VANCOUVER — Canadian customs agents didn’t know what to make of me.
“You came all this way… for just one night?”
Her tone said it all. Behind her cubicle, doubt rose. No business trip. No wedding. No family reunion. Just a solo traveler with a small suitcase, a backpack and a weirdly specific mission: get to Vancouver, even if only for 24 hours.
She wasn’t wrong to question it. A one-night international trip, squeezed between hostels, work shifts and parenting duties, isn’t exactly normal.
But that was the point.
The customs agent couldn’t grasp the curiosity that had lived in me for two decades. Neither could the special agent she sent me to — the one who gave my luggage the most thorough search I’ve ever experienced.
I hadn’t realized how intimidating border crossings can be when your itinerary doesn’t look “normal.”
That was rookie mistake No. 2.
Rookie mistake No. 1 came hours earlier, when I botched my buddy James’ expert tip to sit on the left side of the train for the best views from Seattle. I thought I followed it perfectly — arrived early, snagged third in line, watched the crowd start to snake just like he warned.
I stepped onto the train with my pick of seats — only to realize I’d gaffed, landing in a backward-facing seat on the right.
I blamed Shawn Kemp.
Still, even from the “wrong” side, the ride north was something to see. It’s been called “one of the most gorgeous coastal journeys in the country.”
The train hugged the coastline for miles, offering flashes of water, trees and sky that felt like postcards — just slightly out of frame. Every now and then, I’d lean toward the aisle, trying to steal a glimpse of whatever magic was happening on the left.
But those fleeting glimpses were nothing compared to the surge of awe when my feet hit Vancouver pavement.
I stepped out of Pacific Central Station into a city I’d waited 20 years to see.
No grand plan. No itinerary. Just a hunger to feel the place for myself — the city so many older NBA heads still rave about, long after the Grizzlies moved to Memphis.
Vancouver didn’t ease me in. It hit me immediately.
The air felt different. Softer somehow. The streets were clean. The people moved with calm. And mountains sat quietly in the distance, like they’d been watching everything all along.
I walked with no destination, just curiosity.
I wasn’t in a rush. I wasn’t on a deadline. No one to answer to but me. That, in itself, felt like luxury.
I stopped at Canna Cabana, a chain of dispensaries owned by one of the marijuana companies I invested in last year — and have since collected a $411 profit from.
Then I landed at English Bay, where luxury shifted into love at first sight.
A crescent-shaped beach framed by the calm Pacific waters, English Bay stretches wide with soft sands and gentle waves. Locals jog or stroll along the seawall, kayak through the peaceful bay or simply relax soaking in stunning views.
English Bay alone provided the peace I traveled 2,000 miles for.
Luckily, that was enough, because I didn’t have time for more.
I had to get to Score on Davie early to get prime bar seating to watch my Minnesota Vikings open their season. Not how I wanted to spend my time, but I don’t like missing my team play.
In my rush to book the trip, squeezing it between commitments, I lost sight of Vikings-Bears on “Monday Night Football.” So I dressed the part that morning and made the game the center of my evening. I’ll always remember where I was the night that the J.J. McCarthy era began.
An early work shift Tuesday morning forced me to bed. Because of the time zone change, my 9-5 became a 7-3.
I stayed at Hi Vancouver, a clean, convenient hostel that cost $80.12 for one night. Once again, I got stuck with the top bunk.
The place offered city and nature tours from the lobby. Most sounded like steals. Think $20.
It showed me a new way to travel, with possibilities galore beyond my comfort zone.
You’d think this international adventure cost a fortune. But my September credit card statement ($2,671) was one of my lowest this year, only $433.34 more than September 2024.
I woke early Tuesday, worked my shift from the hostel and the bar where I watched McCarthy shred the Bears, and made my way back to Pacific Central for the ride home.
This time, I got it right.
I sat on the right side of the train — facing forward, eyes locked on the window, ready.
As we crossed back into the U.S., the sky put on a show. The coastline lit up in gold. Water shimmered. Mountains leaned into the horizon like old friends hanging out.
It felt like the West Coast tipping its cap.
That sunset made up for my Shawn Kemp moment. For the top bunks. The tight timing and the scrambled planning. It made up for all of it.
My trip had its hiccups, but those hiccups made it real.
If I’d waited for the “right” time, I’d still be waiting. And I’m ready to live.
This wasn’t just a vacation. It was a three-day reminder that the best things in life rarely fit into a tidy schedule.
Sometimes, you have to dive in messy and imperfect — because that’s where the magic lives.
The dark side of trading
Labor Day weekend wasn’t just a holiday for me. It was a hard reality check, the moment I finally faced the truth.
Less money, more meaning
After blowing through the first half of the year like I was on a shopping spree, July hit like a reality check.