A Bed and Breakfast in Chemainus

                                             

For ten years now, we have operated a Bed and Breakfast in the village of Chemainus.  

People are sometimes friendly and gregarious, sometimes timid and reclusive.  Sometimes they are textbook predictable and sometimes they are, well, let’s just say unusual.  And these latter are usually the ones who are most enlightening, frustrating and entertaining.

This spring, we hosted an elderly lady who, upon arrival, requested that I help carry-in her luggage: one overnight bag and three six packs.  She was alone.  She then wanted to borrow my spectacles and a large magnifying glass so that she could read her book.

Another guest complained at the breakfast table that she was unable to sit comfortably because our wooden toilet seat had attacked her – pinching her chop firmly until her husband had been able to fight it off.  These were not exactly the words she used.  In fact, I thought for a moment that she might be gearing-up to sue us.  Either way, and as much as it surely would have stung, had my chop been chomped, I probably would have chosen a more private place than the breakfast table to announce it.

A late evening knock on the door, well past the nine o’clock closing time of our grocery stores, offered-up a cyclist, who was desperate for accommodation and who, smiling, as if to reassure us, announced that he did not eat dairy, wheat, eggs or red meat but anything else would do for breakfast.

There was, also, the couple who requested half their money back because double beds in Canada were much smaller than they were in the United States.

And then there was the tearful lady, who arrived unexpectedly with a small dog and absolutely no other place to go.  She assured us that the dog would be caged and in her room at all times.  That was until she announced that she was going out to get his cage and her cases, and left the dog, unbeknownst to us, in the front hall.  We heard her car pull away, shrugged our shoulder and then moments later looked down to find the not quite caged little dog with his leg lifted against our kitchen chair.  The car, the lady, and the cage returned about an hour later.

Of course, there were, also, the lady who dyed our sink the exact same color as her newly colored hair, the lady who thought that her pet, wing clipped duck might be able to have a dip in our swimming pool, the couple who put bubble bath in the hot tub and, better still, the woman who poured oatmeal scrub in the bathtub and then proceeded to turn the on the jets before they were under the waterline – good grief. 

And lastly, and absolutely my favourite, was the very dapper middle-aged gentleman whose entire moustache dropped-off into his breakfast.   Where to look?  What to say?

Tourists in our tourist town. 

Our bread and butter. 

Our sustenance. 

And our source of some pretty remarkable memories.