The Injury (Part Four)

British Columbia is beautiful. And Canada is filled with a lovely and vibrant people. I like to call them, Canadians. Despite the crutches, Cortes Island is a magical, beautiful place. Hell, the crutches really just added to the enjoyment. Everyone at the site knew my name, probably at first as "Howard? Oh, the guy on crutches. Right, that Howard." But soon it just became "Howard."

Sure it was challenging to hike down to the lodge from my room every morning and then crutch around from room to room, cabin to cabin throughout the day only to have to crutch all the way back to my room late at night to rest up for another day. (I know, I sound like such a whiney bastard. But I sweat alot, and crutching around is hard work. It's like being President. And getting to breakfast, meetings, lunch, meeting, dinner, party, and bed drenched in sweat gets old and pretty smelly after awhile. Especially considering the fact that I didn't shower the entire time. Shut up...you wouldn't have showered much either if you had to hop on one fucking foot the entire time. Be realistic, you fucks.)

The land is amazing. The view from the lodge (above) every morning, noon and night. The flower and vegetable garden, the organic farm where all the vegetarian meals came from, the unlimited fair trade organic coffee and toast bar (that's right, a TOAST BAR - from which Mad made me the ultimate toasty snack. The Triple Threat - toast with butter, peanutbutter and then honey. Delicious). The little huts where we had our meetings sprawled out on the floor. Enjoying the beach one evening while having an oyster bbq. My first ever oyster experience, raw and barbequed. The smoking temple. Oh, the smoking temple.

It was a really great experience and I'm glad the crutches didn't keep me from enjoying every moment. I met some amazing people, made some new friends, even met somebody with possibility. And all on crutches!

But the world is definitely a whole different place when 'disabled'. It's been a very humbling experience. Not so much on the island, where everyone was genuinely helpful, getting me meals, coffee, toast, and anything else I might need. Driving me around in golf carts and cars. Helping me up, contributing to my pillow monopoly, all the while making me forget about my ankle and confinement to crutches. But outside of the island, the world is a dark place full of stairs, rugs, curbs and holes.

From the time I arrived at the Vancouver Airport--crutching all the way from check-in through security and to my gate (the furthest one away, naturally), the hallway lined with electric carts, empty electric carts all charging, going nowhere, mocking me as I crutched by them--to the time I got back to Boston--after a red-eye back on the most inhospitable airline I've ever been a guest of, Air Canada, and a three hour layover in Montreal, a city actually more rude than Boston--I was an angry, pathetic, frustrated handicapped person scowling at every person who looked my direction. It wasn't pretty.

But I got home. Roomette picked me up from the airport, brought me home, where we were met by Roomalina. We got high, hung out, watched a movie during the afternoon and took a nap on the couch.

'Welcome home, Howard.'

'Thank you.'