It's Friday and my head just might explode.

It’s actually Sunday afternoon, the first day of spring, and I’m just back from a nice long run in the cool rain. When I have the time at the end of a run, like today, I like to build in a little treat for myself – I take the time to do a cool-down walk down a side road that runs through the beautiful tree-covered riverside golf course we live by. Loving to run or walk through the rain, I found myself winding down halfway through the course when I all of a sudden realized that in my head, bouncing around were the lyrics to one of the most silly and annoying songs I’ve ever heard. Called “Friday” by Rebecca Black, it became an internet sensation this past week, gathering up more than 27 million views alone on You Tube (as of today), and it also came into the top 10 singles sold on Apple’s itunes.

 

Check it out if you dare:

If by chance you've been under a rock this past week and haven't yet heard of or viewed the video, here’s a sample of some of the prose within. Sesame Street would be jealous of the simplicity, and hey, maybe they should consider having her on the show rather than Katy Perry in a low cut dress (I'm not complaining about that):

“Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday. Today it is Friday, Friday. We we so excited. We so excited. We gonna have a ball today. Tomorrow is Saturday. And Sunday comes afterwards. I don’t want this weekend to end.”

And…

“Partying partying - yeah! Partying partying - yeah! Fun - fun - fun – fun. Looking forward to the week-end.”

There’s always a danger when you go on a long run, or bike ride, or even a walk. You get into that mode, and you lose control of your thought processes as you give in to the rhythm of your body during exercise. It’s a wonderful and addictive byproduct, but sometimes things go astray and your conscience boldly cries out ‘mutiny!’ and all of the brain cells that are in charge of rational thought take over in the most rude and unpleasant way. Today, my punishment for pushing my body and mind through a long cold rainy workout was not a lactic acid buildup – it was that song running through my head.

Yet I have a database of at least 5,000 songs in my head, so why, why is this the one going round and round my head? Is it really so fun – fun – fun – fun? Am I I so so excited? Why not something from Pink Floyd? Or Cold Play, David Bowie or even ABBA for that matter?

This all got me to thinking (with the song still in the back of my head). Being the traveling guy I am, I’ve been on many trips where I’ve been in cities surrounded by centuries-old art and architecture, world-famous historical sites and landmarks, sculptures, bridges, spectacular ocean-fronts, thousand year old trees – and I find myself in somewhere absolutely un-historic and generic like an Apple Store in New York City, or at Pier 39 in San Francisco - or shopping for clothes at The Gap in London, England. Even worse, I’ll find myself going through the tourist trap shops in downtown Banff or likewise in Gastown in Vancouver. And let’s not even talk about the Mall of America in Minneapolis, a city with more bike paths and beautiful small lakes than you could visit in a lifetime. 

I think it's sad to spend your time in here when there are places like the high line to walk, or wonderfully tall buildings to visit.

Okay, if by chance you do find yourself here, if you love chocolate, head up the hill until you're at Ghiradelli Square. When you walk in the store they hand you a sample of their wonderful chocolate. Quickly walk through the store and join the line up to get in again. Repeat as many times as needed!

When compared to what these cities hold of an education nature, are these touristy destinations not the equivalent to finding yourself singing the lyrics to a song like Friday? There are so many thousands of quality songs out there that you can not only enjoy, but find actual meaning within their words. Note: this is why I unfortunately couldn’t include REM in my original list of world-class musical groups.

The odd thing is – these mostly secondary destinations and simply worded songs have some purpose. In their own way, they feed the soul. To put it in really simple terms (Rebecca Black might want these words for her next mega-hit), we can’t always have steak - sometimes we just have to have a hot dog. There’s comfort in comfort food, and when people are traveling around the world, there’s a certain degree of comfort going somewhere that’s packed with like-minded tourists looking for that popular spot, whether there’s something educational about it or if it has something to do with the city it’s in, or not. 

Now what you do with your hot dog is up to you. Ketchup? Mustard? Hot peppers? But it's still a hot dog.

And it’s the same with music. I already know that Friday comes after Thursday, and thinking back to my grade 1 education I know that Friday is followed by Saturday. But her words are comfort food for the masses. It’s simple, predictable, and hey, I’ll even admit, maybe even a little bit fun. I’m sure many millions of You Tube viewers had a good time in the office or at home making fun of the really silly lyrics and the ultra-cheesy video (if my kids ever sit in a car like that they’ll be grounded for life - or longer), but I wonder just how many of them also found themselves humming the very same tune to themselves this weekend, if only for a brief moment. However long that song stayed in their minds, I hope they had fun fun fun fun. But not too much, cause today is Sunday, and I’m pretty sure it’ll be followed by Monday.

Saying Goodbye to a Good Friend

I have no wind beneath my wings.

Sorry to reference such a sappy Bette Midler song, but it’s true - my wings are clipped. I’ve been grounded. I have a full tank of gas, and no keys to the car. There are 57 channels on the tv, and nothing’s on. Sigh. I’m feeling sad and helpless, and I know it’s all the government’s fault.

Maybe I should explain where this all began…

Let’s back up to the beginning of last week. Being within 2 months of my current passport expiring, and having an upcoming trip to Toronto and then 2 weeks later to Vancouver, I went and officially applied for a new passport, and thus, had to hand over my old one and wait for a replacement to come while my profile, unsmiling picture and my guarantors are being checked out.

It was so sad to hand it over- like saying goodbye to a trusted friend after so many good times together. Times that would include: drinks at night by the Harbour in Sydney, Australia; bicycle rides along the shore and over the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco; refreshing Starbucks iced-mochas on a patio in Midtown, Manhattan; being accosted and interrogated by German guards in Kiel, Germany at 5 am after spending the night at a disco then riding my bike through a red light on my way home when no one else was in sight (maybe this is less of a good time than I thought). And lastly, as an example of a long lasting friendship, sitting together on centuries-old stone walls on the Normandy Coast in France, watching the sun sink slowly into the Atlantic. We were as inseparable as Abbot and Costello, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, or even as inseparable as Sonny and Cher (at least until a divorce and an unfortunately placed tree came between them). 

Me and my passport crossing over the Brooklyn Bride into New York City.

Me and my passport on Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia after some knarly surfing lessons.

On a cycling trip together through southern France.

Now this may seem kind of weird, being so attached to a collection of paper, ink and government issued stamps, but as a self-assessed traveloholic, my attachment goes deeper than one might think. I handed it in to the federal agent, and of course soon I’ll have a new one for future travels. But it wasn’t until I handed it over along with my signed documents that I realized that for the next two to three weeks, I do not have a passport.  This means for this amount of time, I’m stuck and I can’t travel. I can, at least, travel by car within Canada, but it means that I cannot fly, even within our own country (we mostly have those self-serving terrorists and the strict and ever-growing list of new travel rules that came from their actions to thank for that – do they never think of anyone else?).

So what if during this period of time a once-in-a-lifetime travel opportunity comes my way? For example, what if I win a contest where the first prize is an all expense paid trip to Egypt, but I have to leave this weekend? Or if the producers of The Amazing Race call for me to be a last minute contestant to race around the world, all at their expense? And most likely of all, what if the LA Lakers call and say that they need me, a forty-something six-foot-one white guy to come and join their starting line? That’s right. It’s a slam-dunk – I’m more stuck at home than an arts grad just out of university.

Or course I'd prefer the number 15 from my high school days, but I guess 8 will do. As long as it comes with the same paycheck that the other number 8 on the team gets...

This has made me realize just how much we (travel enthusiasts) rely on our passports to give us the freedom to wander about the world. It also makes me question what kind of control our democratic government has on us. We feel free, but really, how free are we?

Gone are the glory days where we could travel so freely and easily between so many countries. I think these hard-line measures are a trend that’s out of control and unfortunately will likely continue to grow to annoying levels. Look at what privileges have been taken away from us in the past 20 years or so:

• Crossing vehicular borders with as little as a driver’s license (without a picture yet) and a really good smile.
• Bringing our own water bottles onto planes, rather than paying $4.00 at an airport kiosk for something we know that they picked up at Costco for less than ten cents.
• Smoking sections on planes. Hey, I know the smoke stunk like crazy, especially when you were sitting in the non-smoking section in row 15 when the smoking section started in row 16, but it added atmosphere having that layer of haze floating at eye level while trying to watch the ONE movie screen, 10 rows up just in front of likely the tallest people on the plane who always seemed to need to stand and stretch at regular intervals.
• Travel agencies. I know they’re still around, but they’re getting harder to find. Sure, it’s handy checking out flights on line these days, but who didn’t use to love heading to the travel agency and coming back with 46 pounds of travel brochures to places with names you likely couldn’t pronounce and that you knew you’d never be likely to travel to? And guaranteed, there was always at least one drop-dead gorgeous girl working at one of the desks, the one you’d always hope that would put together your own personal travel itinerary, if you know what I mean...
• And finally, those awesome bags of dry-roasted peanuts – especially the ones North West Airlines handed out (16 per package on average) – pure nutty bliss in a foil bag. Yum.

I guess it’s safe to say that times change, and if you don’t change with the times, life (and travel) will likely be full of disappointments.

So in retrospect, I guess I can live, if even for a short while, without a trusty passport. Rest assured, like a child 30 years ago searching excitedly in a box of cereal for the coveted prize, even if it meant being up to your elbow in Count Chocula, I’ll be anxiously checking the mail box daily, seeing if my new passport has arrived, ready to free me from my temporary grounding and possibly expedite my long overdue professional basketball career along side Kobe Bryant.

Note:

For the record, I did get my old passport back moments after handing it over to the agent, but they did unceremoniously clip off the top right corner, forever rendering it useless - like a bike with a flat tire, or like American Idol without Paula Abdul. Ha! Kidding on that one. But it will still always have a place in my life – or more accurately, a place in my sock drawer, right next to the resting place of passport 1996-2001 and passport 2001-2006.

Goodbye my old friend. You were too young to go, but you’ll never be forgotten - or recycled.

Rest in peace.

2006 - 2011

Christmas - The Ukrainian Sequel

There are two great things about being Ukrainian. First thing is the food. Yum. Second would be the noses we all ‘inherit’ from our elders. Kidding! No, the second greatest thing about being Ukrainian is…Ukrainian Christmas! 

Time to put away the North Face and get out the Ukrainian garb! Nothing in the world feels better than a pair of red leather knee-high boots. Our family pictures for Ukrainian Christmas pretty much look exactly like this.

What could be better than taking the best holiday of the year – and then doing it all over again? Bring on the food. Bring on the family. Let’s do it all over again, just at the time when you’ve maybe finally lost most of the weight you gained 2 weeks ago. 

And presents! It’s great to have a second round of gift giving. Not all Ukrainians make the gift giving a part of their second celebration, but when my brother, sister and I were growing up, we often would wake up to happily find another wrapped present under the tree for each of us (along with a million dried out needles from the tree which had stopped sucking up water weeks before). I also seem to remember that each year we’d make some sort of argument of how it was so totally disrespectful to be going to school on such a special occasion, but not only did we have to go to school as usual, we’d even have to do homework that night if we had any. So much for holiday spirit...

Usually we'd only find one gift each under the tree, nicely wrapped. The gifts were always really good too since we knew Santa could get post-Christmas Boxing Day deals.

Anyway, tonight is Ukrainian Christmas eve. It’s mid-winter, it’s cold, and I’m feeling a little bit bound by the elements of winter and would love to be traveling somewhere in the world. Honestly, I could have my bags packed and be gone by evening – but sadly that’s unlikely to happen.

I received some great presents from our previous Christmas gift giving, but when your passion in life is travel, sometimes there are things you’d love to put on your Christmas list, but they wouldn’t be easy (or affordable) for my friends or family to purchase. My wife finds it impossibly difficult to buy for me when I tend to have everything I need already. Meanwhile, if I could add items like a trip to Europe or an eco-tour in Costa Rica, I could easily provide a list in mere minutes that wouldn’t kill anyone’s brain cells in the process. But with the price limit we set on each other’s gifts, I don’t think I’m going to make it much further than maybe Morris, Manitoba.

So I have a brilliant idea – this year, I’m going to write a letter to Santa with my wish list for Ukrainian Christmas. Since only Ukrainians are sending in their lists for this special night, it should be easy to get what I’m requesting with so little competition for his time and special gifts. And to make it even more fun and festive, I’ve put my wish list into a song format that follows the tune of “My Favourite Things” from the Sound of Music.

Here we go:

Dear Santa,

I’ve been a good boy all year long. I go to bed early, get up early, wash the dishes, mow the lawn, wash the cars (well, I take them to an automatic car wash, but heck, I still have to drive there), talk to the neighbours, and I even sometimes answer the phone when I know it’s a telemarketer (they get lonely too, I’m sure). It’s Ukrainian Christmas, and I’ve tried to live a good Ukrainian lifestyle. I’ve started pinching my nephew’s cheeks and calling Safeway ‘Safeways’ and the Bay ‘the Bays’ just like my dear old Grandma used to (not sure where the habit of adding in an extra s comes from, but I’m going to assume it’s a Ukrainian thing).

And just to confirm, was it cookies or perogies you wanted left by the fireplace mantel? Maybe I’ll leave both!

And so, here’s my list for Christmas tonight, again, in the form of a song:

Sunscreen on noses and tickets to Britain
Airplanes of metal and postcards you’ve written
Luggage all packed and gondoliers who sing
These are a few of my favourite things

Traveling with homeys and crisp Asian noodles
Jet ways and cafes and artists that doodle
Bike trips and boat rides and countries with Kings
These are a few of my favorite things

Booking flights on-line and drinks on a terrace
Bright sunny beaches and cafés in Paris
Gulls by the ocean with sun on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things

When the frost bites
And my mood swings
When I need travel bad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so bad

[Repeat all verses - then go book a trip!]

Merry Ukrainian Christmas to all!

Bite Me, Down Under

You’ve got to love winter in Manitoba – when it arrives, there’s no mistaking it. Like awaiting a federal election, in the days before it arrives you get that cold chill creeping down your back and you can just feel it sneaking up on you, like it or not. And then BANG! It's arrived. Thankfully, unlike politicians, winter makes our world fresh, it does actually go away after a while, and doesn’t make promises it can’t keep.

I’ve always been fine with winter arriving. Not just because it’s new and brighter and fun with winter activities like skiing, tobogganing and skating, but also because I know everyone else is suffering through the cold, JUST LIKE ME.

But stop the presses – this has all changed!

For those of you who are living north of the equator, like me, did you know there are other people in the world who aren’t suffering through this right now? Really. They might even be reading this blog while we speak (and you know who you are…). Do you realize that while we’re here reluctantly anticipating three or four solid months of long johns, bulky clothes and frozen extremities, they’re acting all crazy, doing things like planting flowers and getting their lawn mowers out? 

Okay, so I know our winter’s not too hard to escape, with places like Mexico, Hawaii or Florida all within a half dozen hours on a plane, but hey, they’re just places full of people visiting with no intentions of ever staying longer than their budget or all-inclusive plan will last. Plus, you know that sooner than later you’ve got to climb back onto a plane and come home again. And no one really lives for longer than 2 weeks in these places. With that many tourists continually arriving, especially the bright white-skinned crazy Canucks, really, who’d want to endure all that?

So here’s where I made my mistake and my view of winter changed, likely forever: two and a half years ago, I took a trip with my wife to Sydney, Australia, to attend a conference. It was actually our first day of summer when we traveled there, so when we landed, it was their first day of winter. But when I stepped out of Sydney airport, in June, into the crisp cold air, for the first time ever it came to me that while we’re experiencing summer in Canada, on the other side of the world, they were just starting their winter! Conversely, and much to my dismay, I also realized that while we’re enduring endless weeks of minus temperatures, they are not. It's actually quite the opposite. Not much gets past this blogger’s investigative eyes…

What does this mean? And why should we care? While we’re shoveling snow in the cold with wind-chills that put the temperature into the minus 200-range, people in Australia, whom I mean absolutely no ill-will especially if they'd send me a ticket to come visit sooner than later, are doing this:

And when we’re freezing and our glove-covered hands while scrapping our windshield in the dark, they’re doing this:

It’s gets worse. When our televisions are telling us that if we dare to go outside, our skin will freeze in less than 10 seconds, people in Australia, thinking specifically and only of us are doing this:

Winter is so much less fun now because I now realize that I’m not suffering with the masses - and I don’t have to be because other people aren’t. There are places to go for expanded periods of time - places where you don’t have to wear long johns or ear muffs or tell people where you’re going in case you get stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere and freeze to death, just because your car ran out of gas or you happened to decide that this day would be a good day to explore a ditch full of snow with your car.

Maybe global warming is going to mess with this one day, but I’m guessing it won’t in the near future, or soon enough for my satisfaction. My only consolation in all of this is to know that while I’m trudging through the snow and risking frost bite, people on the other side of the world are wading through their warm and salty ocean waters, putting themselves in danger of shark bites (hot chocolate does nothing to make that kind of bite feel any better - ha ha!). It’s petty, but it does make me feel at least a little better.

So for the time being, the best I can do is throw on my faux-fur lined parka, extra-insulated gloves and touque, get my car warming up well ahead of heading home in the dark, and then do my best to grin and bare it - or more accurately, bare as little as possible until our spring comes, yet again.

November 11th - A Day of Canons, Exploding Sheep and Remembrance

Growing up, whenever Remembrance fell on a weekend, I felt deprived of a day off during the school week. Plus, I also knew that this meant that I’d have to sit through a Remembrance Day ceremony in our school gym on the cold, hard floor and do my best to keep silent, something that a grade school kid (with friends who could make the funniest of faces at a moment’s notice, and would) will never excel at, particularly under those circumstances. To make it worse, when I found out that we wouldn’t get the following Monday off in lieu of it falling on a weekend, I felt even more ripped off! It was sad, but this pretty much was my attitude through the educational years of my life.

When it did fall during the regular school week, it was a great day as we weren’t at school, but unlike a Saturday or Sunday, there really wasn’t much to do. Stores were closed all day, movies theatres didn’t show any films, and most of what you had on television involved politicians, soldiers, and people uncomfortably standing out in the cold. The cannons they shot off at 11:11 am were cool, but after wondering a) where the cannon balls would fly, and b) if they’d actually hit something in the city (my school, for example, which would be really fun to discover the next day), finding out there weren’t actually any cannon balls loaded into them was quite a let-down, so I lost my interest in that too.

Through those years, we still pause to remember the significance of the day, but now I find that so much has changed with the way we handle what can be open for business that day, and what can’t. Back then, it was customary that businesses would not be open on November 11th, in respect to those who had fought and fallen for our country in World War One. Now, looking through our local newspaper this week, I see that this has changed – even though businesses can’t be open until early afternoon, it’s become a big shopping day in the shadow of the holidays to come.

Given the experiences I had as a child, you’d think this would be good news to me. But my perspective of Remembrance Day has changed, and it’s all because of a trip I took in the summer of 1990.

Funny things can happen when you travel, and when you’re traveling to Europe as recently graduated university student, times that by 10, at least.

I had just left for a 2-month, mostly-unplanned journey across as much of Europe as my Eurorail pass, my backpack and my bank account could handle. My buddy Jamie and I flew into London on a cool and grey early June afternoon, and soon after landing and making our way to the white cliffs of Dover, we found ourselves crossing the English Channel by ferry (pre-Chunnel days) on our way to Calais, France, where we’d spend our first of many nights in Europe.

When you travel without much of a plan, you have to expect the unexpected. Not necessarily the Spanish Inquisition (cause nobody expects that and that was much more south than we were), but when you’re willing to open yourself up to new experiences and meet new people, it’s amazing what and/or who will cross your path. One of the most limiting things I believe you can do for nearly any travel holiday is to plan your trip down to the last hour of every day. You need to provide yourself with the opportunity to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, especially in a close gathering of countries where if you happened to decide to head east for 2 hours you’d be in the mountains of Germany, or if you head south-west for 2 hours you’re in the vineyards of Spain - or in the middle of the Mediterranean if you go a little too far and can’t recognize the difference between land masses and water.

On our boat crossing, we happened to meet a few other travelers from North America, one being a fellow Canadian, Jeff, who wasn’t backpacking across Europe as we were, but was working as a guide at Vimy Ridge, a memorial site in France dedicated to the memory of Canadian Expeditionary Force members killed during the First World War.

The morning after arriving in Europe and we're just about to take our first train ride, from Calais to Arras, France. From left to right: Greg (Seattle), Jamie (Winnipeg), Rob (Seattle), and Jeff (Canada), our Vimy guide.

While celebrating our landing in our first French pub - we agree to follow Jeff, diverting ourselves towards the town of Arras, where we’d find a room for a couple of nights and visit the memorial, just a short distance away. We were easily convinced as we were seven time zones away from home, looking for some adventures, and hadn’t slept for over 30 hours.

The view of Arras from the top of their main church, taken by Jamie as I'm not great with heights and couldn't make it up the old wooden and metal stairs that lead to the tower!

Posing in front of our hotel, facing the town square.

So there we were – fresh and eager to explore Europe, and with the guided visit to the memorial a day ahead, we had so much to anticipate. The timing of our meeting with Jeff was also fantastic as he became a guide and connection to many locals residents and establishments in Arras where we would soon enjoy local homemade cooking, learning some local drinking songs in the pubs where as regular travelers we likely would never have entered, and we also learned the art of ordering and consuming a ‘meter of beer’ with your traveling buddies. But at the end of our few days there, nothing would compare to the experience of being guided through the Vimy Memorial.

Driving in through the multi-acre property, one of the first things we saw in the grassy hills was the occasional collection of sheep, quietly grazing as if they were in the middle of a farm. This seemed like an unlikely addition for the attraction of tourists, but it turns out that they graze in the ‘red zone,’ which are areas where there are suspected buried munitions from World War One that have yet to explode. I’m not sure what animal activists in Canada would have to say about this set up, but knowing French unions and their policies, I can’t see them cutting the grass weekly either. Our friend did say that every so often they’d be guiding a tour and from off in the distance they’d hear a muffled ‘boom!’ No comment was made though to the existence of any short-notice lunch specials in the cafeteria that may or may not involve recently deceased wooly animals.

Having just arrived at the Vimy Memorial, this sign explained why we saw sheep grazing in marked areas that were definitely NOT open to the public. No explosions were heard this particular day.

We walked up to and explored the sculpted memorial, which reaches endlessly towards the skies. It was an amazing sight – its size and grandeur was stunning, but at the same time it brought about feelings of peace and calm. Serving as a place of commemoration for the Canadian soldiers who fought, were killed or presumed dead in France with no known grave, it’s a moving tribute to the soldiers who were here and fought and died for our freedom.

Walking the steps to the tallest point of the memorial.

I had studied in Art History in university the significance of many of these sculptures, but of course, when there, I was completely blank as to their meaning. Being there though, you couldn't help but feel their significance.

Also on the grounds are some of the original tunnels, craters and trenches that you can explore with a guide. When in one of the tunnels, Jeff explained to us that there usually were two separate tunnels –the first, the one that we presently were in, would serve as a main route to get the troops quickly and safely to the front, and the second tunnel would be the way back to triage for the seriously injured, and as well for the dead they were able to retrieve when it was safe. It was something I had never thought about, but when seeing the system in person and trying to imagine how terrifying it would be to be traveling through these trenches to the front, hearing the bomb blasts and gun fire above, for morale alone, I could see why they would want the routes separated.

When we explored the tunnel that lead away from the front, we were led to a holding area for the wounded, and when our eyes adjusted we could see hundreds of hand-made scratches on each of the walls – these scratches were messages made by the injured solders who were on their gurneys, positioned close enough to the wall for them to reach out and leave behind the thoughts of likely their last moments in the war, and potentially in their lives. At this moment our guide told us a story that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

A year or so before, he had taken a group of Canadian war veterans through the very same tunnels and into this holding area, and one of the gentlemen, a guy who had said very little up until that point, walked over to one of the walls and found a message carved into the wall that was made by his best friend – a friend he had fought with at this very location, a friend who never made it back from the war. This was his first time visiting what was the original battlefield, and the first time he had seen the words left by his friend nearly 76 years before. I can only imagine what that would have been like – never having been able to say goodbye when they were originally there and now seeing his dying words. He was the lucky one, living on and having the chance to return so many years later, while for his friend, his body and his words will live on in the spot where he died forever more. Then I realized just how lucky I was. I came to this place by my own free will, and could leave when I wanted to, and safely. The freedom I had was due to the soldiers who originally fought at Vimy and from those who had written on these very walls.

Some of the many unmarked graves of fallen Canadian Soldiers.

At the end of our visit, we were all a lot quieter and certainly more reflective than we had been since we landed in London. I don’t think that when we were planning our trip to Europe, pinching ourselves about visiting places like Paris, Rome and London, we’d ever have expected that our travels that were so far from home would teach us so much about our own country and history, and the debt we owed. I never again would see Remembrance Day the same way.

Our group including a new friend who we had met the evening before. She wrote for the "Let's Go" book series, and we therefore referred to her as the "Let's Go Girl!" Sadly, I've forgotten her real name!

Now it’s 20 years later, and since that remarkable visit, my impressions of Remembrance Day have changed significantly. On Thursday, November 11th, 2010, as I’m taking the day off of work, I know I will be thinking about the significance of the day and what it means to me to have the freedom that we do and so often take for granted.

And in a couple of years when that day falls on a weekend, I won’t mind at all and I certainly won’t feel ripped off. I’ll remember the freedom I have in life and how easily I can travel to most places in the world. I’ll also remember and celebrate what others sacrificed for us to have peace.

Lest We Forget

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.

Capturing Those Vacation Memories

“Those were the days.” How many times did you hear your parents say that growing up, and how often do you find yourself using it now when referring to something from your past? What was it about ‘those days,’ and have things really changed so much that we no longer enjoy life as we did back then? Maybe so – but I believe there’s hope for us all.

I think it’s safe to say that life has changed a significant amount over the decades, but I’m glad to see that though some traditions, things that were present when I was growing up (I’m all about traditions) are coming back, or at least have the potential to, particularly when it comes to vacations and how we remember or re-live them.

Let’s travel back in time 30 years or so and look at photography and how we took pictures on family trips. As a family, we didn’t fly very often, so most of vacations involved stuffing the five of us into our station wagon, garnished with a fake wood-grained exterior, stiff vinyl seats, roll-down-the-window type air-conditioning, and a radio that only picked up stations when you were within 10 miles (back then it was miles of course, not the silly little kilometers we have today) of a major city, and even then you were lucky if it wasn’t complemented with a good layer of static. Or worse-yet, if it was a choice of Country-Western or Country-Western! No offense, but when driving down highway number one from Winnipeg to Vancouver, you didn’t get a heck of a lot of choice when it came to radio stations.

Heading west in our 'trusty red steed'. I can't remember if this was our camping spot, but I do remember at times in some camp sites having to pay extra for trees.

On these yearly family trips, our dad was always the official photographer. Mom occasionally and reluctantly had the camera in hand, but when asked to take a group photo, she had a nasty habit of loping off peoples’ heads about half way down - using the viewfinder interior framing, of course! I also have a great aunt who, no matter who she was taking a picture of, managed to somehow include her favourite china cabinet in the background, always exclaiming to her husband afterwards with innocence, “now how did that get in there?” That comment was always followed by a sheepish yet sneaky furniture-loving grin.

Sparing the heads, this time my mom mercifully cut my Uncle Bill, Uncle Mike, Auntie Lorraine and my dad off from the waist down rather than cutting off their heads.

So for our family, the duty ultimately fell to dad, and it was a task that he loved. He equipment consisted of an old Pentax SLR carried on a thin strap around his neck, a side-mounted flash, and a tripod, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Everyone in life has their talents, and my dad – his calling in life was the art of lining up our family members at any significant occasion or family gathering in a snap. Just to note - I’m not quite sure if our dad would take pictures because we were dressed up, or if we dressed up because our dad was taking pictures. I may never know. Not cause my dad’s no longer with us – he is (with a fancy new digital camera of course, never far away). He just doesn’t give away his secrets easily, especially when it comes to photography…or mushroom picking spots.

A classic 'family with Western visitors' shot in front of the house. I don't know exactly what had pissed off my brother (far right) to get him to make that kind of expression, but if I knew what it was, I'd gladly do it again just to see if he'd have the same look. I'm the innocent looking one with the lego creations.

Under the guidance of our father, our posing for the camera became a family ritual. When on vacation, if we happened to pass by an outrageously sized icon of our current or past culture (for example: Babe and his Blue Ox, a giant fish posed as if in mid-leap from the water, a giant moose outside of Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, or even the world’s largest Ukrainian Easter egg at Vegreville, Alberta), we stopped - and we posed. If we were on a ferry crossing from the mainland to Vancouver Island, we posed. If we were driving along a mountain highway and there was a grizzly bear with a sledgehammer breaking into someone else’s station wagon parked in the lot of a hiking trail, we’d stop and pose for that too. Of course that never really happened, but I’m pretty sure my dad secretly would have loved to have arrived at such a scene, and I know his camera would be ready with a fresh roll of 36, locked and loaded.

Above: Mom, Paul Bunyan and his oddly small feet. Below: The giant Easter Egg (also known in the Ukrainian community as a pysanka) in Vegreville, Alberta. As you can see, any obscenely-sized easter egg always brings eternal happiness and blissful dancers.

For the majority of families on vacation back then, taking pictures was very different. Without the ability to preview what you just took, you never knew what you were going to get until you had the film developed. This in itself made each frame of film more valuable than a room full of gold, and we knew that when we were given the extreme and rare privilege to hold the camera and actually take a picture, it wasn’t something we’d waste on silly or stupid faces (no matter how goofy my brother could look in a moment’s notice), not if we valued the idea of celebrating our next birthday. In our family, wasting even a single frame in a roll of film was on the same level as the rare treat of eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and not cleaning the meat down to the bone – it just didn’t happen, or you knew there would be serious life-altering consequences.

A rare family trip to Hawaii when I was in grade 5. With years of experience under his belt, my dad would seek out interesting architectural elements to 'frame his subjects'. We were just happy to have something to hang off of.

Ultimately the vacation would unfortunately end, and we'd arrive back at home, where we’d peel our sticky legs off of the car seats and unpack our luggage from the back of the station wagon. The camera was quietly put away in the top shelf of the front closet, and the trip was declared officially over and usually soon forgotten as we’d get back into the routine of every day life at home. It was always so good to get back home, especially being the kind of kids who would typically sleep in late and then sit around the TV like summer-time zombies, wasting away most of the beautiful summer mornings watching shows like The Wheel of Fortune with Pat Sajak hosting. Hmmmm, maybe some things don’t actually change after all…

We’d be back into our regular lives, but about four or five weeks later the experience of being on holiday would all come back, usually complements of Canada Post. In the mail, wrapped neatly in a golden coloured envelope, the slides would arrive. We didn’t do prints in our family - we were full-bore slide projector aficionados with a giant white pull-up screen that as kids we loved to do hand shadow puppets in front of until the picture show started (I never could do anything better with my two hands than my impression of a duck, which, if it was ever manifested to life, would surely be shunned from any duck colony as the most horrifying and un-duck-like thing ever seen).

With the lights out and the soft hum of the projector, our dad would walk us through our vacation experience once again. It was glorious. Nearly life-sized on the screen, and sometimes with conveniently placed scar-like dust on the slide that made us look a little more dangerous than we normally were, we were there - and in the background, were all the wonderful and amazing places we had been.

My dad actually went through the pains of transferring each slide into a separate slide tray, labeled the paper guide as to who was in each photo, the date, where we were in the world, and then added the new collection to the racks of other collections sitting on his office shelves like over-sized Lego pieces, stacking their way closer and closer to the ceiling with each passing year.

The collection still exists today and is contained in about 3 very large boxes in my basement, sitting and waiting for the day when I decide to finally digitize them all so that I can have my own slide shows for my family. There likely will be no prints here I’m happy to say. We’re also really bad for taking hundreds of pictures on our digital cameras and letting them sit either on our flash cards or on the hard drives of our computers. It seems like the process of selecting images and uploading to a print service site is much more arduous than what we used to have to do when we’d take the roll of film out of the camera, drive it down to the photo store, fill out the pouch, then come back anywhere from one hour to one week later to pick up the slides or prints. Who says modern conveniences are actually convenient? At least that’s my excuse.

With computer monitors coming in at 20 inches plus and TV screens in the 40 to 60 inch range, I think it’s our chance as a family to take our holiday pictures and re-live them as I experienced pictures as a child. Of course we’re in the habit of previewing what we took in camera once we’ve taken a shot, but having it displayed in such a large size, complete with a fatherly narrating, is what truly makes it a wonderful experience.

And then I’ll be able to say, with pride, these are the days. Indeed.

Boldly Go Where No Man Or Woman Has Gone Before - Just Not In Your Underwear

A number of years ago, I found myself in Paris, late October, and it was absolutely beautiful. It was one of those perfect fall days where the sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was warm, and the air was a fragrant combination of decaying leaves, fresh pastries and cappuccino. I had just arrived from Canada and was anticipating the two weeks I had to spend in Paris and the French countryside.



I checked into my hotel, and found out that I had a few hours to kill before my room would be ready. Even though I had not slept a wink on the over-night flight, I was energetic and eager to explore one of my favourite cities in the world. I arranged to keep my suitcase behind the hotel reception counter and before heading out, knowing how gorgeous the weather was outside, I quickly grabbed a pair of shorts, a fresh t-shirt, and changed for my trek through the city streets.

So there I was, a Canadian in Paris, as happy as can be. I’ve been to Paris enough times that each time I arrive, it feels like a second (albeit a tad more expensive than my first) home.

But something was wrong.

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re somewhere like school, work or at the mall with 30,000 other people, and you’re standing around in your underwear (or less)? Well, this is how I felt about 3 minutes after stepping out of my hotel lobby and onto the streets. (Note: for those of you who have never traveled to Paris, stepping out of a lobby never takes very long, particularly for those of us with limited resources ($) for hotel stays. The budget hotels lobbies are never bigger than about 5 feet wide by 3 feet deep, and this includes a reception desk and a rack or two of tourist brochures – and I won’t even go into the size of the typical budget hotel elevator here).

It took me a while to realize it, but after about 5 blocks of walking, my eyes were diverted from the historic architecture to the local haute couture – particularly to what everyone else was wearing around me. I can tell you that they weren’t wearing shorts and t-shirts, even though it was more than 20 degrees Celsius outside - of course anything in Canada warmer than 10 degrees brings people out in shorts and tank tops, particularly if an impending winter is near. This early afternoon in Paris, everyone around me was dressed as though they were off to either a very important meeting where they’d be discussing world politics or they were off to a ball worthy of an appearance by Cinderella or maybe even George Clooney. I’d like to think that they didn’t notice me, practically naked by comparison, but I’m sure in reality my appearance wasn’t dissimilar to a zebra attending a meeting of polar bears.

Typical fashions you see at any hour wandering around Paris.

Not ever worrying about what people think about what I wear, I did what any confident, who-cares-what-you-think kind of person would do – I double timed it back to the hotel, dug back into my suitcase and pulled out some clothes that would keep me from being nabbed by the French Foreign Legion of Fashion and therefore be thrown in the nearest jail for those who are couture-challenged.

So this brings me to today’s topic – finding the appropriate dress for your travel destination.

It’s good to do some research - what the local customs are, and what you can bring to wear, particularly if you hate that feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s great to look like a tourist (I can’t think of a bigger fan than myself of those fantastic flowered shirts you can pick up at any street corner in Hawaii), and at times it would be physically impossible to ‘blend right in’ (think of me, the 6 foot 1 inch tall Caucasian traveling anywhere in the Orient).

Wearing this, you're guaranteed to blend in at any luau

Another thing to consider is dressing not just blending in, but to respect local customs. I remember being in Europe for my first time after graduating from university. I was there for 2 months during the summer months, and in that time, I wore pants three times (each time reluctantly). Twice, because it was actually cool outside, but the third time was on a day that was 35 degrees Celsius with humidity levels of around 235% (or so it felt like). It happened to be one of my only days in Rome, and a day I wanted to visit the Vatican, where they will not let you in without the appropriate clothes, which doesn’t include shorts. It also turns out that with their newer safety restrictions, they won’t let you in with your all-essential Swiss Army Knife either (if you’re there soon and going through the security line, you’ll find a bunch of interesting items there, likely including my beloved knife!).

Maybe a little extreme for a way to dress, but if you really want to fit in...

In other countries, particularly if you’re female, you may find yourself wearing a veil or headpiece to respect local customs. If you’re a guy and you happen to be in Pamplona, Spain, mid-July, like I was once, you might find yourself wearing white pants, a white shirt and a red bandana around your neck (I didn’t do the pants or the shirt, but I did buy a bandana to feel like I fit in). If that happens to be you, please be wary of the bulls, the local Spaniards who’ll be happy to talk you into running ‘with’ the bulls, and most-importantly, watch out for the sangria or any combination of the three. They’ll all kick you if you’re down, so to speak.

Going to Scotland in wintertime with nothing warmer than a fleece would be downright silly and potentially hypothermia-inducing, while going to Egypt in summer without light cotton clothing would likely get you going on that heavy sweat weight-loss program, like it or not.

So basically, do the research, and it’ll add to the enjoyment of your trip. Plus it will give you the opportunity to start feeling like you’re on holiday before you even leave. Most importantly, it will likely keep you safe from having the uncomfortable feeling of standing on an open street corner in Paris with a thousand Parisians laughing and staring at your…pastries.

The Joys and Surprises of Fall Travel

For many people, once the calendar turns to September, sadly, the travel year is over. At least until the highly anticipated winter trips that involve palm trees, patios, and sliding doors without screens. It’s now fall (this side of the world), and in my opinion and from experience, I feel this can be one of the best times of year to travel.

Here’s why:

1. Less crowds
2. Flights and hotels tend to be discounted
3. If you’re traveling by car, there are way less RVs hogging the road
4. Your teacher friends can’t. And that should be good enough of a reason!
5. Sometimes you just find things you can’t with the summer crowds



One other excellent reason to travel in the fall, as silly as it sounds, is to take in some serious fall colour. This is what I did about 7 years ago. I traveled to Atlanta in late October to visit my brother and his family, and then continued on by car with them to a place called Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. As I was told, it’s a place renown for it’s fall colours, displays of pumpkins, outdoor markets, and what I’d find out later, for some famous large breasts. That I should explain. Pigeon Forge is just a few miles away from Dollywood, an amusement park owned by Dolly Parton. One can imagine with some humour as to what the roller coaster experience would be like - Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! and you’re done!

This I found out also had influence on the neighbouring towns, such Pigeon Forge. I was expecting a scene of quaint cabins, babbling brooks, amazing foliage and abundant serenity, but this ‘cultural icon of amusements’ should have been my first clue as to what we were actually going to experience.

After a much longer than expected drive than expected from Atlanta (pre-GPS and a brother who doesn’t quite read maps well), we arrived in the dark to a decent little non-rustic rental property. Next day, up bright and early on a cool and crisp autumn morning, we started to explore. Picture if you will a 4-lane roadway running straight as an arrow through town, lined on both sides with Super-8-type hotels, Perkins-like restaurants, and more gift shops than you’ve ever seen, or ever want to. Just a side note - every single gift shop we entered had fancy scented candles burning and each was playing that same Vivaldi song you hear every time you walk into a gift store, no matter where you are in the world. The royalties for the artist must be staggering.



As it was, I put my movie-watching talents to use (this is my unique ability to lower my standards and enjoy nearly any movie, with the exception of the third and hopefully final Pirates of the Caribbean movie), and forged ahead for a weekend of exploring and experiencing what the town and countryside had to offer.

I have to say, blocking out the town, the area was incredibly beautiful with rolling hills on all sides, babbling brooks, and hiking trails through forests of stunning colour. Although there were still a lot of people around, it was fall, so we hiked a trail or two and just soaked in the surrounding scenes and at times felt like we had the place to ourselves.



This was turning into a good fall trip, but I didn’t realize that the true highlight was still to come.

It was our last full day there and that afternoon we stopped at a roadside farmer’s market. Pumpkins of all sizes were on display along with a variety of colourful fall vegetables and some aged but rustic looking harvesting machinery.



Just as I was about to declare the trip as good, but not fantastic, I saw the one thing, or I should say the one person that made my trip turn from good to fantastic.

Let’s call him Farmer Hatfield, or maybe Farmer McCoy, but this guy was incredible. He looked like he had just crawled out from the hills after decades of living in lonely isolation. Wearing his green cloth hat, plaid shirt, overalls and some complimentary bare feet, he appeared to be skinnier than a bulimic rake during a fasting. What teeth were left pointed in every direction ever explored by man and only resembled teeth in that they hung from gums but I’m sure didn’t function beyond that. Yikes.



And why was this so great? This, you can’t duplicate. This you don’t see in the travel brochures. You can’t dress someone up to look like this, even if you paid them. This was a genuine, true-to-form fall farmer’s market, and this was a true-to-form and authentic Eastern USA hillbilly – true to the area, and something completely unplanned.

At this moment, outside of all the commercialism and traffic and awfully scented candles, I knew I had found my gem of the trip and felt content. My fall travel, with the smaller crowds, the colours of the leaves and beautiful crisp air and quiet roads, my complete surprise included, was just…complete.

Adieu, old friend

Good-bye my friend, Summer.



You’ve come and (nearly) gone, again. This was the 43rd time I’ve had the pleasure of hanging out with you, and after last year’s late showing where we thought you were just a tease in fall’s clothing, it was good to have you back with some good full-blown, hot days and sticky nights.

Like road construction season and extra-long drives into work, you’ve always been there for us. Sometimes I find it unbelievable to hear people mutter the words ‘ah, it’s too hot out there.’ I’m not sure what planet they come from, but really, they should be sent back, parkas, touques and all. Do they not remember what winter is like and how long it can last? Ignore them all. They, like so many politicians and tv evangelists, are delusional and delirious for sure.

You’re an inspiration. You make us feel like hanging around and barbequing in the back yard, riding our bikes through the streets, and skipping out of work early on Fridays (and Thursdays, Wednesdays, Tuesdays and Mondays too). You heat up the interior of our cars to unbelievable temperatures, particularly on those days we have to wear grown-up clothes for client meetings, but we can forgive you for your playful and thorough nature. You’re just doing what you were meant to do, and having some fun.

You make our trees and grass grow, ensuring that we have something to on weekends, watering the plants and mowing the lawn. Sometimes you spend an entire day desperately trying to poke your nose through stubborn and unwanted clouds, but we know you’re there, waiting anxiously, with your UV rays and shadow-making abilities. You keep us outdoors and keep us from really bad tv summer programming. For that selfless act alone, we should be forever grateful. But if you’re the one who brought us Suzanne Summers, I think we should talk…



We were up at the very start of your days many times, but enjoyed your end-of-the-day shows even more, often at Lake Winnipeg, with your dramatic and spectacular colours. We usually weren’t alone – often there was us and a thousand of your friends – little hungry mosquitoes who never seem to miss a late evening show either - and then never seem to miss us on our quick trip back to our screened-in world.

You got us up at the crack of dawn and allowed us to do all the things we wanted to do in the evenings. You were our morning alarm clock and our gentle notice that it was time to go to bed and fall asleep, with a wonderful summer smile on our lips, once again.

It was fun having you around again. You gave us that feeling of warmth, but like a long-lost relative from the other side of the counry, we know it’s time you go away, bags packed, yet again.

Now it’s time for driving in the dark to work, driving home in the dark from work, all while wearing more clothes (at one time) than someone in, say, Hawaii, is likely to have in their entire closet. The fun has nearly gone - you’re nearly just another part of a collection of warm memories.

When you’re gone, we dream more. We dream of beaches and sand and warm breezes and we dream of not being able to see our breath as we quickly pass from the house to the cold and frozen car.

We’re less efficient at work when you’re gone. We spend the first hour there warming up from our painfully cold ride in, and then before the work day’s done, we prepare ourselves for the icy journey home in a car or bus where the heat won’t kick in until we’re just around the bend from being home.



We travel when we can to southern places that you seem to prefer October to April, spending thousands of dollars to walk in colourful shorts, order fancy drinks with fancy names, sit by man-made pools and to bring some resemblance of colour to our skin other than our usual winter shade. This gives us a coveted tan something to bring home and brag about for approximately five and a half days at our wintry homes before we crack and peel, becoming a healthy pale, once again (I think I heard one day at church that there was originally going to be an 11th commandment - ‘thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s tan,’ but being my usual sleepy self on an early Sunday morning, I think I might have misheard what was actually said).

So, be well, my friend. We’ll be more than ready to see you again after nine long and cold months. Have fun when you’re in places like Sydney, Buenos Aires and Ambatofinandrahana, Madagascar. I’d gladly challenge any of them to the idea that we don’t appreciate you and need you more than they do.



We won’t forget you, and we hope that you won’t forget us next year when it’s time to return. For all we care, come back early. Trust us, we’ll be ready!

Until then, with all respect and SPF 15,

Evan

P.S. About this global warming stuff and warmer winter temperatures…we know it’s really just you, giving us some much needed hope during some long and cold winters, but we don’t have to let David Suzuki or Al Gore know (consider it our little secret!).