A chance remark from an associate that she was about to sail away on an Alaskan cruise brought back a flood of memories of my time playing piano on one of those big ships; every summer for two months I went up the Inside Passage, down the Inside Passage, stopping every two weeks in Vancouver to let off one group of passengers and take on another.
The penultimate day of our itinerary was always spent in Victoria, British Columbia, that charming relic of the Empire tucked away on the tip of Vancouver Island. The trick to really doing Victoria is to get away from the inner harbor area, dominated by the Empress Hotel and swarming with tourists and weekend dance-clubbers from Vancouver. Once you move away from the center, you’re in a sleepy English town of the sort that is rare in England today, but which has held on here in this distant corner of the Commonwealth.
Out for a stroll, I came upon a tidy mock-Tudor neighborhood establishment offering refreshment. Inside I found a softly-lit, frumpy-warm gin joint, habituated by a flock of pasty copies of Elizabeth R who no doubt relished their discovery of a safe harbor where they could knock down a few of an afternoon without fear of reprisal or exposure. The management was discreet, the waiters were discreet, and should one of their number be discovered sprawled blotto on the flowered carpet in the ladies’ lounge, she was discreetly scooped up and deposited gently in a cab for home, while back inside her departure would elicit no censure save perhaps a few shaken heads and mutters of oh Mildred, Mildred.
Would I care for a table, the headwaiter inquired. No, I replied, I think I’ll mosey on along.
It was several blocks before I felt completely free of the lingering scent of tuberoses mixed with gin.