I can only assume that trains in Canada go so slowly as they don't want to offend any wildlife that lurk close to the tracks. After nearly 17 hours, being passed by milk-floats and injured elk on either side we limp into Vancouver Station, tired, but marginally amused by a fellow passengers story about two vagrants who has repulsed him by breaking wind into each others faces.
The first thing that struck us was the temperature, it's just 5 degrees but after a week living as Frosty the Snowman it seems positively tropical and I can revert back to just the single pair of socks and start to freely move my toes again.
We had emailed 'a funky little boutique hotel' at least that was their description, mine would have been 'a nasty, little shit-hole that last week was a homeless shelter but has been recently repainted'. I was expecting the bloke on reception to ask whether I required a crack-smoking or non-crack-smoking room, except as he couldn't speak a word of English he didn't. The saving grace of The Granville Grand is that our room had a safe - so we locked ourselves in that for the night.
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