Fetch me my smelling salts!

It's 9:36 a.m. and I have no idea what to do with myself. I've been a kept woman, living in the lap of luxury for exactly 15.5 hours now, and, you know, it can be a bit boring! Not that I'm complaining! Lest God should sweep down and remove me from this luxurious 5-star hotel room, swipe the delicious (albeit instant and flavoured with whitening powder) coffee from the desk beside me, replace this view of Victoria harbour with, well, anything else and... well... that's about all He can do to me right now.

Yes, this is quite an upgrade from my Vancouver abode - with the alley bums and the upstairs neighbours and their midnight sumo fights, and the perpetual smell of pot and bus exhaust wafting in through the various cracks in windows and floorboards, which keep the place freezing cold in the winter and slightly bug-infested in the summer. QUITE an upgrade, indeed.

I've just finished Monday's workology story (THIS, people, is why I decided to become a writer. Am I poor? Heck yes. But am I working from a laptop many miles away from home gazing at the ocean and Washington mountains out the window? HECK YES! Did I traverse great distances via ferry to get here, watching for whales and seals? You KNOW it!), what was I saying? Oh yes. I just finished Monday's workology story after awaking from a long and glorious post-Vancouver-nearly-5-overtimes-sudden-death-win-over-Dallas sleep in a MAGNIFICENT king-sized bed, which allowed my lover for the next two days, Erin Shannon, and me to sprawl at our leisure and never come within three metres of (soft) touching each other (which is a shame, because we both anticipated copious amounts of spooning ... maybe tonight).

Hang on, I've got to shut the patio door or else the biggest seagull I've ever seen in my life, which is perched on the railing, might venture inside to steal some of Erin's Glosette peanuts which I've been eating for breakfast (and which she informed me in no uncertain terms last night were off-limits).

Door closed. I didn't even have to get UP to close it, but merely reached over and with a single swipe crisis was averted! Now what to do? Stalk people on Facebook? I can do that at home. Lounge about in a terry cloth bath robe on the gigantic bed, reading my complimentary Globe and Mail? It's a distinct possibility, although the cover story is Belinda Stronauch, so... gak, snooore. Or maybe go down to the pool and do some laps? Order room service? Jump on the bed? Try on all of Erin's clothes? Press every button in the elevator? Ride it up and down marvelling at the view? (the elevator has a view!) Make more coffee? (I don't even like coffee!) Watch crappy day-time TV? Read this Bible I found in a drawer? Make a fort? Drop things off the balcony? (eep... No. Seagull-patrolled) Eat more Glosettes? Have a bath? Finally put on some pants? (haha! just kidding. Ya RIGHT I'm putting on pants!). See how Marty McFly gets out of his current predicament in Back to the Future 2? Invite the seagull in for tea? The possibilities are endless!

I do love Victoria. It's like a... a.... it's like a more spacious and tackier York (English York, not Ontario York). And it seems to me that, unlike Vancouver's downtown core, which is set up to accomodate commerce, Victoria's downtown core exists purely for the tourists. And I love coming here because I am both a tourist and not a tourist. It's like Vancouver, but different enough that I'm not bored of it. It's different enough that every shop and cafe and view is worthy of checking out and appreciating, but not so different that I'm mesmerized and blocking sidewalk traffic at the sight of boats, or stalking squirrels on the lawn outside the Parliament buildings like a National Geographic photographer on safari.

I might, when the shops open in ten minutes, venture into all the horrible little tourist trap shops, which I love to peruse (yet never spend a dime in) because it's funny to try to see Victoria/B.C./Canada from the perspective of a tourist (is this how they interpret this place? A world of tiny Maple Syrup jars; Native feathers, windcatchers and mocassins; stylized grizzly bear, eagle and whale figurines; cheap stationery adorned with ubiquitous Canadian flags; fridge magnets bearing images of pristine glacier lakes and endless vistas of pine trees?) find some little cafe with an outdoor patio and have breakfast with my date: Sylvia Plath and Philip Larkin, or maybe march along a cozy cherry blossom-lined suburban boulevard with my Ipod (that is, if it decides to cooperate today).

Or maybe I'll go back to bed.