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!