What happens in Whistler...

With our trip wrapping up with an early bus ride the next morning, an unfortunate injury, and each of us dead on our feet from skiing, it seems there is little hope of catching a night out in Whistler with my cousin. But as the night goes on, the stars align and the night begins.  We have sent our skiis to be tuned by a half million dollar piece of equipment, but must pick them up after close that night in order to get them before we leave early the next morning. Routine, no? We head down to the shop but the door is locked, uh oh.  We pound on the door until a surprised tech signs for us to go around the back.  He lets us in and shows us the intricacies of an amazing piece of equipment and we leave with skiis looking like they should be raced on a world cup circuit.
Now for the real fun, we head to the village to meet up with Graeme, are greeted with "have a good night guys" by a couple of local Aussies, and wander.  There are so many options! We decide to start with an Irish pub we had seen earlier to preview my later travels in Europe.  Listening to a local band and enjoying a pint we figure the best plan of action is to find as many desirable bars as possible and share a pitcher at each one until the night is over. As we leave a bar later at last call we search for another that suits the criteria of no Dubstep, but the search turns out longer and colder than we expect. Graeme heads to catch a bus back home to Creekside.  Kenn and I are freezing and not ready to begin the long walk home.  We find a basement bar in the corner of the village, meet some 9mm carrying, square dancing Texans and Marcos, a Brazilian from Sao Paulo.  After discussing the merits and demerits of firearms we head to get a bite of pizza with Marco, and head our seperate ways. The journey home begins. Whistler Village is divided into an Upper and Lower village by a fast flowing, shallow, frigid river. We wind our way to where I think a bridge should be, but instead end up staring into the shimmering blackness of such a river. In our state, this river is one that very obviously should be crossed rather than taking the bridge a few hundred meters downstream. Kenn heads down, I head up and we search for the driest path across. Neither of us are dry when we emerge. On the other side it is decided that the next plan of action is to find a hot tub to warm our soggy frozen toes. The Four Seasons, or is it the Intrawest, looms in the distance. We trek, chat up the receptionist in the lobby, and begin the search. We find the door after heading up instead of down, but I see we need a key, my spirit drops, I turn around to tell Kenn that we are SOL. What I see next brightens my spirits and warms my toes. Ken pokes his head back in through a ground level window and tells me to follow. I squeeze through into the spa area. WIN. We enjoy the warmth, soak our hair to see how oblivious the receptionist really is (apparently very) and head back home with high spirits and wet boxers.  The journey on the bus the next morning would have been very scenic had I not have been asleep with a pounding headache, we are delayed in Vancouver, miss our flight in Toronto and are put up in a swanky Hilton to fly home the next morning. Whistler, it's been a hoot, I vow to return. On to England Monday. Pictures to come.