The Grand Georgian - Blue Mountain Resort
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- Swimming pool
- Wheelchair accessibility
- Fitness/Health center
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TripAdvisor Reviews The Grand Georgian - Blue Mountain Resort The Blue Mountains
Travel Blogs from The Blue Mountains
... in such redundant and linear terms. And then again, it was minus twelve this morning, so the sweat froze in my hair as I ran by the lake and the lake itself was stacked at the end of the highway in planes of blue and white frozen water, unmoving, as static as a painting. I wanted to see a true winter in Canada and thereby remember the winters of my childhood, winters where the gale-force winds knocked the electricity out for days and our cars ...
... that I had just missed the ambulance. The scottish guy who lives next to us apparently had pulled some stunt and dislocated his leg in the process and had to pay $1500 down to get seen by the Canadian doctor at the hospital. (I blanched when I heard this the next day, for such a huge sum would encompass nearly all of my travel budget for the next phase!) I tried to picture all of this vibrant chaos going on above me while I dreamt deeply beneath ...
... for good this time. In response, my supervisor said a rather cryptic, lovely thing that I didn't really understand the meaning of. She smiled and tilted her head and said, See you at the next location. I may not have entirely understood, but I liked the sound of that. It made it seem somehow as though endings were not really endings at all, or rather that the true ending would be a grand reconciliation, one day, in this world or one of the others. Perhaps ...
How does it always happen this way? There seems to be so much time at the start of things, one drowns in it; oceans of seconds, storms of unwanted minutes. Time seems solid, a weight, something exhausting that must be first confronted and then carried down a long, long road. Then, without effort, design or concentration, all that wealth of time is suddenly gone, one is a pauper, in debt, scrabbling around to barter a few extra moments ahead of ...
... friend. No matter where my friend goes, she finds the pale, perfect spectre of Franziska staring back at her. Franziska is a German traveller from last year who refuses to move on to new pastures: she sprints through mirrors and hangs from ceilings and generally gives my friend a tough time. How so, you may wonder? Good question, I will enlighten you. When my friend first arrived in Canada, she immediately went to work on a farm outside of Barrie as a woofer. Now, let it be ...