Anyway, so I look and Rockabye Sweet Baby James—I had 117 views! And NOT including my own!!!
w00t! w00t!! w00t!!!
“Shuddup, Inner Imp.”
“…and use! a few more!! exclamation points!!! next time!!!!!!!
“Did I say shuddup? I meant SHUT THE HELL UP. I'm putting you in a wax-sealed mason jar today. Goodbye.”
What was I saying? Oh yes, w00t.
There’s a pic of where the views are coming from, like so:
Then I got super-de-dupity excited because I thought I had (a) view(s) from Alaska!
It didn’t occur to me until muuuuch later that the majority of my views, naturally, are from the USA. Which includes Alaska. Which is why it is highlighted on the map.
Oh well, I’m still going to tell my (only) Alaskan Native story, as it really happened to me (and three of my sisters). It’s funny, because it happened in Canada. Maybe that’s not really a reason to be considered funny, but all things Canadian generally make me giggle.
So, somehow, I got to go to the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver. Not that how that happened is a real mystery—three of my sisters got the tickets and arranged everything—but how I got to be a part of that group is a fortuitous event. I think the original 4th person had to cancel because of a bad cold, or something that, if I thought about it more, would probably be ironical. (BOOP! Honk.) <-- By the way, 1000 points that don’t matter to whomever gets that reference—EXCEPT YOU, MONICA.
|Hello super-cute 2010 Winter Olympic Mascots…plus confusing 4th-ish mascot-who-is-not-really-a-mascot-so-why-the-hell-do-you-even-exist?? *cough-merchandising-opportunity-cough*|
One of the events we had tickets to was a ski-jump event, which actually took place in Whistler, British Columbia, about a 2.5-hour drive away. There were shuttles we could take from Vancouver to get to the event at Whistler Mountain and then from there, to visit the (gay-friendly) Whistler Village, which I believe was built specifically for the Olympics.
(Sidenote: First place I ever ate poutine. Yum. What a great day…that I also greatly rue. DAMN YOU DELICIOUS AND REEEEALLY BAD FOR YOU POUTINE!)
So after the event, we took the extra shuttle to check out the Village, ‘cause, really, when the hell else would we ever go there, right? Eeeexunktly. We were told that there were last-call shuttle times, but because of a misunderstanding of, well, where to stand…oh, okay, and an extended trip to the souvenir shop...we barely got the last shuttle back to Whistler Mountain. Once there, we found an empty shuttle line and thought that there were no shuttles left to go back to Vancouver! Oh crap! After frantically trying to find someone who knew anything, a Nice Olympic Guy—all the Olympics peeps were really nice, by the way—pointed out that we were, again, standing at the wrong place for the right shuttle. Thank gawds! But we had to hurry to the correct place because that one really was THE. LAST. shuttle back to Vancouver for the night.
“I’ll just radio ahead and let them know you’re on your way,” said the Nice Olympic Guy. (Yes, that’s a direct translation from the original Canadian, which the Nice Olympic Guy spoke. Because we were in Canada, obviously.)
So off we run to catch the correct shuttle. We finally get there—look, YOU try running in approximately 27 layers of clothing because WE'RE IN CANADA DURING THE WINTER—and there’s yet another Nice Olympic Guy holding open the shuttle door and waving us in.
“Thanks!” we huff-puff at him (in Canadian, of course. We are pretty fluent.)
“No worries, eh.” <-- Okay, he might not have said “eh.” Then again, we were in Canada, so there’s a pretty good chance that he did.
Door closes behind us, we find seats, still red and huff-puffing because we’re at a high altitude. (Also, I was totally out of shape. Two of my sisters were smokers, so that’s their excuse. The last one was breast-feeding, although not at that moment.)
Before the shuttle actually leaves, though, the Nice Olympic Guy gets on the announcement-thingy to tell all the passengers that we are the last shuttle heading back to Vancouver so if you are trying to get to Whistler Village, you should get off now as we are about to depart. Then he ends with, “But before we get going, we’d like to first welcome our Alaskan friends on our shuttle!”
My sister and I look at each other, all excitable-like, and mouth, “Eskimos!” because I...don’t know what we were expecting, maybe that they’d have a pet seal, like in the cartoons...? (Did I mention we were at a very high altitude?) We eagerly look around, trying to be the first to spot the portable igloo.
And that’s when we realized that Nice Olympic Guy is looking and pointing at us!
Apparently, the Nice Olympic Guy who radioed ahead to hold the shuttle for us, told the Other Nice Olympic Guy to wait for four Eskimos. (He might have said “Alaskan Natives” instead of the less-acceptable, general “Eskimos” but I can only assume...so I will.)
We didn’t know what to do! He had been so nice to us, holding the door open and everything. So we kinda waved half-heartedly and weakly smiled. But then one of us—and while it could’ve been me, I have to state that I don’t remember with absolute certainty...so it’s probably safe to assume it was me—blurted out, “But—but—we’re Japanese!”
Aw, poor Nice Olympic Guy! He was mortified. As if he had accidentally called us African-American and only to find out that we were really Latinos from the Dominican Republic. Actually, that doesn’t make sense either. But you get the idea.
In all fairness to the Nice Olympic Guys, this is what we looked like that day:
|I’m the short one.|
|No, these aren’t bandits, these are my sisters with their eyes and noses very badly masked-out for their anonymity. Ish. I mean, hell, you already know they’re my sisters and we really do all kinda look alike. BECAUSE WE’RE SISTERS. Or maybe they really are non-Asian bandits!! Anyway, yes, we all have straight, black hair. Yes, we all had somewhat-darkish tans from living in Southern California. Yes, I had my hair in two braids under that fabulously stylish Winnie-the-Pooh, pom-pom’d touque. And yes, I called it a touque. I’m SO Canadian.|
If I’m being super honest—and I am—I guess you kinda can’t blame the Nice Olympic Guys for confusing us with actual Alaskan Natives (my apologies to the peoples of the Alaskan Nations).
|But not to these Alaskan “Natives.” I mean, who the hell put this up on the Interwebs?? This is hardly accurate—FISH NEED TO BE UNDER WATER TO SWIM. (Someone’s a dumbass…)|
In reality, I do get asked all the time if I’m Native American (my apologies to the Native Nations). Or Philipino. Or Chinese. Or Thai. (My apologies to all Asians, everywhere.) Apparently I look everything BUT Japanese. Or there are a lot of really dumb people out there. Or there could be just the one really dumb person. I’m not sure, all them white people look alike to me.
In homage…sort of...to the upcoming Olympics, here’s a final, gratuitous shot of me and the Olympic Cauldron...sort of...from the 2010 Winter Olympics.
|ON FIRE with Olympic Fever! And a sucker for stoopid tourist photo ops.|
Bet you'll have great dreams tonight. You're welcome.
P.S. Thanks for being so nice, eh, Canada! And soorry aboot all the confusion. //