In a few short weeks of travelling around Europe, I was able to develop some pretty haughty opinions of myself as an experienced traveller. What a natural I am! I thought. I nursed fantasies of being able to go it alone in most any foreign nation. We had had more travel success than failure, and when met with failure, we overcame it with vigorous, lofty-chinned aplomb. Nothing could stop us, and certainly nothing could stop me. Enjoy for a second my unearned hubris and the obvious overturning of fortunes once more as we entered Rome.
Our last day in Revelstoke was leisurely: Zack and Shannon split off to do some kayaking (I declined, as I have no balance and maintain that I would have been in the water in minutes), Gillian walked along the river, and Brianna slept the day away. I decided to do my wander thing: I put on the runners, popped in the earphones, and prepared for some quality walk-about, to really get a feel for this city, like I was some anthropologist or particularly skilled traveller. I maybe put on cargo shorts. This was, perhaps, overzealous: Revelstoke has 8000 people, and its numbered east-west streets go up to the number seven. I completed my navigation of the downtown in about fifteen minutes, and began circumambulating, taking alternate, winding paths, to both prolong my walk and to milk at least some sense of accomplishment out of the excursion.