I am not European, yes I live in Europe,
but I am not European, I am British, this does not qualify, the idea of a
European, is a blond haired, blue eyes, Aryan poster boy, with a side parting,
struggling to speak English while backpacking around Canada, this is
incidentally where I am. Canada
Canada is a lovely place, very atmospheric
if not a little dull, for the first week it was exciting but there is only so
long a man can carry around a $15 can of bear spray around before the novelty
of having it and not using it wears of. I plan in the next couple of days to
run into a bear. The job of a park guide is getting a bit repetitive, pointing
out all manner of different rocks and trees to parents, taking pictures as
their bored children make relentless noise. I actually hope for a bear, I want
to know how these tourists would react, I want to know what an eleven year old
with a ben 10 t-shirt would do with a bear growling in his face, the bear spray
might not be used straight away, It would seem a waste to end such an
experience both my viewing pleasure and I’d hate to take the most exciting
thing to happen to these bores away from them, they would forever have that
anecdote about having a bear nearly maul their face off before the park guide
came along, heroically, and blew it’s face off with what looks like a small
fire extinguisher.
But this is unlikely to happen I am now
down to my final three days of a park guide before I can leave, I’m moving on,
going further west deeper into this barren wasteland. I’m starting the journey
on Monday morning with a girl I met here; we met while I was guiding her, with
a group of other people, probably a few kids a few backpackers from Sweden, I’m
not sure, non of them where memorable but she was on her own and we got talking
and she showed a keen interest in becoming a guide, but as our interest in this
park comes to a mutual close we have decided to go traveling together. I’m
looking forward to it.
In my excitement I have forgotten to give
you here name, Olga, she’s from Ukraine, now the connotations of the name Olga
are not pretty, I’ll admit myself, I used to hear the name Olga and imagine
some big boned Russian women with tattoos and an ugly dress and a scarf around
here head, this image is hazy, however the rolling pin in her hand and the
hairy mole on her cheek are very prominent in my image of what I thought of an
‘Olga’
Olga is not this though she is really
rather beautiful, I wont going into the particulars of her beauty but she has
the aura of an Abby, a name that’s much more suited to her, but what’s in a
name, I often thought it unfair that we get burdened with a name at birth, a
title that will follow you around your entire life, and you have no control
over it, luckily I’m fond of my name, but if I wasn’t that would be it. I could
change it but that goes against the name, changing a name goes against the
ideals of having a name it, changing a name is cheating, it takes away whatever
identity you have when you can change your name at the drop of a hat.
But since meeting Olga I have learnt that
names are meaningless it’s just a name, a way of identifying someone it doesn’t
affect whom that person is or where they came from or whether or not I like
them.
