I hate the morning. Maybe that's because I also love the night, and have a tendency to stay up too late.

Last night, my temporary roommate Eddie (or, more correctly, the new permanent roommate) came home around midnight, loaded to the gills. We had a couple beers and tried to get his PlayStation2 working, but ended up watching the animated Final Fantasy movie instead. Eddie fell asleep within minutes, and I went to bed around 3:30am.

So today I wasn't up very early, and put off sending in my TB test and birth certificate to teacher's college until 5pm. The 2-day ExpressPost letter costs $7.99. But the woman at the Post Office informed me that the ExpressPost mail gets picked up at 4:30pm. Now the only way to get the letter there by Friday is with Priority Courier: $17.99. If I'd been an hour less lazy, I'd have another $10 to spend on beer and Kraft Dinner.

A lesson to take with me back to school, I suppose.

This is my Nana, Mary Prowse. She makes the best apple pie in the world.

I went to visit her and my great Aunt Em at their house in West Vancouver today. I'll be staying with them before I drive back east, and wanted to drop some stuff off and have a little visit to discuss the details of my departure plans.

I think if I'd listened to my Nana, I'd have decided to get into teaching earlier. She volunteered at the elementary school near our old house, and was always talking about how much she loved the kids.

Who knows. Life is startlingly like a lot of role-playing adventure video games, where you have to build up a history of experience before you're able to solve a puzzle or defeat the monster.

[Ed's Note: He is currently playing Final Fantasy X on Eddie's PlayStation2.]

When I look back at my life, there were choices I might've made, and people I might've held on to, had I known better. No regrets, but I can't help but laugh at how life is like telling a joke: timing is everything.

Seeing how much crap I have to move down into storage from my apartment, I caved and decided to get a "hand truck" from Canadian Tire.

I called ahead first to see if they had any in stock; the girl on the phone didn't know what a hand truck was, and before I could tell her it was also called a "dolly," she had called half the store over to the phone to ask them if they carried hand trucks. Finally somebody figured it out, and I drove over and picked up their $40 600-lb dolly.

This thing is awesome. Instead of breaking my ass carrying boxes of books down the elevator one-by-one, I'm whippin' 'em down four at a time, no lifting involved, thanks to the modern wonder of the wheel and lever. I can't believe I didn't buy one of these things for my first three moves.

It is done. With the exception of my clothes and my office gear, my entire life is packed into a 400 cubic-foot wooden crate behind my apartment building.

Finally the feeling of going is starting to set in. And the feeling of how the hell I'm going to fit what's left into Charlie, my Toyota Corolla.

Last night Dave the Photographer took me out for dinner, to pay me back for the beers I shouted on Friday. The Templeton is a 60's (or 70's?) style diner with burgers and shakes on Granville Street. I had a lime cola.

[Ed's Note: Don't have the lime cola.]

The burgers were great, as usual (vegetarian Dave had the portabello mushroom burger), and some friendly chatting with the cute waitress informed me that on Monday nights they show classic movies on a big projection screen.

Why am I learning about all the cool stuff two weeks before I'm leaving?

Going through all my crap today. Packing up everything that I can't throw away, and throwing away everything that I haven't used or looked for in the five years I've been here.

Found an old watch given to me by Kim, an ex from long-ago Toronto. It was a Kenneth Cole, and the only piece of designer clothing/jewellery I'd every owned. Eventually I dropped it and the glass cracked and the steel piece that held the chain to the watchface snapped off.

I don't know why I kept it. Well, that's not entirely true. Kim is a great girl, and we didn't work out but it puts a smile on my face to think about her from time to time (no pun intended). She's married, living on a farm in Ontario with her husband, a bunch of animals and her little boy.

Still, I put the watch in the trash. Time to move on.

I'm compiling a list of things I'm going to miss about Vancouver. Only now am I realizing what a horrible observer I've been of this city. It seems like there's something raw and unique and beautiful around every corner, above every storefront, down every alley.

Or maybe my digital camera is just making me more sensitive to the unremarkable crap that surrounds me day in and out. I don't think so, but having just blown a lot of money on a camera, I am admittedly not the best judge.

The impending leaving, the new digital eye, either way I am missing Vancouver already.

Tried to book a locker at the storage place in the next block, only to find out that it's closed down. Two phone calls and one trip there didn't clue me in to this fact. It doesn't look closed down: there are cars in the parking lot and by the loading bays, and there's no "out of business" sign on the door. The nearest operating location is way too far away, so I've arranged to have one of those mobile storage boxes dropped off.

Other things done: re-jigged my insurance from the apartment to the storage box and got my TB test for school. Also flirted with the redhead at the post office.

I'm going to miss Vancouver.

Small protest against the Molson Indy today. Dubbed the "Wholesome Undie" race, dozens of Vancouver's cyclists took to the pavement in their underwear to protest the Indy, claiming it to be too fast, loud, and bad for the environment.

"Remember," said Alison 'Unserwear,' one of the organizers, "we're not blocking traffic..." to which the crowd responded, "WE ARE TRAFFIC!"

[Ed's Note: The male, speedo-clad organizer was going by the name of 'Mario Underetti.']

Among their slogans were:

• Indy out, undies in, slow and sexy always wins!
• Gentlemen, stop your engines!
• Streets are for people, not for cars!

I have to agree with that last one. It really irks me that after spending billions of dollars on roads infrastructure that is obviously meant only for walkers, bikers, and Segway Human Transporters, cars feel they are entitled to share in the asphalt access.

Damn you, cars!

Ahem. Sorry, but that last slogan was really stupid. Especially if those cars have people in them, and aren't those evil robot cars.

This is the cat that lives on my floor. His parents leave their apartment door open so that he can roam the halls. He is half tabby, half traffic light.

Hm... there's either something wrong with my flash, or he's in the process of damning me to hell.