilots can’t imagine doing anything else. The instructors came in later and sat at a different table, but we managed to get them to join us eventually. We finally left around 1 when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. The pub has a 15% discount for airline crews, which is nice. Unfortunately, we had Molly for most of the night, and she gives terrible service.