A few years ago, Pixie and I lived in Vancouver as exchange students. It was a strange idea to go on exchange with one’s best friend, when the whole aim usually was to get away from all the regular friends and see if one can stand on own feet for six months. Some might say that we barely survived the experience, but that’s really a matter of opinion.

We share some of the fondest memories together with Rom-com and Pooh, fellow Aussies we had met at orientation one bitterly cold Vancouver morning. They are my sisters in arms; the only three other people in the world who can share my understanding in the significance of Richmond, Stanley Park, and of course, Tofino.

I often tell my other friends about my time in Vancouver. But they can never appreciate the stories as the four of us do. What were supposed to be funny anecdotes about my life there often become “this one time, in Vancouver” annoyances.

This one time, in Vancouver…

…Pixie and I were waiting for a 99 B-line at a bus stop on Granville Street to meet up with Rom-com in Richmond. A blue station wagon with American number plates slowly pulled up in front of us. The passenger rolled down the window. He looked frantic and scared, but despite his state of alarm, he was impeccable in manners.

“Excuse me, m’am. Do you know the way back to the United States of America?” The panicked man asked.

Always ones to be pleased with being mistaken as native Vancouverites, we were both very smug at the question posed at us. We were equally smug about our knowledge of Vancouver streets. Granville Street, running north to south, eventually leads to a sign that guides motorists to Bellingham and then onto Seattle.

“Mate, keep driving south along this street, you’ll get there,” we answered.