European Women

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.