Yes, Poppy, it’s saying, Bye-Bye-Bye.
No, Alex, tell your G-spot to speak up.
Yes, I’ll take it for twenty-one thousand dollars and not a penny less!
We took turns asking and answering, and now, slumped over our black lacquered table, we can’t stop half-deliriously picking up spoons and napkins, making them talk to one another.
Our server is around our age, heavily pierced with a soft lisp and a good sense of humor. “If that soy says anything saucy, let me know,” she says. “It’s got a reputation around here.”
Alex tips her 30 percent, and the whole walk to the bus stop, I tease (make fun of) him for blushing whenever she looked at him, and he teases me for making eyes at the cashier in the record shop, which is fair, because I definitely did.
“I’ve never seen a city this flowery,” I say.
“I’ve never seen a city this clean,” he says.
“Should we move to Canada?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Does Canada speak to you?”
With the buses, and the walking between stops, it takes two hours total to get the car I informally rented online through WWT, Women Who Travel.
I’m so relieved it actually exists—and that the keys are under the floor mat in the back seat, just like the car’s owner, Esmeralda, said they would be—that I start clapping at the sight of it.
“Wow,” Alex says, “this car is really speaking to you.”
“Yes,” I say, “it’s saying, Don’t let Alex drive.”
His mouth droops open, eyes going wide and glossy(shiny and smooth) with feigned(pretended) hurt.
“Stop!” I yelp, diving away from him and into the driver’s seat like he’s a live grenade.
“Stop what?” He bends to insert his Sad Puppy Face in front of me.
“No!” I screech, shoving him away and writhing sideways in the seat as if trying to escape a swarm of ants pouring off him. I fling myself into the passenger seat, and he calmly climbs into the driver’s seat.
“I hate that face,” I say.
“Untrue,” Alex says.
He’s right.
I love that ridiculous face.
Also, I hate driving.
“When you find out about reverse psychology(the principle or practice of subtly encouraging a behaviour or belief by advocating its opposite.), I’m screwed,” I say.
“Hm?” he says, glancing sidelong as he starts up the car.
“Nothing.”
We drive two hours north to the motel I found on the eastern side of the island. It’s a misty wonderland, wide uncluttered roads lined in forests as ancient as they are dense.
There’s not a ton to do in town, but there are redwoods and hiking trails to waterfalls and a Tim Hortons just a few miles down the road from our motel, a low, lodge-like place with a gravel parking lot out front and a wall of fog-cloaked foliage behind it.
“I sort of love it here,” Alex says.
“I sort of do too,” I agree.
And it doesn’t matter that it rains all week and we finish every hike soaked to the bone, or that we can only find two affordable restaurants and have to eat at each of them thrice, or that we slowly start to realize nearly everyone else we cross paths with is in the upper-sixties-and-older set and that we’re definitely staying in a retirement village.
Or that our motel room is always damp, or that there’s so little to do we have time to kill one full day in a nearby Chapters bookstore (where we eat both breakfast and lunch in their café in silence while Alex reads Murakami and I take notes for future reference from a stack of Lonely Planet guides).
None of it matters.
I spend the whole week thinking, This speaks to me.
This is what I want for the rest of my life. To see new places. To meet new people. To try new things.
I don’t feel lost or out of place here.
There’s no Linfield to escape or long, boring classes to dread going back to.
I’m anchored only in this moment.
“Don’t you wish we could always be doing this?” I ask Alex.
He looks up over his book at me, one corner of his mouth curling. “Wouldn’t leave a lot of time for reading.”
“What if I promise to take you to a bookstore in every city?” I ask. “Then will you quit school and live in a van with me?”
His head tilts to one side as he thinks. “Probably not,” he says, which is no surprise for a variety of reasons, including the fact that Alex loves his classes so much he’s already researching English grad programs, whereas I’m muscling through with straight Cs.
“Well, I had to try,” I say with a sigh.
Alex sets his book down. “I tell you what. You can have my summer breaks. I’ll keep those wide open for you, and we’ll go anywhere you want, that we can afford.”
“Really?” I say, dubious.
“Promise.” He holds out his hand, and we shake on it, then sit there grinning for a few seconds, feeling like we’ve just signed some life-alteringly significant contract.
Our second-to-last day, we hike through the quiet of Cathedral Grove just as the sun is coming up, spilling golden light over the forest in little droplets, and when we leave, we drive straight to a town called Coombs, whose main attraction is a handful of cottages with grass roofs and a herd of goats grazing over them.
We take pictures of them, stick our heads through photo-op cutouts that put our faces on crudely painted goat bodies, and spend a luxurious two hours wandering a market stuffed with samples of cookies, candies, and jams.
On the last full day of our trip, we drive across the island to Tofino, the peninsula we would have stayed on if we weren’t trying to save every possible penny. I surprise Alex with (perhaps worryingly cheap) tickets for a water taxi that takes us to the island I read about, with the trail through the rain forest to the hot spring.
Our water taxi driver is named Buck, and he’s not much older than us, with a tangle of sun-bleached yellow hair sticking out from under his mesh-backed hat. He’s handsome in an utterly filthy way, with that specifically beachy kind of body odor mixed with patchouli.
It should be repulsive(ugly), but he makes it work.
The ride itself is a violent affair, the taxi’s motor so loud I have to scream into Alex’s ear, my hair slapping against his face from the wind, to say, “THIS MUST BE WHAT A ROCK FEELS LIKE WHEN YOU SKIP IT OVER WATER,” my voice thunking in and out with each rhythmic hit of the little vessel against the top of the dark, choppy waves.
Buck waves his hands like he’s talking to us for the whole length of the (much-too-long) ride, but we can’t hear him, which makes both Alex and me semihysterical( maybe unable to control your feelings or behaviour because you are extremely frightened) with laughter after the first twenty minutes of inaudible monologue.
“WHAT IF HE’S CONFESSING TO A CRIME RIGHT NOW?” Alex yells.
“RECITING THE DICTIONARY. FROM BACK TO FRONT,” I suggest.
“SOLVING COMPLEX MATH EQUATIONS,” Alex says.
“COMMUNING WITH THE DEAD,” I say.
“THIS IS WORSE THAN—”
Buck cuts the engine, and Alex’s voice far overshoots it. He drops his voice into a whisper against my ear: “Worse than flying.”
“Is he stopping to kill us?” I whisper back.
“Was that what he was saying?” Alex hisses. “Is it time to panic?”
“Look out that way,” Buck says, spinning leftward in his chair and pointing ahead.
“Where he’s going to kill us?” Alex murmurs, and I turn my laugh into a cough.
Buck turns back with a wide, crooked, but admittedly handsome grin. “Family of otters.”
A very high-pitched and one-hundred-percent genuine squeal rockets out of me as I lurch to my feet and lean over to see the fuzzy little lumps of fur floating over the waves, paws folded together so that they drift as one, a net made of adorable sea creatures. Alex comes to stand behind me, his hands light on my arms as he leans over me to see.
“Okay,” he says. “Time to panic. That’s fucking adorable.”
“Can we take one home?” I ask him. “They speak to me!”
《People We Meet on Vacation》
by Emily Henry 从朋友到恋人
只是搬运工加个人笔记。
