Of Paradise and Pelicans

20 years ago, in 1990, I graduated from the University of Manitoba. After four long years of study and wearing the typical black mock turtlenecks so well associated with the school of art, being anxious about my starting my career as a graphic design, I did the first thing any serious person embarking on their career would do – I went to Europe! 2 months of fun-filled, non-school-filled adventures. Well, I was there to learn, but more likely about strange languages, historical ruins, and foreign spirits (of the liquid kind, not the ghost kind).

20 years ago exactly from this date likely would have found me in Italy, during their turn of hosting The Beautiful Game, the World Cup. We had just traveled through France, catching The Rolling Stones in concert in Paris, and getting to know the white sand beaches of the French Rivera. Life was relaxed and life was good. But once the World Cup was over, it was time to move on, and the next logical place was Greece.

Greece is famous for many things – beautiful cliff-sides, white-washed buildings, amazing sunsets, and it’s also known for a certain liquid called ouzo, a anise-flavored aperitif that if drank in high enough quantities will have you singing songs in languages that have likely disappeared from record centuries ago. In smaller quantities though, it’s quite enjoyable. But this was our Europe trip – we were there to go big, or go home!

This leads us back to Greece, to me, my friend Jamie from Winnipeg, and another traveler named Rob from Seattle. After a long day of cruising the island of Mykonos on peppy little mopeds and hanging out at some spectacular beaches (for the record, any topless beach to a guy is almost always spectacular), we found ourselves in the market area of the town recanting the stories of the day and taking in a few drinks as the day cooled and the sun set over the narrow, cobblestoned streets.

We had found this great little bar to go to called Stavros – it was an Irish Pub in the heart of the town, it was just celebrating its grand opening, but unlike other drinking establishments in the neighborhood, it had no washrooms on the premises. Combine a few extra-thirsty guys, cool Irish beer, and no toilet facilities, and 9 times out of 10 you’ll get a story out of the mixture. This particular evening was no exception.

Jamie, having to go make room for the next beer, took off to find the nearest facility. About 20 minutes or so later, Jamie returned, with a curious expression on his face. Yes, he had found a washroom (to his relief and ours), but he went on to explain that on his journey back, he came across this part indoor/outdoor pub, and that standing right in the middle of the room on it’s own perch, was a full sized pelican, right in the middle of the other guests.

Being the good and open-minded friends that we were, we told him he was nuts and delusional and likely more drunk on ouzo than he realized. His story, even with the fine detail that only Jamie could include in a story, was more unbelievable than anyone could, well, believe. Also, we considered the source – Jamie, a joker at heart with a vivid imagination (and a lot of ouzo in him), was a guy who could easily try to pull something like this over our heads. Well, the wool wasn’t coming out and we were not believing his spectacular story, even as he defended it on the honour of his mother’s grave (who, by the way, was very well with health and was waiting for his next phone call home, likely at that exact moment).

In the end, Rob and I chalked it up to Jamie having a little too much ouzo to drink combined with possibly too much sun during the afternoon and the strain of leering towards the topless tanners. After further frustration of trying to convince us his story was true, damage done to his reputation, the conversation changed and the rounds continued on to the wee hours of the morning.

Funny thing was, about an hour earlier, I had had to go and find the washrooms, and after successfully finding them and before making my way back to the bar, I passed by the exact same pub Jamie saw and walked by the exact same pelican, quietly sitting on his perch, ignorant (or so it seemed) of his noisy and social surroundings.

But when I came back, fearing for being thought of as a drunken loon with a ridiculous story, I decided to not mention my believe-it-or-not sighting. And the whole time Jamie was trying to convince us of what he saw, I never let on that what Jamie saw was real. It was too much fun to see him squirm, plus I felt safe knowing the fact that the streets of Mykonos were like a labyrinth and that almost for sure, none of us would ever pass that way again.

Turns out after further research that this might have been ‘Pablo the Pelican’, a famous long time resident of Mykonos. Pablo, many years before, was saved from certain death by a Greek fisherman and then spent his days hanging out around the shops and bars of the town, amusing the locals and tourists alike (the pelican, not the fisherman, at least to my knowledge).

I’m not sure if I ever told Jamie the truth from that night. Strange and wonderful things happen when you and your friends travel for extended periods through Europe, and I suppose some things are just better left un-said. I’m sure with the perspective Pablo has each night, watching slightly tipsy backpackers quickly wandering by eagerly in search of a restroom, he too would agree.

The Final Chapter

I’ve had known for over a year that I’d be making the trek back to New York, this time at the invitation of the 911 Memorial Organization to record my story from September, 2001. I knew it was something I had to do, if only to finish a chapter in my life and move on to the next.

I’ve said it before, but anyone who knows me, knows I’ll travel nearly anywhere at the drop of a hat. I love the preparation, the research, booking the tickets, and I even love the smell of jet fuel. Yes, my addiction is that serious! This trip though felt different and I couldn’t recognize why. People kept asking if I was really looking forward to it, and honestly, I had to think about it.

I’ve been to NYC three times now. The first time was in September, 2001. Of course that ended up being the most dramatic and surprising of all of my travels past and likely to come. Second time was in March, 2006, for a few days while my wife was attending a conference in the Times Square area. This last trip was to be my third time. It’s such a fantastic city to explore – people get the misconception that it’s so huge and a challenge to get around, but really it’s like walking through a series of connected neighborhoods, each with their own personality and charm. This time though I had my appointment to meet with two of the folks who work at the Memorial Museum, Alex Drakakis of the museum collections, and Jenny Pachucki of the oral history recording department. I had chatted with them many times over the past few months via email, and I was looking forward to a face-to-face meeting. For me, this was the purpose of my visit, and I had built in some time afterwards to explore and enjoy the city some more.



When I arrived at the World Trade Center site, I met with both Alex and Jenny, and they gave me a great tour of their offices, including a great view of the construction at the WTC site from the 20th floor. It was so good to meet in person, and to also see the incredible amount of resources behind such a great project. Soon after I found myself sitting in a quiet and softly lit room with a microphone in front of me, and Jenny sitting across the table from me, ready to record. For the next 45 minutes or so, in a question and answer format, I spoke about everything I could remember about my time in NYC on my first visit. Having written in this blog for the previous couple of weeks before coming, so many details came to my head easily. Jenny did a fantastic job of letting me release these details, and thus bringing something of an official end to this chapter of my life.



After a few pictures with the girls and a good-bye, I then found myself back out on the streets of Manhattan having completed my task. It felt weird. It felt kind of sad. But it felt good. I imagined what it was like for the hundreds of people before me who had come and done the same thing, and wondered if they felt the same.

It’s a strange connection to have with a place. One friend, who was also in New York during the attacks on the World Trade Center recently referred to us as ‘honorary New Yorkers.’ I had never thought about that, and even though a declaration like that I feel I could never self-prescribe, I think she’s right. Here’s why.

I spent the next 2 days wandering around parts of NYC I had visited before, and parts I had never visited before. And even with this time spent wandering the city, there’s so much I have yet to see. This time though, I concentrated less on the famous physical structures, and more on the people – anyone from residents of the neighborhoods I was walking through to people working in shops and restaurants to people like me, visiting and getting to know one of the world’s most famous places. Anyone I saw was there had the appearance of someone who wanted to belong. There’s so much to attract people there, between the work culture, the sites and architecture, the food, the nightlife, the water, the history, and even the potential that a city like New York can hold. Growing up I had always wanted to visit New York because it is such a popular part of our culture – in movies and television - that I just had to experience it for myself. Before my visit in 2001 I had never expected to be so connected, but now I know that I am. Through my experiences I’ve been more than a visitor, like it or not. But I do like it.



So I think that’s why it felt strange or anxious to be heading back for another visit and why it didn’t instantly feel like a holiday. It wasn’t the meetings at the Memorial/Museum, and it wasn’t the challenge of the oral recording that I knew would put me through a roller coaster of emotions. In a way, this trip was like heading home, or to a second home I suppose. It’s a big place with great places to eat, great places to see sightsee, and with so much going on. It’s beautiful and sad all at the same time with its spectacular building and its run down buildings as well. Now I’m not so sure I could or would ever move here and try to afford a decently sized apartment with a any kind of view overlooking Central Park, but even if it means visiting every few years or so and staying in a hotel, I’ll always consider it to be a special place.

So what happened to the girl? (New York, Sept 11, 2001 - Part 5)

It’s a strange thing, to know someone for about 6 hours or so, and then to find yourself searching for them with no idea of where they were or even if they were alive. I had Kamilla’s cell number, but knew that she didn’t have mine. I had tried many times to call her on her on the 11th with no success. I trying again over and over on the 12th, hoping that she would pick up and that my search would be ended in a happy manner.

Later that evening with one more call, after a few rings, instead of it ringing and ringing and ringing like it had for the phone calls before, she picked up the phone. I had been so distracted with the thought of where she was when the towers were hit Was she in the building? Was she even alive? That I forgot that she had no idea about my whereabouts and my fate. She was so relieved to hear that I had never made it there as we had planned and expressed the frustration of not having a way to get a hold of me. She had started to think that she might never know my fate.



What really had worried me about her situation was that she was at a hotel in the Canal Street area, which is close to the World Trade Center and where all the devastation was taking place. After the terrorists attack, the lower part of Manhattan was completely shut down to anyone except for emergency personnel where Canal street cuts across, so she was close, but still far enough away to be safe.

So what happened for Kamilla that morning? To my relief, she had slept in a little, and by the time everything started to happen, she was at a distance that kept her safe.

With everything that had happened, we had to see each other again, if only to celebrate our fates of that completely unbelievable couple of days. The next day was the Thursday, a day where things started to get back to ‘normal’ in the city, so we made plans to meet late afternoon in Times Square. I have to say, it was one of the strangest ‘reunions’ I’ve ever had. We had a great evening, going for a nice dinner and then a Broadway play (getting tickets to anything was easy as there were so many people who had previously bought tickets but couldn’t get there to see the shows), but there was one moment that always will stand out for me. As I wrote earlier, it was a strange reunion – we had only known each other for a handful of hours, but suddenly through the events of September 11th, we knew our lives would be intertwined forever. What was so memorable for me was that she thanked me. She felt for sure she would have been up in the towers early that morning on September 11th if she hadn’t met me. But we did meet, and we went up the night before. And for her (and for me) that changed everything.



In my last few days there in New York, I continued on to explore the city I had been so anxious to see. Over the next few days, I was witness to some very remarkable events. I can so vividly remember waiting at a subway stop, watching a few individuals posting letter-sized notes on the walls – these were hand-written notes that included a picture of a loved-one from one of the twin towers that was missing. With each day, more and more appeared. I also remember seeing how so many of them were from the same company, an organization that was located near the top of one of the towers. It was strange, as I looked at so many of the posted sheets, the people of the photographs looked back at me, and in most of them, they looked so happy. They all looked like regular people, like you and me. It was so hard to believe the fate that they had met, and what their families had to deal with. It made me so sad.

I also remember later, on the Thursday after my evening with Kamilla, riding the train back to Heike and Jen’s place. It was somewhere around 11 pm, and on the rail car I was in, I was the only one except for about half a dozen firefighters, just finishing a shift that I would guess was at the World Trade Center. They were absolutely covered in dust and grime and looked as tired as anyone ever could. This was still a time where there was hope to find more people trapped in the rubble and debris. If there was one thing I didn’t see in their eyes, it was hope. It was one of the quietest times in my life I can ever remember.

A few days later, on the first day that airports were open again, I found myself on a plane, heading back home. The tension was high among the other passengers and the airline employees. You didn’t see the usual joyfulness of people heading out on a vacation, setting out to explore a different part of the country or a different part of the world. It all felt so different. I was happy to be heading home, but I felt like there was a large part of me that I had left behind. I knew I’d be back, but I just didn’t know when. I’ve been back twice, the first time was four years ago for a conference that my wife was attending, the second time was just this past weekend. The adventure has continued, and that will be the next part of my story.



Here we are on the Thursday evening in Times Square, just before going to see a Broadway Show (Les Miserables)

The wrong place, at the right time (New York, Sept 11, 2001 - Part 4)

Sometimes in life, we have to wonder about the choices we make, particularly about the places we go, and the effect it has on our lives. I've wondered many times why I ended up in New York during one of the worst times of its recorded history. After much soul searching, I still don't have an answer. But maybe it ties into your personality - and that, indeed, played a big part in my day. And my potential future.

I woke up early, eager for the day to start after spending the evening with my new found traveling friend, Kamilla. I had showered, dressed, packed up my bag and was pretty much ready to go, when my friend Heike came into the room and casually asked me if I'd like to go for a run with her. She had heard from Jens already about my meeting with this girl, and that I was to meet up with her that morning, but extended the invitation anyway, mentioning that we could be gone and back and that I'd only be a little late.

The next thing I did surprised even me - I thought about it. Here I was, in New York, only a few days into my trip, and I had this outing set up with another traveler (and she was cute! In the world of travel, that I suppose is a bonus) to spend the day exploring around Manhattan before she left for the west coast. It was an absolutely beautiful September morning, crisp and clear of the clouds and rain of only the day before. I was ready to go, map and travel book in hand. So I chose to do what was only natural. I, chose to go for the run with Heike.

Even when we were out running - we had driven to a forested area along side a lake that was just beautiful, I was thinking to myself, why in the world did I make this choice?

We arrived back at the apartment, and soon after the phone rang. I can't remember if I answered or Heike answered, but we knew by the display that it was a long distance call from Winnipeg. My sister from my home town of Winnipeg was on the phone, and I had never heard her sound so happy to hear my voice. She was about to drop a bomb shell of information that set me in shock for the rest of the day. When she said that a plane had just hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center, I actually didn't believe her. Or couldn't - it seemed impossible - someplace that I had just been. Plus, how much impact can an airplane make running into a building? I ran to get Heike to tell her the news, and because they didn't have a tv in their apartment, we had to go up to one of the neighbour's apartments. There we sat in disbelief, watching the towers fall, jaws open, right before our eyes.

Much of the rest of the day seemed to be a blur - I felt safe where I was, but for some reason felt like I should have been there, right at the towers. To what end though? Who in their right mind would want to be there? About 2 years ago, I was reading a collection of travel stories by American authors, and one of the stories was by one author who happened to be only a few blocks away at the time. All his article talked about was how even though he knew the right thing to do was to get as far away from the devastation as possible, he kept finding himself drawn back. And indeed, he did go and help out as much as he could. I realized while reading this, that this is what I felt too, and it was good to see that others felt the same way. I felt like I needed to be there, and it was driving me crazy being so close and not being able to help.

Once my family and friends were assured that I was indeed okay (as my sister said, why would anyone ever think that by chance I'd be at the World Trade Center so early in the morning?) my other issue was Kamilla. We were to have met around 8:45 am at the towers (the first tower I believe was hit at 8:51 am), and possibly go back up to the observation level. I had no idea where she was. I had her cell number, but could not get through no matter how many times I tried.

The day continued on. I have to note here that I will always be thankful, for the rest of my wonderful life, what running has brought to me. I've been running (mostly on, sometimes off) since I was in grade 6. On this particular day, in such a strange way, it played a big part of my life. I'm drawn to people who love the same things as I do, and on that day and being around Heike and her love of running and exercise, taking her up on her offer defined not only my life but potentially my future as well. This, on a day when so many other people in New York, the surrounding area, and in Washington found new definition in theirs, unfortunately by such massive loss of life.

September 10th, 2001 (New York, Sept 11, 2001 - Part 3)

It was Monday, September 10th, and with both Heike and Jens working, it was a day on my own to explore the city. I decided to spent most of my time that day in lower Manhattan, and started off by wandering around the World Trade Center. It was a beautiful morning and I had thought of paying to go up to the observation tower, but decided to leave that to another day. I made my way along the water front, and eventually found a place to buy tickets to go to see the Statue of Liberty. The ferry ride out toward the island made for spectacular views of the city skyline. Getting off at the statue, I walked around but decided not to go up to the arm – I’m honestly not good with heights, and having turned around more than once on old, rickety rusting-metal staircases housed in the middle of centuries-old cathedrals, I decided to just avoid anything like that altogether. My interest was actually to get over to the Immigration Museum, which involved catching another ferry. You’ll see in one of the pictures included above, taken from the ferry, the weather was turning fast. The storm sweeping over the city was amazing, and I knew it would soon be hitting us. By the time it made it to us, I was deep into the Immigration Museum, enjoying the displays and especially admiring the old ads used to recruit potential immigrants, particularly from Europe.

A couple of hours later, the museum was closing and it was time to catch the last ferry back to Manhattan. While I was waiting for the ferry to depart, this girl came up to me and, with a distinctly Eastern European accent, asked if I’d be okay with taking a picture of her with her camera. I’ve done this hundreds of times through my travels, but this time was especially funny as she began to direct me to an infinite detail on how to take a good picture! I played along, and eventually handed back the camera. We sat and talked for the entire ride back, and once we hit land again, we just naturally walked around together, talking, not really with a destination in mind.

The weather was cool and rainy, so we decided something hot to drink would be best. It was already early evening, and for some reason we had a terrible time trying to find somewhere that was open. We went underground, poked around the side streets, but couldn’t find anything at all. We eventually found ourselves at the World Trade Center asking the security guards there, and were told there was a good place to get something to drink at the top of the tower in the observation deck. So, with tickets purchased, up we went!

I actually didn't really want to go up. It wasn’t the ideal night - the clouds were low, it was raining, and the outdoor observation deck was closed. I’d never stood outside at that height, and was disappointed that I wouldn’t get to feel what it was like outside at that height.





Once we took the elevator up, we nearly had the place to ourselves, outside of the occasional tourists like us. Even with the weather, it was an amazing view. We walked around, took pictures of each other, talked with a few people working there, and after about an hour or so, took the elevator back to the ground floor. We still didn’t have anything to sip on, but when we left the building, we came across this small restaurant and market – an Amish establishment I think, or the name had the word Amish in it. We stayed for the next couple of hours – talking and getting to know each other. Her name was Kamilla, and she had been traveling through the US for quite a while and was soon leaving New York to head to the West Coast of the US, then home. The conversation was typical of two travelers meeting – we talked about where we came from, what we did in life, where we’ve traveled, all the kinds of things that travelers have in common.

I can’t remember what time it was, but I knew it was getting late and it appeared that the restaurant was about to close. Having made a great connection as two people traveling on their own, we decided to hang out together the next day, a day that was supposed to be her last day in New York. She wrote her name and number on the only piece of paper I could find – my ticket from our entry to the observation deck of the World Trade Center. The plan was to meet up again the next day, around 8:45 am, back at the Trade Center. We also discussed the idea of going back up to the observation deck if the weather was good.

We said a quick good night, and back I went to Heike and Jen’s place. I remember that when I got off my last train and was walking to their apartment, it was still raining, but it was one of those gentle warm rains you never mind walking in. It had been a long and great day of exploration. When I arrived at the apartment, Heike was already sleeping, but Jens was up. I told him about my day, and he laughed, mostly at my chance meeting with this Eastern European girl. Quickly after, I was all wrapped up in my sleeping bag on the floor of the living room, smiling and anticipating yet another adventurous day to come.

Just a quick aside - after all of the events that were about to unfold the next day, I never watched the news or looked at any kind of publication that had anything to do with the attack - I just couldn't watch. Years later though, I was thumbing through a book that was handed to me that was full of photographs of the towers and the destruction of that day, and one picture made me absolutely freeze in my spot. It was taken in the restaurant that we had ended up in, soon after the buildings fell, nearly exactly from the point of view where I'd been sitting that night. Everything was covered in an unimaginable amount of dust and debris. I honestly couldn't believe that it was the spot that Kamilla and I had spent all that time talking and getting to know each other, literally just hours before.

The start of the journey (New York, Sept 11, 2001 - Part 2)

So what the heck was I doing in New York City anyway?

I had always wanted to go to NYC. Seeing it in so many movies and tv shows, knowing the history and the architecture, it was just somewhere where I had to go. Being the traveler that I am, I always look for opportunities, and my good friends Heike and Jens, originally from Germany, just happened to move there. Having a place to stay, for free, is always great. Heike and I have been friends since I was in second year university, having met on a ferry going from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island, both backpacking our way separately around Eastern Canada. Along with another friend of mine, having been practically thrown out of a Charlottetown Bed and Breakfast on a Sunday morning with a church service blasting on the radio in the background (now that's a completely different story!), we've been great friends since ever since.

I flew in on a Thursday evening, and the plane took the perfect route parallel to the skyscrapers of Manhattan. I couldn't believe that I'd soon be wandering the streets - smelling the smells, walking among Manhattanites, hearing that distinctive New York accent. Heike and Jens picked me up in their oldsmobile - having the word 'old' in it was appropriate as it was nearly as old as I was. It had miles and character and the softest back seats you ever sat in. They lived on the New Jersey side, and soon we settled into their one-bedroom apartment. My space was on the floor in the living room, I soon had a wonderful glass of wine in hand, and being in a distant land, I was as happy as could be.

Of course I had no idea what was to come - I just had the excitement of someone about to explore a new city. On the first day, with Jens at work, Heike and I made our way over to Manhattan. Taking the train to the ferry terminal on the Jersey side, we caught the boat which dropped us off immediately in the shadow of the twin towers. That would become the spot for the next few days where we would always start and end our journey. Heike and Jens knew the city well and showed me many of the highlights - Times Square, Central Park, and on the Sunday, they took me on a special trip all the way through the park to a self-guided walking tour of Harlem. Three tall, very white folks, each with our cameras and backpacks, we set out for about 2 hours, wandering through streets I would never have dreamed of setting foot on before. Was I nervous? Hell yes! But even with the uncomfortable feelings I had for most of the journey, it was excellent and exciting. The coolest thing was seeing a church empty right after a service, everyone dressed in their sharpest and brightest white suit or dress, smiling away.

We'd had a great day, the sun had set, my feet ached, and we made our way back to lower Manhattan, again by the towers, to catch our ferry back to Jersey. Now on this trip, there were many memorable moments, particularly after the 11th. On this night though, as we walked between the rising towers, we paused, looked up the almost unimaginable heights of each of the towers, and Heike, in carrying her slight English accent from having learned English in England, dreamily said "Could you imagine if one of these ever fell?" I can't remember for sure, but I believe neither Jens or I gave an answer.

We soon after caught the ferry then the train back to the apartment, and after some more excellent celebratory wine, headed off to bed. It was a short sleep, and led up to what I will always remember as one of the more remarkable and fun travel days in my life, September 10th, 2001.

What goes up, came down (New York, Sept 11, 2001 - Part 1)

It’s been nearly 9 years since I took my first trip to New York. It’s been 9 years since my ‘near miss’ at the World Trade Center on that beautiful and crisp September morning. And this Thursday, I’m hoping on a plane, headed back to the centre of it all, New York.

This isn’t my first time back. I was there 4 years ago to celebrate my wife’s birthday (yes, I brought her along!), but this visit is a little different. On Friday morning, I’m meeting with the people at the offices of the 911 Memorial and Museum, both of which are currently being designed and constructed. I’m there to officially record my story from September 10 and 11th, 2001 for the museum.

A while ago I donated something that I didn’t know what to do with – my ticket (of a pair) that I used on the evening of September 10th to go up to the observation deck. They were more than happy to receive it and potentially display it, along with my story, in the museum. They’ve been encouraging me to come out and officially record my story, and so now I’m going. It’s strange – to me, it was such a dramatic and dark time, but they specifically pointed out to me what makes my story so special – mine, thankfully, has a happy ending. That’s something that took me a long time to see, and it’s so different from so many of the stories they’ve collected so far from those who lost loved ones.

I love to write, but I’ve never written about what happened to me all of those years ago. With my upcoming trip, I think it’s time. Over the next week or so, I’m going to be writing on this blog about what I saw, what I experienced, and how it affected my life, forever. I'll also explain what the hand writing on the actual ticket is all about. I’ll also be writing about my trip this week, the making of the recording of my story, and the tour I’m going on to show me where they’re at with the museum and memorial. Afterwards, I have some time to do some exploring, to go see some places I never got the chance to go see on my original trip. And to just breathe in the culture that drew me to New York in the first place.

Feel free to send in comments or ask questions.

The Holiday Pre-Game Show

I love to travel, and my friends and family know it. Quite often in conversation, the first words out of their mouths will be “so, where you been lately?” Or “so, where are you off to next?” Easily I can say it’s one of my favourite conversations, to hear where anyone is going.

If there was ever any other popular comment, it would be “Our trip was too short. We weren’t ready to come back.” Of course! Who’s ever too tired of swaying palm trees, white sand beaches, 700 year-old architecture, or Paris cafes in the spring? Not me. Who’s ever in a rush to get back to work? Definitely not me, and hey, I actually love my work. But that’s what it is – work. For me, travel is play-time. So for those of you who hate your work, I really feel for you, heading back to something that’s sucking the life out of you.

I discovered years ago that my holidays never felt long enough, and traveling on a limited budget, it’s not always possible to add days on to make it a longer holiday. So what can you do? Well, how about adding days on to the beginning of your trip? I don’t mean booking that flight two weeks earlier and saying ‘so long suckers!’ I’m suggesting that you do some things before you go that get you in the spirit of the trip, and you may find that it actually makes your trip seem like it was longer than it actually was.

When my wife and I travel, I’m thinking of the journey to come weeks, if not months before we actually lock the door and breathe in the smell of jet-fumes (you know, as bad as they probably are for you, I love that smell – it totally reminds me of travel). Not my wife – it’s not until we’re filling out the pre-customs form that it hits her that we’re off on another adventure.

If you can build in some ‘travel customs’ that get you working on your trip well before you leave, you’ll find that once you’re actually on your trip, it’ll feel like you’ve started it well before you actually left. I've always felt that the trip itself is only 51% of the fun. The pre-trip can be just as good. Kind of like the expectations you have as a kid before Christmas.

Here are some tips on what you can do to mentally extend your trip. Some of these I do, others are what some friends have done to extend their vacation time:

1. Expand your brain – do some research. How many times have you arrived somewhere and done a tour of a city all based on the tourist map they handed you at the front reception? Hit the library and find some good books on where you’re going to. History books are great too, as well as fiction based around a geographic region – the story might be made up, but often writers actually include fact-based information to help the setting for their characters.

2. If you’re not the library type, and you’ve never been known to say ‘I preferred the book to the movie’ cause you don’t have the patience for reading, still head to the library and go to the DVD section for travel. You’ll likely find some great DVDs on where you’re visiting. The great thing is that it’ll give you some great tips on where you’re going, but remember that sometimes the great things are off the beaten path and they’re not likely to be discovered for mainstream video.

3. Buy some underwear. Well, that’s if you need it. Underwear or not, buy some piece of clothing specifically for your trip. Something that you don’t have already, something that may be linked to a specific activity where you’re going. We were recently in San Francisco, and the blend of wonderful culture with the nastiest hills this side of Thunder Bay call for a wardrobe that allows you to have that relaxed west coast classy-casual look while being able to make your way up the numerous peaks you’ll experience making your way from the restaurants of Pier 39 to the Union Square shopping district.

4. Talk up your friends. Likely there’s someone you know who’s been to where you’re heading, and they’ve already tested the waters of what’s worth seeing, and what’s worth avoiding. Learn from their successes, learn from their poorly spent time! I’d rather learn from other peoples’ mistakes rather than my own any day!

5. Watch the weather. If you’ve got an ipod touch or iphone, get the app for weather and add in that location. Check it every day. It’ll get you in the mood, plus it’ll give you a clue as to what to expect and ultimately what to pack for.

6. Get a haircut, or get your nails done. Well, I do the haircut part, not the nails. Friends of mine do this, it’s their tradition before heading down to the sunny beaches of the Caribbean.

7. Get the Google working for you. If you have a hotel or 2 booked for your trip, go to Google maps and do a street view of where you’ll be. You’ll be able to get an idea of what your neighborhood is like, and how close you are to things like grocery stores, restaurants, tourist attractions, etc. I’m heading to NYC in a couple of weeks and have already checked out the area I’m staying in, particularly to see how safe I’ll feel looking like a total tourist with my camera around my neck and my pack on my back.

8. If you’re visiting someone in a foreign land, pick up something from your city to bring as a gift – something that a) they’ve never have or eaten before, and b) they likely never will again! Kidding, of course. I try to bring popcorn twists by Old Dutch to my brother every time I visit him in California. He loves them, and can’t get them there. Can’t imagine why…

9. Get cooking. Search the internet, find a recipe that’s representative of the culture you’re going to visit. If it’s France, dig into some French bread. For Italy, get some pasta going and get some fresh tomatoes and experience a real sauce, not something out of a jar. It’ll get you in the flavour of where you’re going.

There are many ways you can get yourself set for your holiday, and many ways to make it last just that much longer. Have any other tips? I’d love to hear them!

Space – the final frontier

(this blog post was written while on a trip in Palm Springs, visiting my parents back in late February)

I’ve always been a person who likes to have his space, and thinks that it must be the same for everyone else. So usually I go out of my way to make sure that when I encounter another individual, I give them the appropriate buffer zone, whether it’s on a sidewalk, in a lane of traffic, or even on a public bus. Of course if I’m out hiking and run into a deer, bear, or even more threatening, a wood tick, I’m all about giving even more space.

Not our girls. Space is a completely different thing to them. Especially when it comes to swimming pools.

Here I am, sitting by quite a large, heated swimming pool in the golfing community that my parents spend 3 months of the winter (but ironically enough, they don’t play golf). I’m watching our two girls swim in the pool. They have tons of room to play. The water is shallow, so being 8 and 11 and of decent size, there’s no where they can’t go within the pool. And this is what they do – they move about the pool like a) they own it, b) there’s no one else there, and c) like it’s the last chance they’ll ever get in their lives to swim, so they better use the time well and explore as much as possible.

Now introduce the old people. Or as we say when visiting the desert, the ‘tanned ones.’ I’m talking over 65, they’ve earned their place in life and decided that the best reward after a full life of working would be to move to a nice, warm climate. There’s ample space for walking, there are restaurants near by, lots of iconic palm trees, and of course, a warm and spacious pool. I’m guessing that the original resort brochures that showed the pool never had pictures with our girls in it. Of course if they did, they’d just be blurs! No camera has ever caught them in sharp focus in a pool.

So right now, even though there’s ample room to do their back flips, cannon balls, and other movements that involve as much flailing of the limbs and splashing as possible, they’re doing their best (I swear not on purpose) to be within a few feet of every senior that is brave enough to make their way cautiously into the pool. It’s like a magnetic attraction, and hey, you can’t argue with the laws of science.

I’m lying here in a constant state of cringe, wondering when one of them is either going to get a flipper in the face, or be speared by one of the girls’ various pool toys.

So, knowing my belief in personal space, you’d think that I’d be jumping off my chair and running over to make sure the girls stop tormenting these seniors. Not today. I’ve decided to check my space sensibilities at the pool gate and just accept what is and see what happens. Maybe the girls splashing about will remind the seniors of their glory days as children. Or maybe it’ll remind them of their grandchildren. Or maybe it’ll remind them to put the lock on the gate higher so that kids can’t come in at all! Whatever happens, I think we’ll all be a bit younger and wiser for the experience.

Press Play and Go...

With today’s technology, any traveler can bring 1000’s of songs along, and it takes up less space than a half deck of cards. Today, who needs to choose what songs to bring? Just dump it all on your ipod and don’t even think twice. Amazing.

You’d think that I’d think this was the ultimate in progress and convenience, but in reality, I’m not that excited by it at all.

Travel and music today are so different from what they were two decades ago. Back in the 80’s and 90’s when I traveled by bus, train or in the air, the music I would take with me was selected thoughtfully and carefully. The music player of choice was a Sony Walkman, coming in at a super-slim 1.5 inches thick, and together with a good supply of extra batteries, a case of 5 or 6 cassette tapes each holding 60 to 90 minutes of music, I was set. It took up valuable space in my carry-on or backpack, but for longer travels, music was more essential than, say, a map to get around, snacks, or your underwear. Really! It sounds exaggerated, but likely you can more easily remember music from decades back than you can what your underwear looked like at the same time.

Step back a couple of generations of technology, back to the late 80’s, before we could even dream of something like an ipod. I would spend many hours carefully scanning my record selection to see what would be an appropriate fit for my upcoming trip. Wasn’t putting music on cassettes the best?

The enjoyment of music from those days comes from having spent many hours controlling your music station with the precision of a conductor of an orchestra. Recording music was nearly a science or well-practiced art! Taking the record from its cardboard sleeve, edges in palm, gently placing it on the turn-table, putting the needle down in precisely the right groove, and quickly moving your hands down to the tape deck to press record at the exact fraction of a second after the previous song was done, and before the next song would start. Just to note: a successful attempt to tape an individual song from a Pink Floyd album took years and years of practice, and when actually achieved, it gave you a standing among your tape-making friends that would be more meaningful than any silly old straight A-plus report card. YOU would have been considered the gold medalist of the Olympics of tape recording.

Of course there were always ‘incidents’ - you accidentally bumped the record player with your elbow causing the record to skip, which you could never allow on your tape masterpiece, so you have to start all over again. Then there were those brain-numbing decisions and calculations over what song to end the side with, and gosh-darn it all, is it going to fit before you hear that ‘click’ of the tape coming to an end? Ahhh, precious moments, good times.

What this meant though, likely due to the effort it would take to actually fill up a 60 or 90 minute tape, was that your music was there with a clear and well thought out order, rather than being random, or ‘shuffled’. I swear some of my tapes were absolute classics – masterpieces never to be rivaled, and if there was ever a Smithsonian Museum dedicated to tape collections, I’m sure I would have been honored within!

So back in the Spring/Summer of 1995, still in the days of tape collections, I spent time working as a graphic designer in Kiel, Germany. My entire trip to Europe (6 weeks of working, 4 weeks of traveling, 6 custom tape creations in all) all started with a song – a song that would eventually define my whole journey. Let’s back up a bit. It was a beautiful early spring day in March of 1995 – I was driving alone, and a familiar Stone Temple Pilots song came on the radio. I cranked it up, and for some reason, this one line stayed in my head. Now if you know me and my misinterpretations of lyrics, you know that I’ve goofed up more than my fair share. This time, the words I heard were ‘leaving on a southern train.’ I’ve never actually looked up the words to see if I’m even close to understanding what they’re singing, but when I heard those words (whatever they happen to be) it instantly brought me back to 5 years before, traveling through Europe, sitting on a train day after day, exploring Europe with my friend Jamie, for the first time. I just couldn’t get it out of my head, and I couldn’t get the idea of being back in Europe out of my head either.

It took a bunch of letters (this was pre-email), a few phone calls and a desperate pleading at my current job for a leave of absence, but eventually I found myself sitting in the northern lands of Germany, living in a flat with 8 students who spoke as much English as I did German (an amount, if it could be physical, could be measured in a very small cup), working as a designer in the center of a small but charming German town. All because of one great song heard on a beautiful early spring day.

So, back to the music and back to the journey. I didn’t work the whole time I was away. I left some weeks at the end of my visit to travel through some countries in southern Europe. The day I was leaving Kiel – I hoped on the train (heading south of course), claimed my seat, placed my backpack above along with all of my contents, with the exception of a baguette, cheese, a swiss-army knife, a well-worn book, and of course my cassette player, holding a tape collection named something like ‘Evan’s Fantastic Journey to Europe Summer 1995’. Note: anyone who’s made various mixed tapes before knows that for the collection to be complete, it had to have something of a obvious and redundant title. First song up – you bet, by The Stone Temple Pilots. I sat back, cranked up the dial, pressed ‘play,’ and just smiled and soaked it in.

So do I make custom tapes today? Unfortunately, no. I do make custom play lists for my ipod, but the fun and magic of taking hours to make the perfect playlist is nearly gone. But the redundant titles are still there!

So, for those of you who know the tape-making days well, what do you do now?

Good grapes, it's the new year!

So much can be learned when you're traveling, and I'm always the first to support the ritual of picking a place to travel to, getting a ticket to fly there, then go. Sometimes though, you learn cool worldly things right in your own back yard.

We've started hanging out with my wife's family as a tradition on new year's eve (Noche Vieja, meaning Old Night in Spanish). My brother-in-law, nearly as Ukrainian as I am, is married to a wonderful and spunky girl from Venezuela. She's an amazing cook, and not only did she bring along a lot of family recipes with her, she also brought along much of her family! This includes her mother and two sisters.

Last year for New Year's we were gathering at one of the sister's houses, and just as we were about to do our count down to midnight, two most interesting items appeared - the first was an empty suitcase, and the second was a large bowl of freshly washed grapes. Very intrigued, I could easily see what role a bowl of grapes could play at any social gathering, but the suitcase I have to say seemed, well, odd. I had to ask, and so I did. Turns out these items are crucial components that come from traditions based in their homeland in Venezuela, and both have relevance near midnight. What she did with the suitcase was fascinating to someone like me who starts to get excited every time I even see my suitcase in the basement - just after midnight, in the cold of the night, she took it outside, made a complete walk around the block (I'm not sure how far back 'wheeled luggage' goes in these customs, but I wasn't about to interrupt the ceremony) and then she quickly came back into the house. As explained to me, this is a custom to bring good luck and plentiful travels for the year to come. I guess if there's also other people outside doing the same thing together, it's a chance to celebrate together. I'm not sure if you get different results with different sizes of suitcases, but just in case, if it was me participating in this custom, I'd be out there with a full size piece rather than just a carry-on, just hoping it would bring me a trip to somewhere far away and exotic, rather than a trip to somewhere 100 kilometers away.

Then came the grapes. Each person was to grab a dozen, and wait. As soon as it was 12 seconds to midnight, the task was to quickly pop in a grape (one grape per chime of the clock) while making a wish. You have 12 grapes, 12 wishes to make, all in 12 seconds! I'd like to think, after maybe making it through 5 grapes, 3.5 wishes, and nearly choking, that maybe with practice I could keep up with them and someday achieve 12 solid wishes that have a little more depth than 'I hope I don't choke!" I was very glad to hear that these two customs are never ever combined.

Fast forward to this year. Same people together at New Year's, this time at my brother-in-law's house. At about 11:30, a half hour to the turn of a new year and decade, I remembered the traditions of the previous year and asked how the travel thing worked out. Turns out, instead of a year filled with glorious and unrestricted travel, more money was put on the mortgage. I thought this was very sad, especially as her ritual of the previous year was done in minus 30 degree weather. That's pretty cold for any Canadian, but think about it being someone who's immigrated from a country far warmer than ours only a few years ago. I decided to not ask about any of the 12 wishes she had made while popping in grapes, as I knew it would probably remind her of how sad my performance was in that area.

It also turned out that she didn't bring her suitcase along this year, but I was happy to see that the grapes were washed and ready, and so was I. 12 hilarious seconds of adults and kids frantically making wishes and swallowing grapes whole, and a tradition I can see myself continuing, no matter where I am, or who's company I'm in.

Next year, the grapes are on me.

I see London, I see France...

If you’ve ever traveled much, you’re certainly familiar with the all-famous, never ending travel tips, coming from travel companies, friends, and especially well-traveled relatives. In my many years of traveling, I’ve come across more than my share of tips, some of which that have actually served me well. When it comes to packing, particularly longer trips, I’m pretty good for keeping it light. In fact, my first trip to Europe was nearly 2 months long, and all I had along with me fit into a relatively small backpack, which already included an ‘only-to-be-used-once-so-why-did-I-really-bring-this’ kind of sleeping bag.

But now that I travel more frequently with the family (one wife, two kids), I find my unused suitcase spaces have become highly coveted by all members traveling with me. On a recent trip to Italy, our last day before flying home, we began to pack - tucking away items such as Murano glass vases, Venice masks, tourist maps, rocks (are our kids the only ones with such a fascination of rocks?) and magazines that we’d not only never use again, but would never look at, not even on the way to the recycling bin. So one travel tip I faithfully follow is the following: using various items of soft clothing, you can make nearly anything safe from breaking in a suitcase. On the list on this particular trip was a fine bottle of liqueur we had purchased during one of our last days of shopping in Rome. It came in a fairly sturdy well-designed cardboard package, and since the shape of the bottle wasn’t rectangular, I had spare space to use!

Fast-forward to about one month later – we’re at home, and we have our neighbors over for a drink, a kind of thank-you for taking in our mail while we were away. This is another travel tip we follow, but nearly every time we let them know we’re going away and wonder if they can pick up our mail, by the time they actually read it we’re usually already at our destination if not half the way through!

Back to our evening – during some conversation a beer or wine or two is put away, and then I remember this fine bottle of liqueur we bought in Rome, so off I go to find it, bring it out, and impress our friends with a wonderful taste of our trip. Still fresh in the package, in plain view of our guests, I open it up. But, only at the moment of pulling out the bottle, do I remember what clothes I used to wrap it up, and realize that they are still exactly where I left them! The fine bottle of liqueur, about 6 pairs of dirty underwear, and various pairs of socks all make their entrance at the same time! It was one of those incidents where all you wanted to do was mentally press the ‘undo’ key, or pretend that this was all caused by some cruel and unusual trick of a rascally customs agent, but after seeing the looks on their faces of our guests, I knew it was too late. The striped underwear was there, the checkered underwear was there, front and centre on the table, two feet away from our guests, a place where even the most famous underwear in the world could only dream of being displayed.

The evening continued on after a laugh or two, but I have to say, our neighbors have never been back for a drink since. My wife thinks maybe our get together left a bad taste in their mouth (ha!). As it goes being neighbors, we often talk fence to fence, and the topic of getting together for another drink does come up, but no formal invitations have come from their side. I can only hope that we will get together again; a time when we can share in a beer or glass of wine, if only for a ‘brief’ time.

Summer: a destination

I've found this new habit of riding my bike to and from work - I love it. I've become so accustomed to it, driving now becomes a hassle and almost brings on a sense of guilt. My cycling route to work is nearly always different from my route home (hence my eclectic personality). This is because when I'm on my way to work, I'm more concerned about what time I arrive, making sure I have enough time to shower before everyone else arrives, hoping not to offend them! While on the way home it becomes more of a time to unwind before adjusting back to home life - for some reason this is more of a transition for me?

Anyway, riding home today meant not only fighting traffic and potholes and people who don't seem to know the idea of checking BOTH ways before crossing the street (no bitterness here...), but experiencing some wonderful prairie summer rain showers at the same time. It's liberating riding in the rain, getting your feet more soaked than you can imagine and not even thinking of dodging puddles as you're already so wet it just doesn't matter any more.

So on my usual route home, I happen to pass by an outdoor swimming pool that I used to go to as a kid, sometimes driven by my parents, but mostly attended after having walked the 45 minutes through the neighborhood, across the highway, and along the river paths. I have such fond memories of going there years ago - the sticky feel of the locker rooms, the lack of chlorine smell you get in enclosed facilities, and then the ultimate - the "I can't believe they could ever fit this many people into one concrete bowl" itself. Wall to wall swimmers, basically just standing there (cause even trying something slightly resembling a swimming motion could cause numerous injuries to yourself and those around you), enjoying the sun, and taking in the coolness of the water. I don't think my dad was so impressed with the facilities, he never seemed to want to stay very long. Might have been the crowds, or the noise or the general disorder with lifeguard constantly blowing their whistles at attendees who never really intended to learn the lesson they were so desperately trying to get though. I remember the unwritten rule as a kid, when caught doing something wrong in the pool - dive under the water, move around to a new position, and surface with your back to where the lifeguard was. Guaranteed to work every time, as long as you weren't the only one in the pool!

As I've been riding by these past few weeks, I've been watching to see when they'd fill up the pool. I'm amazed that with everyone's concerns for things like West Nile Virus, outdoor air pollution, concern for personal hygiene and contact with water, and just general fear of the outdoors, that pools like this still exist, but I'm glad they do.

And so today, the last day of school here before the summer break, the pool was finally filled, the water glimmering welcomingly about a foot short of the brim, but sadly, it was empty. No kids. No adults watching their kids. No lifeguards making lots of money to spend watching over these kids. Now I was already wet, and believe me, given the opportunity and path directly to its edge, I would have joyfully jumped in - if even to once in my life have it all to myself! Alas, not today.

As I rode on, I was kind of sad thinking about how short our outdoor swimming season is. At most, I think the pools are open 7 or 8 weeks, even if the summer weather continues on into September. This got me to thinking about other cities I've visited that not only have outdoor swimming pools, but pools dedicated to swimming where you can go and get in a workout of 'laps.' If you've ever walked along the shoreline of Vancouver, you might have seen the pool at Jericho Beach, dedicated, as far as I can tell, to people wanting a swimming workout. I can't even fathom how refreshing it would be, all year round, to swim like that outdoors. I can't imagine that it is open through the year, considering they do get snow, but what an amazing experience that would be, swimming through the water, with huge snowflakes gently falling. And then I remembered another great pool, one my wife and I came across walking along the shoreline of Bondi (pronounced Bond-eye) Beach in Sydney, Australia. Cool thing about this pool is that at high tide, the water washes right into the pool! It's called the Bondi Icebergs Club, and knowing how cold that water gets, I think they've earned the name. Somehow I don't think the guys swimming in the pool hang around the locker room too long having manly talks, at least not once they're swimsuits are off. To me though, the most interesting thing, and most cleaver considering the conditions, they claim to be the only licensed swimming club in the world. Dating by to 1929, it seems to be the winning combination others, like Winnipeg, could learn from. Maybe back when I was a kid, my parents might have taken me a little more often, and would not have been so anxious to leave.

And so I was saying...

Hmmm. Kind of empty around here. Lots of white space. I'm a graphic designer, I love white space, but the time comes when someone needs to fill it - make it 'less white'.

I'm a self-proclaimed Travelaholic, and have no plans to seek treatment. I'm going to fill up this white space with adventures from days gone by, and of course with adventures yet to come. Kind of like time travel, which hey, is more travel. Hope you enjoy. See you soon!