White Man Walking

Authentic Boracay...part 2

2011-11-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

Making necklaces with Puka shells

Puka Beach lies at Boracay's northern end. It’s where the road ends and the beach begins. Because of its more remote location (can there be such a thing on an island that is just 7km long) it is much quieter than White Beach. I walked out onto the beach, which stretches to the right and left, and passed two women sitting next to a blue, wooden boat. They were making necklaces and bracelets with shells found on the beach.

Further along, I noticed a woman, probably in her 50s, collecting shells. I stopped and asked what kind she was looking for.

“Puka shells,” she said, reaching into her bag and showing me a small, delicate white shell with some modest colouring on it. In the centre was a hole in which they feed string to make jewellery.

I continued down the beach and found myself looking for Puka shells. I thought I stumbled on one, so I walked back and gave it to the woman.

‘No, that’s not one,” she said laughing.

So my skills in shell identification needs some work. I smiled and said goodbye to the woman.

I came across these two people, Edward and Becky, relaxing at Puka Beach

Except for a handful of people, the beach was empty. The water looked invitingly perfect. Its aqua marine colour shimmering in the morning sun. In the distance, a wall of dark storm clouds gathered. I kicked off my sandals and walked along the beach for a kilometre or so, before it abruptly came to an end.

For a fleeting moment, I contemplated trying to round the rocky point, but I had no idea how deep the water might be on the other side, so I turned back down the beach. Just then, a few raindrops tumbled from the sky. I hoped I could make it back to my hotel, before the sky unleashed its angry torrent. But on this day, nature would get the better of me, and the rain soon poured from above.

I spotted a shelter, made of bamboo and covered with palm fronds, not far down the beach. I decided to wait out the storm there. I scampered up a small path that led to shelter that sat about 10 feet off the beach. The entire structure measured about eight feet by 10 feet, and was constructed of bamboo poles that had been lashed together. Behind the shelter was a tall hillside covered in lush vegetation.

A fortuitous shelter to escape the rain

Safe from the rain that lashed the top of the shelter, I pulled out a book, Richard Branson’s Business Stripped Bar: Adventures of a Global Entrepreneur, and began reading. When I grew tired of reading, I sat and stared out at the ocean. In the distance I sported a small ferry, and a few Bangka boats passed by, but other than that I was alone. It was as if I was marooned on a deserted island.

Two hours on, I grew restless, and regretted leaving my jacket in my hotel room. I resisted the urge to leave the shelter, knowing that I’d be soaked in a short time.

Thirty minutes later the rain eased and I dashed for freedom. The clouds that had tormented me, gave way to a bright blue sky. Instead of taking a trike back to my hotel, I decided to walk. I wasn’t sure how long it would take. The main road leading away from the beach climbs steeply, and I laboured under the warm noontime sun. I passed through small villages, where the homes that fronted the road also served as small shops selling fruit, candies, drinks, and other things that would allow a family to eke out a living. Most of the small homes were made of discarded wood, or palm fronds woven together. A lucky few were constructed of cement.

Road leading away from Puka Beach

One of many roadside shops

A small village near Puka Beach

Father and Daughter

Just as I was enjoying the quiet and remote feeling of these villages, my senses were assaulted by an army of Korean tourists driving four-wheeled dune buggies. There were more than 20 of these vehicles. It was an odd sight.

Next to the road up ahead, I spotted a colourful umbrella attached to a bicycle. When I got closer, I noticed that four metal containers were attached to the bike. A young boy sat on the seat, while his father stood next to him. Turned out they were selling ice cream. So for 15 pesos, about 40 cents, the man scooped out a small dollop of banana and strawberry ice cream and placed it regally atop a bright red cone. I thanked them and continued along to my hotel.

Father and son selling ice cream

Everyone leaves Boracay with a different feeling. Some are dazzled by the beaches, while others revel in the island’s nightlife. To me, Boracay felt authentic. And I liked it even more because of it. Yes, I enjoyed walking along the sandy beach and swimming in the warm ocean water, yet I equally took pleasure in walking through small villages, or meandering through plots of land on the other side of the road from the famed White Beach, where scores of people live in cramped, ramshackle homes, and burn charcoal to cook their meals.

Boracay is real...and more beautiful because of it.

Boracay doesn't disappoint

2011-11-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

Boracay...on approach to Caticlan

Friends of mine once visited the Philippines with the intention of seeing different parts of the country. They went first to Boracay. Just the name has a taste of the exotic. They never left, spending their entire vacation there. After visiting Boracay myself, I now know why.

Bangka boats ply the waters between Caticlan and Boracay

One of the boat's crew

The island of Boracay, just 7km long, and a kilometre wide at its narrowest, lies some 315 km south of the Philippine capital, Manila. It is hard to find on a map, yet it’s the Philippines’ most popular island destination, which says a lot considering the country is home to more than 7,000 islands.

After an hour flight from Manila, I landed at Caticlan, on Panay Island. The airport is just two kilometres from Boracay, and can only accommodate small turboprop aircraft, owing to the short runway. Once outside the terminal, I hopped in a trike, a motorcycle with a side car attached to it. There’s a seat in the front next to the driver, and room for two people in the back.

It took just a minute or two to reach the port, where I boarded a Bangka pump boat for the 10 minute crossing. These narrow wooden boats, maybe 50 or 60 feet long are equipped with outriggers for stability—really just bamboo poles lashed together. Some carry 20 passengers, while longer ones can accommodate up to 40.

Arriving in Boracay, I jumped in another trike for a 15 minute drive to my hotel, The Palms of Boracay. The island’s main road is narrow and twists from one end to the other.

Navigating the island's main road on a "trike", the local taxi

It was now early afternoon when I reached my hotel, and given that I had been travelling for 24 hours, I treated myself to a nap. Before falling into my bed, I set my alarm (or so I thought), so I would only sleep for a couple of hours.

Boracay's famed White Beach,

My alarm never did go off, and when I did wake up, I did with such a start that I feared I had slept through the entire day. Turned out it had only been three hours.

My hotel was just a minute’s walk to the famed 4km long White Beach. And it didn’t disappoint. Lined with restaurants, bars, and small hotels, areas of the beach are commonly known as Boat Station 1, 2, and 3. Not so long ago, before a central jetty was built, visitors would have been dropped off on the beach at one of the three stations, depending on the location of their hotel.

I walked along the beach, with its powdery sand. But before long I took off my sandals and continued walking in the water. The sky looked beaten and bruised, as menacingly dark clouds tried to hide the setting sun.

Day's end on White Beach

There’s something about sunsets that draw people. Maybe it’s about the sense of reflection and thinking about everything that happened that day. Maybe it’s about the promise of a new day to come.

As I passed people on the beach, I noticed many were taking pictures of the sky. There was a beauty to it, despite the angry looking clouds. I imagined showing up in holiday pictures in Tokyo, Seoul, and Sydney.

A busy footpath fronts the many restaurants and shops. Here one can relax at the countless massage tents, where an hour’s massage costs $8. Vendors talk briskly trying to sell sailing and diving excursions, sunglasses and hats. And somewhat oddly getting a tattoo here seems popular.

The sun had long since gone. The sky was dark, yet people were still enjoying the ocean’s warm water. I turned back toward my hotel, and was tempted into a beachfront bar and restaurant by a group of young people, with drinks in hand, jumping up and down to the music. It seemed so care free. Vacation had liberated people from the burdens of life.

I found a table and ordered a pizza and a beer. And when I heard Katy Perry’s popular songs Teenage Dream and Last Friday Night, the same ones that play on the radio at home, it made me realize how small the world really is.

Join me for part 2, when I venture to Puka Beach, and seek shelter from rain

Is there an airport shuttle?

2011-11-06T22:34:00.000-08:00

I had been to Manila’s Nino Aquino Airport before...well, sort of. A dozen years ago I was sitting in a Cathay Pacific flight simulator in Hong Kong, where a friend of mine was “flying” from Hong Kong to Manila. It was a rather unusual flight that included terrible weather conditions, an engine fire, an engine stall, and a host of other flight challenges that the examiner could throw at the two pilots. But despite this, we landed safely in “Manila”.

Of course in a flight simulator you can’t just get out and explore your destination. And so the other day I actually landed in Manila for real. While there was some turbulence during the 14 hour flight, I doubt the pilots of the Philippine Airlines Airbus 340 encountered any engine fires or any other potentially crippling experiences like my friend did that in Hong Kong. And I'm thankful for that. And so too I believe is the woman sitting near me, who did the sign of the cross as we lumbered down the runway while taking off in Vancouver.

Manila’s airport, known as MNL, was recently given the distinction as the world’s worst airport. I'm sure others could hold the same distinction. The airport actually consists of four terminals that are not connected in any formal fashion. Three of terminals are in need of a good makeover. I landed at Terminal 2, which is exclusive to Philippine Airlines, and was surprised that it took only 20 minutes from the time the wheels of our plane touched the ground, to the time I was struck by the humid tropical air, while walking outside the terminal. My passage through the airport was made quicker because I didn’t have any checked baggage, which was probably a good thing as the baggage carousel area was crowded and the space inadequate for large aircraft disgorging hundreds of passengers.

I had a four hour layover before my Cebu Pacific flight would whisk me off to the island of Boracay, from Terminal 3. I had read that an airport shuttle takes passengers between terminals, but if time is a concern, then one might want to avail themselves of a taxi.

Time was my friend, so after running the gauntlet of taxi touts ready to pounce on their prey, I asked a security guard where I could catch the airport shuttle. Just as I was asking, I saw a large sign across the roadway that read, AIRPORT SHUTTLE.

I stood under the sign with a handful of other people that I assumed were also transferring terminals as well. I later learned they weren’t. After 45 minutes I finally asked the guy directing traffic how often the airport shuttle comes. He pointed to a large yellow bus that had arrived a short time ago. The bus had no visible identification that it was a shuttle of any sort.

The driver told me that he will leave at six exactly. I looked at my watch. It was 5:30. Exhausted from my travels, I climbed aboard and fell into the front seat.

“I leave at six whether I have one passenger or no passenger,” he offered.

“So, is this the airport shuttle,” I asked.

“No, it’s a hotel shuttle for the Mariott, but I go past Terminal 3.”

The driver turned on a 1992 Nicholas Cage movie called Windtalkers, a World War II film about US soldiers in Saipan. he driver left the bus idling presumably so the air conditioning could cool the inside of the bus, and the outside through the open door.

Close to six o’clock he returned to the bus, and kept looking up at the red digital clock at the front of the coach. Finally, after waiting for more than an hour, the bus pulled away from the terminal.

“six o’clock exactly he said,”

Not quite. The clock read 5:59.

I asked the driver he if gets lots of passengers.

“Not many...maybe one or two,” he offered.

“Maybe you need a smaller bus,” as I looked around the near empty 47 passenger bus.

“Sometimes I get a lot of luggage,” he added.

After a 10 minute drive, he dropped me off at Terminal 3, Manila’s newest terminal.

I still don’t know if the airport has a shuttle.

The long road to success

2011-09-15T22:00:00.000-07:00

A year ago I wrote how a nagging knee injury cut short my goal of completing the Gran Fondo Whistler, a 120 km cycling event from Vancouver to Whistler. I remember sitting on the side of the road, just 20 km from Whistler and calling my wife in defeat, “I can’t do it,” I said into the phone. I can almost feel the pain today, as I willed my legs to climb the hills, wincing in pain, with each turn of the pedal.

Waiting to be picked up and transported to Whistler, I tried to comfort myself in the notion that success doesn’t always come easily, though I never thought it would end with someone helping me to my car in a wheelchair. I vowed that day that I would return.

There were a chorus of people who told me I didn’t need to do it again. Some were gracious about my having made it as far as I did, given the circumstances. But 100 km wasn’t my goal. And so I had to return this year to give it another try.

Over the past year, I saw three physiotherapists and an osteopath. It was only after the last physiotherapist that things started changing for the better. He prescribed exercises that would strengthen my glute muscles (those are the ones in your butt), and correct the misalignment in my pelvis and hips that he (and the sports therapist in Whistler) had identified.

I was cautious in my training, afraid of aggravating my knee, but when I did 40km, then 75km, and finally 90km without the pain I experienced last year, I had a good feeling that I was going to conquer the ride. And so last Saturday while waiting at the start in downtown Vancouver with 7,000 other cyclists, I was excited, yet anxious—fresh with the memory of a year previous.

I rolled across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, and marvelled at the ocean and green mountains. The clear blue sky and the morning sun rising over the harbour. Climbing the first hill at Taylor Way, with a tight pack of other cyclists, I eased onto the Upper Levels Highway. I was pushed on by the enthusiasm of the cheering spectators that lined the roadway and overpasses.

I opted not to stop at the first aid station near Horseshoe Bay. A good sign I thought. Fifty kilometres on, I pulled into the second aid station at Britannia Beach. Then at 73 km I stopped at the next rest station, where my wife was waiting. I was feeling great, and the ride so far was a lot of fun. But I knew that the hardest part lay ahead.

The hills here are unforgiving. Making it worse was the oven-like heat that sucked away the energy. I pushed on, wiping away the rivulets of sweat dropping off my head. I gained strength as I passed the 100 km mark—the place where I had to give in a year ago. Then the muscles in my legs began to cramp. At first I tried to settle them down, but they’d had enough of the abuse, and made like a wet towel being wrung out. My muscles were telling me they were done, but they didn’t know I had a goal to complete. I pushed on.

At the last aid station, I called my wife, who was waiting in Whistler. “I’m going to do this. I’m coming!” With 16 km to go, the hills didn’t let up, and neither did the muscle cramps. In fact, with 7km to go I had to stop and have a talk with my muscles. I hadn’t gotten this far to quit. I sent a text message to my wife telling her that I would be a little longer than I thought. I stretched my muscles at a bus stop that had become an oasis for other riders seeking respite.

Nothing was going to stop me now. Not the hills. Not the heat. Not the exhausted muscles. I climbed back on my bike and pedaled down the kilometres. A sign on the side of the road read, last hill. A welcome sight indeed. Six hours and fifty minutes after leaving Vancouver, I turned into Whistler Village and sprinted toward the finish. I tried putting both arms up in celebration, but my muscles were screaming out and my legs tried to seize up, so I did a couple of fist pumps with one hand instead.

It took a little longer that I thought, but my goal was complete. No one at the finish, except my wife, knew what this meant. To them I was just another rider. Congratulations. They knew nothing of the pain...the struggle...the doubt. To be sure there were others that day, fighting through their own battles, and trying to climb that mountain.

Sometimes you have to fail before you can taste success.

Why do we project biases onto our children?

2011-07-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wonder why adults and society in general project certain biases onto children? Okay, maybe you’ve never given it much thought, but every day we project our own preconceptions about things on to our children. Sometimes we don’t even know we’re doing it. Like when we tell our children, “You might not like it, but you can try it.” Why don’t we just let them try something without adding our own biases?

Of course gender biasing is a huge issue and starts the day a child is born. It manifests itself in the colours we associate with girls and boys, and the toys they are supposed to play with. My six-year old son has never really been interested in trucks and diggers and other heavy machinery. No, he’d much rather spend his days in the library reading books. In fact, he often likes reading about the Disney princess’ and we don’t discourage it. Yet, I’m sure many a parent would dissuade their young sons from reading “girl” books.

There was a time a few years ago when Jack was into Tinker Bell, so much so that he wanted a Tinker Bell cake for his birthday. When I went to the shop to order the cake, they asked me what name I wanted written on the cake?

“Jack”, I answered.

“And how do you spell that,” she asked.

“J—A—C—K,” I told her, sounding surprised that someone would have to ask how to spell that name.

“Oh, I thought it was for Jacqueline.”

Of course, because why would a boy be interested in cool things like fairies, with magical powers?

Another time, we went to a McDonald’s in Hawaii, when Jack was about three, and he was hoping that the princess tiara would come in his Happy Meal, but it didn’t, because the tiara was a “girl toy”. Why doesn’t McDonald’s just have “toys” with their kids’ meals? Maybe it’s about marketing, but I’m not sure what value there is in having toys for boys and toys for girls, it only magnifies the gender biasing that is already so prevalent in our society.

On our way to the airport the following day, we stopped in at that McDonald’s and got Jack the tiara. He loved it and wore it many times. Some parents would never have let their son where a tiara. Too girly...too sissy...not manly enough...give the kid a truck, they would have said. And while Jack looked a bit goofy wearing the tiara, we didn’t discourage him from his play.

And just a few weeks ago, Jack and I, and Max, my two year-old son, were at the amusement park and we were waiting in line for the big Ferris wheel. The next car to come toward us was a bright pink one. Bubble gum pink. A real vibrant and fun looking colour. Seeing three males standing in front of her, the ride operator asked if we wanted the pink car, or did we want to wait for the blue one that followed. Why should it matter that some boys got the pink car? Would she have said the same thing to a group of girls if the blue car had come in first? Maybe, but not likely. Of course, we’d take the pink car, and I knew exactly what Max would say, so I asked him.

“Pink...like Kylie Minogue.”

Kylie Minogue, is a popular Australian singer, who made an appearance on a Wiggles show that Max likes, and she wears a pink shirt, so Max always associates pink with Kylie Minogue.

The other day, a neighbour looked at Max and said, "Wow, I love your blue eyes...you are so beautiful." Then she quickly apologized for calling a boy beautiful, and then said he looked handsome. Why can't a man be beautiful? In fact, Max's eyes are beautiful.

Of course there are differences between girls and boys, but what are we doing to our children when we narrowly focus their play and imagination with a bias that adults have created?

I know my place

2011-06-15T21:34:00.000-07:00

“Daddy’s going to be in a bike race,” my wife said to our six-year old son, Jack, the other day.

While it was indeed a race—six times around a 10.5 km course—I use the term “race” loosely, because I had no pretence that I was really racing myself.

“Do you think he’ll win,” Jack replied to his mother.

“I don’t think so,” she said

“But why not? What if he tries really hard,” Jack said as if willing me to win. And that’s what I like about young children. Anything is possible.

Later that night while putting Jack to bed, he looked at me with me sincerity and said, “Good luck with the race. Try hard and make sure you pass 10 people.” It was nice that the expectations had been tempered. Daddy won’t (I mean can’t) win, but maybe he can pass 10 people.

While waiting at the start of the race, told a friend this story, and then I started sizing up the competition. There were about 70 riders in my category of unlicensed “racers”. Looking around at the fit and lean cyclists, with their three and four thousand Dollar bikes, I turned to Tom and said, “I don’t even think there are 10 people here that I can pass.” It would have been like showing up at a Formula 1 race with my Toyota Corolla.

A couple of seconds later, Tom looked at me and said, “We’ve only been a block and we are in last place already.”

A few hundred metres along, we started down a small hill through the University of British Columbia, and onto Southwest Marine Drive, and it was at that point I thought of Jack’s words of encouragement—try hard and pass 10 people. I knew I couldn’t catch that many, so I dashed ahead of a couple of people and never looked back.

On my way up the course’s only hill for the first time, about six of the elite racers passed me, and when a course volunteer shouted words of encouragement to me, I pointed to the riders that had just passed me and jokingly said, “I must be in seventh place.”

While I tried to keep my speed over 30 km/h along the flat stretches, a pack of the elite riders—20 or 30 at a time—zipped passed me at 40 km/h, maybe faster. The sound they made was not unlike what I imagine a swarm bees to make. Impressive on a number of levels.

It took me a little more than two-and-a-half hours to complete the 63km. When I got home, Jack asked me if I came in last place. Funny, how the expectations had fallen even further.

Subway overtakes McDonald's

2011-03-18T22:11:00.000-07:00

Used to be in some parts of the world (maybe still is) that having a McDonald’s meant you had arrived—economically and socially. Because McDonald’s doesn’t just open up anywhere, it was seen that a country or city was modern, and part of the global family.

In Sharjah, one of the United Arab Emirates.

I remember hearing people say (or at least that was their talk) that they would never go to a McDonald’s when travelling. I, on the other hand, had no hang ups about stopping in at the golden arches on my travels. In fact, some of them were quite memorable. In Zurich for instance, I remember sitting outside on a wooden picnic table. It was a pleasant fall day, and I munched away on a cheeseburger, while watching people stroll through a large plaza, near the train station. In Macau, one McDonald’s is set inside one of the city’s delightful Portuguese inspired buildings. In Costa Rica, my wife and I went to a McDonald’s, and then made up a silly song about hamburguesas (as burgers are called there). And in the last few weeks that my wife and I were in Seoul, when she had lost much of her sight, she would venture out some afternoons to McDonald's, and the large red and yellow sign, however blurry it must have been for her, was the one thing she could see.

I’ve been to McDonald’s in Krakow and Melbourne. Suva and Sharjah. Panama and Bucharest. But there are some places that I have been where there wasn’t one of these ubiquitous restaurants. In Cuba and Iran, for instance. And I don’t remember there being one in Antananarivo, Madagascar.

Hamming it up in Macau

I once asked the McDonald’s corporate headquarters if they had a list of all the countries where they had a restaurant. They told me they don’t keep that information. Really? I imagined the entrance of the global office of McDonald’s to have a giant wall map of the world, and little “M”s lit up representing all the places their brand is. Though I did find on the McDonald’s Canada website that they have restaurants in 119 countries.

Given that, you could be forgiven for thinking that McDonald’s is the largest fast-food chain in the world. And for sure, they are still one of the most globally recognized brands, but they no longer have the most restaurants. That honour recently went to the Subway sandwich shop. Yes, there are 33,700 Subways, compared to 32,700 McDonald’s.

I can’t say I’ve been to a whole lot of Subway restaurants around the world. And the few that I have been to just don't hold the same reminiscences that McDonald’s does.

Is there a pilot on board?

2011-02-13T18:33:00.000-08:00

You know those stories you hear about medical emergencies on airplanes, and a call goes out, “Is there a doctor on board?”

A week ago, while waiting for a flight from Vancouver to Kelowna, I expected a slightly different announcement to come over the PA -- “Is there a pilot on board?”

Our flight was to depart at 6:50 PM, but poor runway conditions in Kelowna, resulting from snow, delayed our flight. Because of the delay the flight crew had gone over their allowed duty time, and a new crew needed to be found. A short time later, a pilot showed at the desk and a few people broke out in tempered applause.

Finally, at 9:00 PM, two hours after our scheduled departure, boarding commenced. Once everyone was seated, the Captain came on the PA and announced that while he was ready to fly, he needed a first officer. I thought he was going to ask if there was a pilot on board. Instead, he told us they were looking for a pilot in the airport.

Mike Luckovich cartoon

A short time later, he told us they were now looking for a pilot who lives near the airport in Richmond. And added that the flight attendants had been working for almost 14 hours, and if we didn’t leave soon, they would need to find a new cabin crew as well.

Almost an hour-and-a-half after we boarded the aircraft, and close to four hours after our flight was supposed to depart, the Captain announced that our flight was cancelled and that we would be rebooked on a flight the following day.

Since I don't live near the airport and given the late hour, I wasn’t sure how practical it was to go home and then have to return in the morning during rush hour traffic, so I decided to find a hotel. The Air Canada agent told me that because I lived locally and that delay was caused by weather, they wouldn’t put me up in a hotel (though later when I thought about it, it may have begun as a weather delay, but had it not turned into an Air Canada dispatch and staffing issue).

Just as I was leaving the counter, another passenger told me that the Fairmont Vancouver Airport, my favourite hotel—for its comfort and location (inside the airport), had rates for $129. The Air Canada agent told me to tell them that I had a missed connection. Perfect, I thought. I’d get a good night’s sleep and already be at the airport in the morning.

I went to the hotel’s front desk and told the young woman that I had a cancelled flight and Air Canada told me the hotel had rates of $129.

She didn’t say as much, but the look she gave me was one of, “Oh, they did, did they?”

“Do you have any paperwork from the airline?” she asked, curtly.

“No, they didn’t give me anything.”

“Well, they’re supposed to.”

After this brief exchange, she got on the phone and tried calling an airline rep, but no one answered. She called again, and still there was no answer. Finally, she talked to her colleague next to her, and while I didn’t hear what she said, I imagined the conversation went like this.

“This guy has asked for a rate of $129, but he doesn’t have any paperwork from the airline, what do I do?”

And he probably said what anyone would at 11:00 PM, “Give him the room for $129 and don’t worry about the paperwork.”

She asked for my credit card, pecked away at her computer and as she was giving me the key to the room, she said, “They know they are supposed to give passengers some paperwork.”

Okay, I got it. You’re peeved at the airline, but don’t project that onto your customers. The feeling I got was that somehow I was cheating the hotel for asking for this rate.

I went to the nicely appointed room, and climbed into bed. At 2:00 am I was awoken by a large, flashing white light that was going off in my room. The light flashed every second, and was accompanied by a clicking sound, as if someone was tapping a metal bowl with chopsticks.

I looked up at the light and saw the word, FIRE. I didn’t hear any commotion out in the hallway, so I called down to the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Donohue...you’re calling about the flashing light...there was a false alarm and the fire department is on their way, and once they clear a panel it will stop. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

The light was so piercingly bright that when I closed my eyes, the inside of my head lit up. I tried pulling the cover over my head, but I could still see the flash of light and hear the clicking sound.

After 30 minutes and with the light still filling my head, I called down to the front desk again.

“Hello Mr. Donohue, yes the light...we are still working on it, shouldn’t be much more.”

Thirty more minutes, and at 3:00 am (an hour after it started), I called the front desk again, still very patient, but sounding a tad annoyed.

“Hello, Mr. Donohue...yes the light, we are not sure what’s wrong, but we are working on it...shouldn’t be long now.”

As I lay there, I imagined that this was what it was like for a prisoner to be tortured psychologically. No wonder you hear of people confessing to things they didn’t do-- they just want the madness to stop.

At 4:00 am and with the torment now having gone on for two hours, I called once more to the front desk.

“Hello Mr. Donohue. Yes, the light. We aren’t sure what is going.”

“Is this happening in every room in the hotel?” I asked. A subtle way of suggesting that I might be moved to another room.

“No, it’s just on the 10^th floor...I’ll find you another right room.”

I got up, put my clothes on and packed my suitcase. A few minutes later the night manager rapped on my door. “There’ll be no charge for the night, Mr. Donohue and you can have a complimentary breakfast, if you like.”

He told me to leave my bags in the room, and led me to another room a floor above. I found it amusing when he talked up the benefits of the new room.

“This is our deluxe room,” he went on.

At 4:15 am, I didn’t much care what room I had, as long as a bright light didn’t pulse into my head.

Three hours later, the alarm clock went off. Bleary eyed, I returned to my first room to shower and collect my bags. The light was still flashing in the room.

Because I had a plane to catch, I didn’t have time for breakfast, and when I was leaving, the night manager was very apologetic.

I checked in for my flight, and learned that my flight had been delayed.

Is there a pilot on board?

On being considerate

2011-02-06T18:37:00.000-08:00

I was listening to the radio the other day and the hosts were talking about people being considerate, which got me thinking about some of the small things we could do to be more considerate. Imagine how much nicer the world be if we were all a little more considerate.

Don't leave your dishes in the kitchen sink at work

Don’t pee on the toilet

Flush the toilet after using it

Don’t push your way ahead of other cars when merging. We’re all wanting to get somewhere.

Use your turn signal when you want to change lanes or turn a corner

Really, for the sake of courtesy and safety, only one car should be turning left on an amber light, not 2,3, and 4 cars that we routinely see

If you're a pedestrian, don’t cross the street when it says don’t walk--you’ll hold up traffic wanting to turn

Don’t jay walk on busy streets or near intersections

Bicyclists – obey the rules of the road. Stop at stop signs and lights, and don’t ride on the sidewalk

At the grocery store, don’t leave your cart in the middle of the aisle, move it to one side, so others can get by

When returning a basket at the checkstand make sure it’s stacked properly

Don’t leave unwanted food at the end of the checkstand, or left on shelves in random aisles, especially perishables

When queueing at the checkout, don’t block the aisle way in front of the check stand

And when you're finished with it, return your shopping cart to the appropriate place

If you're driving, and you're stopped at a light, don’t block streets and alleys. And those signs that say not to stop in front of a fire station are there for good reason

And when you do hear a firetruck, or ambulance, or police car, move aside. Chances are they're not going to the same place you are

Don’t litter! Take your garbage with you, or find a trash bin

Don’t spit your gum on the street or sidewalk. It’s makes an unsightly mess and might stick to the bottom of someone’s shoe

Clean after your dog

Don’t throw cigarette butts on the street

Open doors for people

Move to the back of the transit bus when you get on

Use the back door of the bus when exiting

Stand aside and let those on a bus, train or elevator come off first before getting on

Don’t leave newspapers and garbage on the seats and floors of buses

Give up your seat to someone who might need it more than you

When driving let someone beside you change lanes when they have their blinker on

Wash your hands after using the toilet

Take your tray and garbage off the table when you are finished with them at a fast food restaurant. If you brought it to the table, take it away

At the airport don’t stand in the way when your row hasn’t been called. If you want to be first on an airplane, buy a business class ticket, rent a baby, or choose a seat at the back of the airplane

Maybe you have some more ideas on how we might all be a little more considerate.

Random thoughts

2011-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:00

Apparently only 15 percent of Canadian adults are getting enough exercise -- 2.5 hours of moderate to vigorous exercise per week -- so says a recent study.

Have you ever noticed that when people get on an escalator or moving walkway, they stop walking, as if the world owes them something? Have you noticed that when we go to the shopping centre, we instinctively drive around and around trying to find the closest spot to the door, so we don’t have to walk far? And if you take transit, do you know notice how everyone huddle at the end of the train platform where the escalator deposited them, instead of walking further down.

Imagine if we just walked a little more.

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My five year old son asked the other day, why it is that people say the alarm [smoke alarm, fire alarm, alarm clock] is going off, when really it is going on? Yes, why is that?

Back to the grind

2011-01-16T21:35:00.000-08:00

The other day I got up for the first time in more than a year and went off to work. Not that I didn’t do work over the past 13 months, just a different kind.

What’s interesting is how familiar the routine was. Bag packed and ready by the front door, clothes hung out the night before (I even tied my tie on the first attempt, something that doesn’t always happen). At 6:20 my wife turned to me as she usually did before and told me it was time to get up. Without protest I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Minutes later, after shaving and showering, I was downstairs pouring a bowl of Special K. It was all very machine-like.

When I got to the bus stop, I recognized some familiar faces – bus friends as they’re called. I wondered what they had been up to over the past year.

My commute is similar as before—bus, train, bus. Sometimes I can make it just over an hour, other times it’s longer, like the other night when it took an hour and forty minutes to get home. The hawkers of free newspapers still ply their trade at train stations. People still don’t move to the back of the bus, so the driver thinks the bus is full and leaves others waiting at the stop while the back third of the bus is empty. And the people that should get up to give someone a seat still don’t. Some things never change.

Riders still have the same tired, sullen look. I remember someone telling me years ago that all the people in Romania look depressed. Have you ever been on a bus or train in Vancouver in the morning?

Though there are some differences. The music spilling from people’s ears is different than it was a year ago. And while many still pass the time flipping the pages of free newspapers, others now entertain themselves on new ipad tablets.

While making my lunch the other night, my wife said to me, “I remember you doing that...we’re you really off for a year.” After three days it surely doesn’t feel like I was.

Beautiful moments

2011-01-02T11:04:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had one of those times when the beauty of the world is so striking that it leaves you in awe. Yesterday, while driving through Vancouver's Stanley Park, we had one of those moments. As the late afternoon sun set, it burned the sky marvelous hues of reds and oranges. My wife captured the beauty in the photographs below. Looking at them now, it's hard to believe that the temperature was zero degrees, instead of more a balmy temperature felt in the summer.

This experience again shows how beautiful the world is, and reminds me that really we have nothing to complain about.

May you find your own beautiful moments in 2011.

Christmas traditions

2010-12-24T11:05:00.000-08:00

Christmas is all about traditions--midnight Mass, decorated trees, colourful lights, platters of stuffed turkeys, egg nog, stockings hung with care by the fireplace (does anyone know how Santa comes through the gas fireplace), and for those of an English persuasion, Christmas crackers.

Some Christmas traditions are more personal. Knowing my interest in airplanes, a friend, who I worked with, gave me an airplane tree ornament several years ago. The following Christmas another plane landed on my desk. In fact, as sure as Santa Claus, a new plane would arrive every year. Some were heavy and weighted down the branches. Others more delicate. But all were unique.

There were years when Lisa would traipse all over town searching in vain for a plane, and as the days ticked toward the 25th of December, she thought the tradition might end. But for more than 10 years, a plane was always found.

Since we no longer work with one another, I was sure this great tradition had been grounded, but yesterday, Lisa gave me another ornament. The Dornier 18, a 1930s flying boat, now hangs with 12 other planes on our Christmas tree.

Maybe you have a Christmas tradition of your own.

The Dornier 18, and below some more of the planes in the collection

Pets more trusted than people

2010-12-16T13:24:00.000-08:00

I once got asked in a job interview if I liked pets. And it wasn't for a job at a pet store. Despite getting the answer wrong (according to the person doing the interviewing), I still got the job. This leads me to an article in today's paper in which a poll suggested that pets are more trusted than people. I'm not sure what this says about human interaction, but at least I know that my wallet and cell phone, which I keep next to our fish tank, are safe.

I wasn't sure if at night our fish, the name of which I'm not sure, because my five-year old son has a new name for it every day, would rifle through my wallet and pinch a couple of 20s, or maybe use my phone to call friends on the Great Barrier Reef.

But this article allayed any fears I had, and I can trust that our fish will indeed stay in the tank. This couldn't be said of our last fish, which was flushed recently. When we opened the lid to feed her she would jump out of the water. In fact, on one occasion she jumped right out of the tank, landed on the counter, and bounced onto the floor. Utilizing the five-second rule, my wife brushed the fish off and plunked it back in the tank. Now that I think about it, maybe the fish was trying to go for my wallet.

Vancouver Sun: Pets more trusted than people, poll finds

Wife limits new career choices

2010-12-06T16:56:00.000-08:00

It’s been some time now since I was involuntarily liberated from my job, and joined the 7% of other British Columbians who are out of work. One day I was leading a talented and successful team, and the next, a cost-cutting exercise eliminated my job. It can’t get more humbling than that.

On hearing that I had lost my job, my initial concern was for my wife and two young sons. I wondered how they would take the news that Daddy wouldn’t be going to the office everyday. When I told my five-year-old son, Jack, what had happened, he said matter-of-factly, “So, they don’t need you anymore?”

My other son, Max, is two years old, and is too young to really understand the concept of having, and not having a job, though he probably did wonder why Daddy has been around the house more. To be sure, if there is one positive from losing my job, it has been the extra time I have been able to spend with the boys. Whether baking muffins, doing art projects, or simply playing with them, the time I’ve been able to spend with them is precious.

I remember one day, not long after getting the news that they didn’t need me anymore, Jack and I were in the car driving, and out of nowhere he announced that I should get a job at Toys “R” Us. He assured me that he would come and visit me at work, where he would presumably check out all the toys. Then he suggested maybe I should work at our local supermarket. He thought some more and then offered that a job at the Aquarium would be a good idea, so long as I was able to get him a free pass.

In fact, Jack has been very supportive during my career search, and full of great ideas. Like not long ago, when he said maybe I could get a job at BLOCKBUSTER. Surely, he was figuring he’d get a discount on movie rentals. Though he did offer to help me restock the shelves.

Someone mentioned that maybe I just needed to be retrained. Like to what, I thought? Plumbing? Welding? Carpentry? I’m not handy with tools (I blame it on being left handed). I can’t cut straight and I don’t know the difference between a Robertson and a Phillips screwdriver. In fact, my Grade 8 woodworking teacher said he would pass me as long as I never took another course. He lived up to his side of the bargain, and so have I. And I’m sure if I attempted some plumbing the water from the sink faucet would probably start flowing from the toilet.

While my son has been very helpful in identifying potential jobs for me, my wife, on the other hand, has been far more limiting in my career options. First, she told me I couldn’t become a police officer, soldier, or an airline pilot. Too dangerous, she said. Then she added astronaut, deep-sea fisherman, and miner to the list. Okay, how about being a logger? No! Roofer? No! Steelworker? No! Professional hockey player? She just laughed.

When Premier Campbell announced his retirement, I thought, how fortuitous. But before I could even consider that job opening, my wife said politics was out of the question. It wasn’t so much the physical danger of that position, but rather the verbal barbs one must endure.

Who knows what she’ll come up with today? Maybe, my son will have some better ideas for me.

Fifth Freedom offers travellers the chance to fly an "exotic" airline

2010-12-03T23:11:00.000-08:00

If you’re not intimately familiar with the airline industry, chances are you have never heard of the industry convention, Fifth Freedom. Sort of sounds like a resistance movement, but in reality it allows an airline from one country to carry revenue traffic and cargo between two or more other countries. The benefit for the airline is that it allows it to break up a long flight, while at the same time generate revenue between two foreign countries. Passengers benefit by getting more choice, and are able to experience an airline that they may not normally have an opportunity to. And while fares for these flights are often competively priced, in most cases they also come with full international service.

It was at the 1944 International Air Transport Conference, where the Canadian delegation’s proposal to allow five “freedoms of the air” was adopted. There are now nine freedoms, which simply are negotiated commercial aviation rights granting a country’s airline the privilege to enter or land in another country’s airspace.

The First Freedom allows an airline from one country to overfly another country without landing. This happens everyday, for example when airlines from Asia and Europe fly through Canadian airspace before landing in the United States. The Second Freedom allows an airline to land in another country for technical reasons, often to refuel, without picking up or letting off revenue traffic. The Third and Fourth freedoms are the most common, which allows an airline to carry passengers and cargo from one's own country to another, and back again.

It’s the Fifth Freedom flights that offer an interesting perspective. I once had a friend seeking advice from me, because he wanted to fly from Hong Kong to Bangkok, and he wasn't sure what airline flew this route. Given the origin and destination, Thai Airways and Cathay Pacific were obvious choices, with both offering multiple flights a day. However, I told him he could also fly on SriLankan Airlines, Emirates, Kenya Airways, Royal Jordanian, or Ethiopian Airlines—the latter of which is, maybe surprising to some, actually a well-regarded airline. Who knew there was such choice between these two cities?

Interested in flying from Los Angeles to London? Did you know that Air New Zealand can get you there with some Kiwi flair? How about flying from Los Angeles to Paris on Air Tahiti Nui? Or New York to Frankfurt on Singapore Airlines or Air India? Fancy some Chilean hospitality on a short sector between Toronto and New York. Did you know that instead of flying from Vancouver to Las Vegas on a small jet with limited service, you could fly four times a week on a spacious Philippine Airlines Airbus 340-300, with 264 seats in a two-class configuration?

While fifth freedom flights often offer good value, there are some drawbacks. Some don't fly daily, and the timing of the flight is not always ideal. Like the time I flew Hong Kong’s, Cathay Pacific, from New York to Vancouver, and it arrived at 2:00 am.

Vancouver’s geographical location made it well suited for fifth freedom flights, but in recent years many of these have been discontinued for a variety of reasons. Airlines that offered these flights from Vancouver included:

Philippine Airlines – New York (Newark)

Qantas – San Francisco

Singapore Airlines – Seoul

Air Pacific – Honolulu

Malaysia Airlines – Taipei

Japan Airlines – Mexico City

In places all over the world, these Fifth Freedom flights exist, so the next time you book your flight, ask your travel agent or search the web, and you just might be able to fly an airline you’ve never heard of.

How your photos can help children

2010-11-29T11:28:00.000-08:00

If you are interested in having a photo calendar or book produced, especially during the coming holidays (St. Nicholas Day, Hanukkah, Christmas, and Kwanzaa), then you might consider using the link below to purchase one through usharephoto, and in doing so support the Children's Organ Transplant Society.

I sit on the Board of this grassroots organization that for the past 10 years has provided much needed support for children (and their families) waiting for an organ transplant, and also those that have received this life-saving procedure.

By purchasing a photo book or calendar through this link, a significant portion of the cost will be redirected back to the Children's Organ Transplant Society to fund expanded programs, including sending children to summer camp, and helping alleviate some of the costs for families who need to purchase medical supplies and medications that are not covered by government programs.

http://www.usharephoto.com/Microsites/COTS/

Should you have any questions, please let me know @ whitemanwalking@gmail.com. And feel free to share this link with your family and friends.

Learning about the world...one day at a time

2010-11-27T09:06:00.000-08:00

Jack at one year...brushing up on his geography

My sister used to poke fun at me for reading an atlas before going to bed when I was young. In fact, I still love looking through an atlas. So, it shouldn’t really be a surprise that Jack, my eldest son, who is five years old, shares that same curiosity of the world. I remember when he was just a little over one year old at Disneyland, and he was pouring over the Park map, as if ready to offer someone directions. For months afterward he would look at that same map before going to bed. More recently he’s taken to scrolling through Google Earth. And while he often zeroes in on one of the five Disneyland Parks throughout the world, he also takes delight in finding London’s Big Ben, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Amazon River.

His interest in the world has been fuelled in part by the places he’s already visited in his short life, including: Montreal, Quebec City, California, Hawaii, Fiji, and Australia.

Jack finds his way at Disneyland

I remember once over dinner some time ago, Jack remarked with certainty, “I want to go to Chicago!” "Why do you want to go there," his mother asked? "Because I want to know what's there," he replied, sounding very grown up. He also often quips that he would like to visit Paris and New York City. And while he hasn’t yet been, I have little doubt that he will one day visit these iconic cities.

As parents, we have had the opportunity to travel, and so my wife and I don’t discourage his geographical inquisitiveness. In fact, we often end up folding and putting away the many maps that he has collected and keeps in a box.

Recently, I wondered how I could enhance his curiosity for the world, and at the same time provide a fun, learning experience. That’s how the big tin, which coincidentally is adorned with the flags of the Canadian Provinces, came to find a place in our kitchen.

In it, I put several pieces of paper with the names of countries, along with an image of their flag, and information about that country, such as the capital, language, currency, literacy rate, and landmark.

Each day, Jack excitedly reaches into the tin and pulls out one country and reads about that place. He now knows that the capital of Nepal is Kathmandu and the literacy rate in the Himalayan country is less than 50%. In contrast, he also knows that in Finland (and Norway) the literacy rate is 100%. I wanted to include the literacy rate of a country, because I felt it was important that Jack know that while he has access to knowledge, books, and an education, it isn’t so for many people around the world. In fact, when he learned that half the people in Nepal over the age of 15 can’t read or write his eyes grew big and he said, “That’s not good.”

The first day we introduced the big tin, we had to temper Jack’s enthusiasm, because he wanted to read about all the countries in the tin at once. Letting him choose one country a day has created some fun and excitement, as he looks forward to learning about the next one.

So far Jack has learned about familiar places, such as Canada, the United States, and from the movies, Madagascar, but he also now knows a little something about Turkey, Qatar, Hungary, Egypt, Bolivia, Kenya, India, and a host others.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if one day Jack tells me he wants to go to Azerbaijan.

Ferry fares not really out of line

2010-11-19T11:54:00.000-08:00

BC Ferries' Spirit of British Columbia in Active Pass

Why would B.C. Ferries buy space rinkside at Rogers Arena? They even have a huge ad under the clock. I wonder how much those cost? Last time I checked there was no other ferry competition in BC. Where does this ad money come from, our inflated ferry rates?

This letter, by Rudy Pospisil, was recently published in The Province newspaper.

Reminds of the conversations I used to have with my father, who retired as a Captain at BC Ferries after having worked there for 42 years. “Why does BC Ferries need a marketing department,” he would often pontificate. In his mind, the real work of the ferries was done on the ships, not in some distant office, and definitely not done by some marketing people. I’m not sure that he ever bought into it, but I always told him that those marketing people help drive passengers on to the ferries, and without them he would have fewer opportunities to transport people back and forth.

Sure enough there are very few options, apart from an airplane to travel between the many islands that dot the coast and the mainland of British Columbia. And some people will have no choice but to take a ferry. But BC Ferries doesn’t hold a monopoly on where people spend their leisure dollars. And with games being televised around the world, what a splendid opportunity to promote one of the world’s finest ferry systems in the world. Yes, BC Ferries needs marketing people just as they need Captains. Some may think one is more important than the other, but in the end, each is contributing to the same goal.

But back to Pospisil’s letter and his assertion that BC Ferries' rates are inflated. (I’m sure people would still find a way to complain even if the fare was free). I wonder if Pospisil realizes the cost of operating a fleet of 36 ships to 47 ports scattered hundreds of miles along the coast of BC? Does he realize that the cost of fuel has risen sharply in recent years? Does he know that on some routes the fare charged doesn’t even come close to cover operating costs, and yet the ferry company continues to provide this public service. Furthermore, does Pospisil know what comparable ferry fares are around the world?

Tell me if you think BC Ferries’ fares are inflated. (all fares have been converted to CDN Dollars)

BC Ferries

Vancouver - Vancouver Island
Sailing time: 95 minutes

Passenger – $13.75

Car and passenger - $58.25

P&O Ferries

Dover – Calais

Sailing time: 90 minutes

Passenger - $30

Car and passenger - $40

Black Ball Ferry Co.

Port Angeles – Victoria

Sailing time: 90 minutes

Passenger - $15.50

Car and passenger - $55

Blue Star Ferries (Greece)

Naxos – Paros

Sailing time: 45 minutes

Passenger - $10

Car and passenger - $48

Inter Islander (New Zealand)

Wellington – Picton

Sailing time: 3 hours

Passenger - $51

Car and passenger - $164

Wightlink (UK)

Fishbourne – Portsmouth

Sailing time: 40 minutes

Passenger - $14

Car and passenger - $82

Japanese ingenuity at its best

2010-11-17T21:44:00.000-08:00

Aside from odd television programming and karaoke, I have great admiration for the Japanese. Instant noodles, the Walkman (for those of a certain age, yes there were portable music players before the iPod) high speed trains, robots and toilets that come with remotes and play music are all part of Japanese ingenuity. Oh, and my car is Japanese.

And now the Japanese have created a series of vending machines that use facial recognition technology to recommend customers a beverage. No need to think. The machine will recognize if you are male or female, or of a certain age, and will then show images of recommended drinks based on your characteristics. The time of day and temperature will also determine which drinks are recommended. Apparently, the company has done extensive market research; hence, the machine may offer a woman in her 20s a slightly sweeter beverage, while an older man might have green tea as a recommendation.

My only question is would it recognize my preference for Coke over Pepsi if I wink or wiggle an ear?

How fortunate we are

2010-11-12T19:15:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took my five year old son to a Remembrance Day service at Vancouver's Victory Square. Thousands crowded around the cenotaph. Poems were read, songs sung, and a lone bugler silenced the mass with the stirring notes of The Last Post.

But the most poignant moment for me came when the first shot was fired from a large field gun a few blocks away on the harbour. The booming sound startled my son. "Daddy, what was that?" he asked with alarm, pulling himself close to me.

In that instant I imagined a young boy or girl holed up in the security of their home in London or Dresden some 70 years ago asking that same question, as bombs were exploding around them. I imagined the parents masking the worry on their faces, and telling their children that everything would be okay. Then I realized that even today, somewhere in the world, a child was probably clutching their mother or father in fear and asking what that unsettling sound was. A gun, perhaps. Or maybe a bomb.

With the sound of the 21-gun salute echoing throughout the city, my son and I walked to our car and drove away. How fortunate we are.

Remembering Vimy

2010-11-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Given that tomorrow is Remembrance Day (not Rememberance, as some people seem to think), I decided to dig out a piece from my archives (okay, really it was the bottom of a filing cabinet) that I wrote after visiting Vimy Ridge, almost to the day in 1993. The article was published in a student newspaper in 1996.

Remembering Vimy

Before I visited the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy Ridge, in France, I didn’t know what to expect. My limited knowledge of Vimy came from what I read in books and watched on television. But after witnessing the wounds that were so callously inflicted upon the earth and scrolling my hands across the monument that stands as a testament to this tragedy, I have a new understanding of what Vimy Ridge means, an understanding that can only be gained by being there.

Growing up, I was told of the sacrifices made by my grandparents, great grandparents, and even by strangers. I learned of the tragedy that consumed the world in 1914 and again in 1939. And each November I wore a poppy.

Remembering was always difficult, though—my generation never experienced anything as horrific as a world war. Not even my parents could fully comprehend. Besides, how could I remember something if I was never there? I read of the atrocities that swept across Europe, but somehow it didn’t seem real. I watched the aging veterans march by on Remembrance Day, but they seemed more like grandfathers than soldiers.

Seventy-eight years ago, thousands upon thousands of Canadians, most of them younger than I am a today, gave their lives simply for the sake of human misfortune. Others, fortunate enough to survive, would have forever etched in their memories a brutal place where they lost their friends, their innocence, and most of all the simple joys we take for granted.

As I stood on the Ridge it was hard to imagine what went on seventy-nine years ago. The clouds hung low, and a cool mist was in the air, much like it must have been during the war. I tried to picture what it would have been like during the battle—the piercing sounds of artillery fire, the final words of a wounded soldier—but there was just a serene calmness. Beautiful trees and lush grasses have replaced the blood and tears.

For those who were never there, remembering is difficult, but compassion and understanding is the greatest gift we can give to those who courageously went to war. November is a special time to remember those who sacrificed their lives. Let us never forget, for when we begin to lose sight of the sacrifices given, another senseless war will once again consume the world. To those who so bravely answered the call — thanks.

~ Ken Donohue…1996

For more information on the Vimy Ridge Memorial
http://www.vac-acc.gc.ca/remembers/sub.cfm?source=memorials/ww1mem/vimy

A poignant reminder of Remembrance Day is Terry Kelly's, A Pittance of Time

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kX_3y3u5Uo&feature=related

Isn't a superjumbo a hot dog?

2010-11-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

As much as I dislike the look of the Airbus 380 (it's an ugly beast), I equally disdain the use of the word superjumbo when referring to the world's largest commercial airplane. I have a friend who has flown on the A380 and he spoke glowingly of the aircraft's passenger cabins. This may be so, but it lacks the grace and beautiful lines of the Boeing 747, previously the world's largest commercial aircraft.

I first saw the Airbus A380 in Hong Kong, while the aircraft was performing a number of proving flights. And earlier this year while in Toronto I saw an Emirates A380 preparing for its 13-hour non stop flight to Dubai. It was an eye-catcher to be sure, as people were fumbling for their cameras, but it still did little for me.

But back to unoriginal monikers. Before the launch of the Boeing 747 in the late 1960s, the term "jumbo jet" (a term I regard on par with superjumbo) had been coined by the media to describe a a new class of wide bodied aircraft being developed. To their credit, Boeing apparently tried to discourage the media and public from using the term for the 747. Unfortunately, their efforts were in vain, as the Boeing 747 and "jumbo jet" became synonymous.

The Boeing 747, a beautiful looking airplane. Photo by sirsteveincairns.smugmug.com

So, if it's necessary to provide a moniker for the Airbus A380, and personally I don't see the need, why then have we chosen the most unoriginal, superjumbo? Because the A380 is bigger than the 747, therefore we shall call it the superjumbo?. Is that the best we could come up with? Reminds me how every little political scandal now ends with the word "gate", because of Watergate.

And how is it that two adjectives have now become a noun. And why does the media feel it necessary to populate every article on the A380 with the word superjumbo?

You may have heard that a Qantas Airbus A380 made an emergency landing shortly after taking off from Singapore the other day when an explosion in one of its engines caused that engine to fail. While the damage to the engine looked dramatic, it would probably have been a fairly routine landing, as its three other engines were apparently operating fine.

In one article on the incident, a reporter unnecessarily used the word superjumbo twice in the first paragraph:

Australia's Qantas Airways grounded all its Airbus A380 superjumbos Thursday after an engine failure forced one of the superjumbos to make an emergency landing in Singapore with more than 450 people on board.

And here I thought a superjumbo was a hot dog sold on the streets of Manhattan.

Who's taxing who?

2010-11-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

It's long been argued that airlines and airports in Canada (especially ones near the U.S. border) are often competitively disadvantaged when compared to their U.S. counterparts, because of the higher taxes and fees charged to air travellers in Canada.

On a recent visit to the Bellingham Airport, I couldn't help but notice that the majority of vehicles in the parking lot were from British Columbia--Canadians crossing the border for a good deal. In fact, according to the airport, 60% of the passengers flying out of Bellingham are Canadian.

There are a few reasons for this, not withstanding that Bellingham Airport, or BLI as it is known by its three letter code, is just 32 km (20 miles) from the Canada/U.S. border. First, BLI is served by low-cost carrier Allegiant, which operates to seven leisure destinations from that airport, and often offers exceptional fares.

The second point is that the taxes and fees charged on a ticket from Bellingham are much lower than on similar flights from Vancouver International. This got me curious as to the difference in these taxes and fees, and who collects what?

Respective governments in Canada often take the brunt of criticism from passengers, and those in the industry, who have long complained about high taxes and fees on airline tickets. But after comparing fares from both Bellingham and Vancouver, I was somewhat surprised to learn that Uncle Sam has his hands in your pockets, more than most people are probably aware.

So, here's what I did. I chose Honolulu as a destination, because, well...who wouldn't want to go to Hawaii? And also because Alaska Airlines will begin daily service from Bellingham in January.

Honolulu's famed Waikiki Beach, with Diamond Head bottom right

Sames dates were chosen for each example. For this example I chose the same dates in April.

Scenario 1 - Bellingham - Honolulu

Alaska Airlines

$426.20 - fare

$21.40 - taxes/fees

$447.60 - total

Alaska Airlines does not break the various taxes down when making a booking, but at $21.40 it's a modest amount.

Scenario 2 - Vancouver to Honolulu

WestJet (Air Canada's fare was $15 more)

$497 - fare

$110.25 - taxes/fees

$607.25 - total

Here is a breakdown of the $110.25 in taxes and fees charged on a ticket departing Vancouver.

$15 - NAV Canada surcharge (funds air navigation system)

$15 - Vancouver airport improvement fee

$25.91 - Canadian Air Travellers Security Fee

$1.80 - Canadian Sales Tax

$4.62 - U.S. Passenger Facility Charge

$33.04 - U.S. Transport Tax

$5.13 - U.S. Agriculture Fee

$2.57 - September 11 Security Fee

$7.18 - U.S. Immigration Fee

$110.25 - Total

The light blue represents the Canadian taxes/fees and the dark blue are those collected by U.S agencies. Surprising to many, perhaps, but you'll notice that almost half--$52.54--are U.S. taxes and fees.

So, what does it tell us? Well, it shows that the United States isn't as tax friendly as they are made out to be, and a family of four flying to HNL would save more than $600 by flying out of Bellingham. Explains why there are so many cars from Canada parked at BLI.

Cents and nonsense

2010-10-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

So I've said it before, and I'll say it again...it's time for the Canadian Government to stop minting the one cent coin.

It's a terrible waste for something that has virtually no value. People throw the darn things away or squirrel them away in jars and out of circulation, forcing the government to produce more cents. It doesn't make any sense. Why do we continue to allow this to happen? I was heartened by a nationwide poll a few months back that suggested almost 60% of Canadians would be in favour of scrapping the Penny. I have no idea what the other 40% are thinking, but the majority of Canadians are thinking with their heads.

I haven't heard a good argument for keeping the one cent coin. In fact, the only thing I ever hear is that merchants will round the price up if the Penny is discontinued. Really? Is that it? We're going to continue to waste money and resources, because someone is afraid they might have to pay a couple more cents for their cup of coffee, which they are already paying $3 or $4 for anyway. Big deal, I say. Even if the price did get rounded, the sky isn't going to fall, as other more progressive and forward thinking countries have already done away with their low denomination coins.

When I saw this poll in the news, I thought I would ask the Federal Government what their position was on this issue (I asked the candidates in my riding during the last election, and none bothered to respond, even the Green Party candidate whose biggest accomplishments were that he grew up in the riding, learned to ride his bike in the riding, and went on his first date in the riding, I digress).

I sent the following email to the Department of Finance on August 17th:

Hello,

For some time I have wondered why Canada continues to produce the one cent coin. Today, they are of little value, which is witnessed as people more often throw them away, or toss them in jars, putting them out of circulation. Public opinion polls suggest that the majority of Canadians want to get rid of the one cent coin, yet the government seemingly doesn't have an interest in stopping production of the coin.

I would be interested in knowing why the government continues to produce the one cent coin, and if there is a plan to stop production in the near future?

I look forward to hearing from someone.

Kind regards,
Ken Donohue

The other day, more than two months after sending my message, I received the most patronizing, meaningless, absurd response from James Flaherty, the Minister of Finance (okay, I know he knew nothing of my message, but he signed the inane letter). He didn't even answer my questions.

Here is the text of the letter:

Dear Mr. Donohue:

Thank you for your correspondence of August 17, 2010 regarding Canadian currency.

The Government of Canada's objective is to serve the coinage transaction needs of Canadians. In collaboration with the Royal Canadian Mint and the Bank of Canada, the Department of Finance Canada works to ensure that our economy has a sufficient quantity and appropriate denominations of coins and bank notes to meet the financial needs of Canadians. We assess the use of currency denominations by Canadians regularly to determine how best to serve their needs.

Thank you for communicating your concerns.

Sincerely,

James M. Flaherty

How much did they pay someone to write that drivel? I don't know what's worse, the fact it took two months to get a response or the nonsensical letter itself.

My two questions are still outstanding -- why does the Government continue to produce the one cent coin, and is there is a plan to stop production in the near future?

I wonder if the lackey that wrote this letter has any idea that the Canadian Senate's National Finance Committee has been holding hearings on this issue, since last Spring. (yes, apparently they actually do something). I'm not sure why that's necessary, but if they must.

And a week or two before I received the missive from Mr. Flaherty's office, the head of New Zealand’s Reserve Bank currency department told the hearing about his country's move to get rid of their one and two cent coins in 1989 (yes, that's more than two decades ago)

“The one- and two-cent coins had lost their value and no longer had any effective purchasing power, and as in Canada, the coins had become more costly to produce than they were worth. So it was a relatively straight-forward exercise”

No kidding! Of course it's straight-forward. It was reported that the Committee is expected to report its findings to Mr. Flaherty in the coming months. So, why wasn't that information included in the response from the Minister's office?

It may seem like a small issue (though it can't be if a Senate committee is spending months studying this), but to me it's a small win. It just makes sense. The majority of Canadians see it that way, as have other countries.

Finding promise in Bolivia's largest city

2010-10-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

City Hall in Plaza 24 de Septiembre

I had only been in Santa Cruz, Bolivia for less than 12 hours when someone asked what I thought of the city. I hate these questions, because invariably I’m forced to lie. I find that either the place is a real dump (though I can usually see some beauty amidst even the crappiest of places), or I haven’t had enough time to get a feel for the place. In the case of Santa Cruz it was the latter.

“It’s good,” I offered, not telling him that five of those 12 hours was spent sleeping off two days of fatigue. Really, at that point my impression of the city was gleaned from looking out the windows of a taxi from the airport to my hotel and another taxi to the offices of AeroSur.

I’ve long thought that Bolivia was one of the more random countries in South America. Not quite as obscure as those three countries on the top right of the continent that no one remembers. See, you’re scratching your head trying to figure them out. Let me save you some time looking it up – Suriname, Guyana, and French Guiana.

Bolivia is one of only two landlocked countries in South America—the other being the equally random country of Paraguay. Bolivia actually lost its coastline to Chile in the War of the Pacific, which lasted for five years, ending in 1884.

It is one of the poorest and least developed countries in South America, and is geographically diverse—from the Andes to the Altiplano, or high plains, to the eastern lowlands, much of it Amazonian rainforest. At more than 13,000 feet, it boasts the world’s highest capital [La Paz], and is home to the world’s largest salt flat, and shares with neighbouring Peru, Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake.

Christ...looking down Avenue Monsenor Rivero

If indeed you have an image of Bolivia, then it probably includes an indigenous woman wearing a bowler hat with a colourful blanket draped over her shoulders. But as diverse as the high Andean peaks are to the sweltering jungles of the east, so too are Bolivia’s cities. In many respects, Santa Cruz de la Sierra [it’s official name], the country’s largest city is world’s away from the capital, La Paz. Santa Cruz is relatively new. Just a few decades ago, the city’s population was just over 100,000. Now it is more than 1.5 million and the source of much internal migration, as the poor from other parts of Bolivia move here for a better life. Santa Cruz is the business centre of the country and is more prosperous—evidenced by the number of luxury car dealerships and international brand stores.

Some, like one person I was talking to, feel that the city has grown too quickly, and that the infrastructure hasn’t always kept pace. It’s a city that seems a little worn around the edges, and yet turn a corner and you’ll see a modern and hip side. Stylish fashion, coffee shops that spill out onto the sidewalks, and business people with big ideas.

A bank in Santa Cruz...I didn't know Jesus had been in the banking business

While the temperature in Santa Cruz is usually in the 30s, for the past two days, cool winds from southern Argentina, called surazos, common during the winter months have blown in and lowered the temperature by more than 10 degrees.

Many of the city’s streets have been covered with hexagon-shaped paving stones, which when put together have the look of large honeycombs. While driving over the stones, which invariably are uneven, makes for a bumpy ride, one is amazed when you think that each stone was laid by hand. Apparently, this labour-intensive work was initiated to create jobs. I can see how it would accomplish that.

To the outsider, the streets seem calmly chaotic. Is there such a thing as orderly chaos? Traffic doesn’t move all that fast, but apart from the ring roads, there are few lights or stop signs, yet it all seems to work. At the city’s large roundabouts it is as if the cars are an army ants, veering from side to side finding an opening, as they fight their way back to the colony.

Crossing the street can take some patience, as the few cross walks that exist are apparently considered street art, because cars don’t stop for pedestrians. A few times I caught myself standing on the corner for some time waiting for a break in the traffic that never came. It was then that I took the cue of a local and followed them across the street finding holes in the string of cars.

I made my way to Plaza 24 de Septiembre, the centre of Santa Cruz. The square is ringed by the historic town hall, Basillica de San Lorenzo, some tourist shops and an Irish pub. I made like the locals and found an empty bench.

Basillica de San Lorenzo

Several shoe shiners had chairs set up in the square. When not shining shoes, they were selling small bags of corn for people to feed the pigeons. Looking at my grubby shoes, I decided they needed a shine, so I climbed up on the green chair, and was handed a newspaper. Since it was in Spanish I put it aside and watched the guy ply his trade. A shoe shine costs 3 Bolivianos, or 45 cents. I gave him 10 Bolivianos and walked back to my hotel, dodging the traffic and trying not to scuff my shiny shoes.

Now back to that first question about my thoughts on Santa Cruz. The city itself has little to offer the visitor [which I knew before I arrived], though the cakes in the coffee shops are delicious. Bolivia’s stark beauty lies elsewhere. For Bolivians, Santa Cruz offers the chance for a better future. And if that’s the case, then surely it must be a good place.

2010-09-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

A brooding Miami sky

There's lots to like about the United States, but the fact you can rent a car for $17 a day (and that includes all the insidious fees) is one of them.

With a 15 hour layover in Miami I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my bags. Schlepping them through the city didn't seem overly convenient. Getting a hotel was too expensive. So, renting a car seemed like a good option. I could store my bags in the trunk, and wheels would give me the opportunity to explore.

So, bleary eyed from the overnight flight, I took a shuttle to the car rental centre, hopped in a little white Kia Rio and drove east toward the beaches. I scanned the radio stations and found most were in Spanish. Not surprising, I suppose, when I later learned that more than two-thirds of the people in Miami speak Spanish as a first language. Just 25% claim the same for English.

I followed Highway 1 north toward Fort Lauderdale, passing through Golden Beach, where the money in this small community oozed from the beachfront mansions to the boulevard of stately palm trees that looked as if they were manicured daily. Residents seemed cloistered in their grand homes behind large walls and fancy gates.

I stopped at Hollywood Beach and walked across the powdery, gray sand. The sky looked bruised, as clouds coloured deep purple and black brooded in the background. The sun struggled to be seen, while the waves crashed onto the beach. I laid in the sand, closed my eyes, and let the warm water wash over me.

Except for the lifeguard and the odd jogger who passed by, I was alone at the beach.

Hollywood Beach, between Fort Lauderdale and Miami

I left Hollywood Beach and turned south towards Miami leisurely driving through the string of beach towns. Beautiful apartment towers lined the beaches, while million dollar homes and million dollar boats lined the canal on the opposite side. Finally, I reached Miami's famed South Beach, where its pastel hued art-deco buildings are filled with apartments and quaint hotels, trendy restaurants and funky coffee shops.

The pastel colours of South Beach

After a quick walk through the area, I hopped back into the car and drove across the Venetian Causeway, so named because of the old, white bridges that span the many man-made islands in Biscayne Bay. For added drama, two shafts of lightning on either side of me shot down and the ominous roar of thunder shouted across the bay. Then, the sky that had looked bruised and beaten for much of the day exacted its revenge by lashing out and unleashing a savage rain storm.

Thinking it must be a sign to leave, I make my way to the airport.

Sleepless from Seattle

2010-09-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

It's nine-thirty at night, and I'm in Seattle waiting for an overnight flight to Miami. I can't sleep on airplanes! I don't know if it's the seat, the noise, the proximity of the person next to me,or maybe some psychological issues of wanting to be in control (lest I'm seen drooling in public). Maybe it's the thought of sleeping with 130 other people.

I have a friend whose super power is that he can sleep anywhere - I'm sure he could even sleep on a 3rd class train in India. Even my father-in-law can fall asleep sitting up on a chair or sofa. I wasn't bestowed with such powers.

I remember once on an overnight flight from Honolulu to Vancouver. It was an old Canadian Airlines DC-10, and the in-flight entertainment didn't work. This was only a problem for me and the guy sitting across the aisle, because everyone else (including my wife) was sleeping. We just looked at each other knowing that we wouldn't be alone in our suffering. I don't know if one can read too much into the fact that a couple of hours into the flight those enjoying a restful flight had been shaken awake by bad turbulence. If we all can't sleep, then no one will.

Another time my wife and I were on an overnight bus in Australia and I had taken a Gravol, or a reasonable facsimile, and just as I was feeling groggy and my eyes heavy, the driver said he was stopping for a rest, and we had to exit the bus. I tried to stay awake in snack shop in a brightly lit gas station in the middle of an Australian nowhere, before climbing back on the bus and trying to sleep.

At 2,724 miles, the six-and-a-half hour flight from Seattle to Miami is the longest non-stop flight in the continental United States. And for me, no doubt the longest sleepless night as well. And if that wasn't bad enough, I will be in Miami for about 15 hours before boarding another overnight flight to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.
When I went to bed last night, I thought about how it would be three days until I would again be able to fall asleep in a bed.

A shame really that super powers can't be bought or traded. Maybe I will just have to find myself a palm tree to rest against on Miami Beach.

Fifteen bucks to Mexico...sort of

2010-09-23T14:05:00.000-07:00

What's the cheapest you've ever paid for a flight somewhere? I once paid about $40 (taxes and fees, if there were any, included) for a 90 minute flight on Iran Air, from the southern Iranian city of Shiraz to Tehran. An added bonus was getting to fly in an old Soviet-built Tupolev 154, which shook something terrible on takeoff.

I also bought a ticket for $39 for a flight from Seattle to San Francisco. The total cost of that return trip was $110. And a year or so ago, I snapped up tickets for the family to fly nonstop on Air Canada from Vancouver for Maui. I felt bad (okay not really) only paying Air Canada $410, taxes included, for the return flight.

Through a complicated online booking error, a friend of mine and her family (and several friends) booked a flight from Vancouver to Cairo for $350 (taxes and fees included). For those like my father, who would rather sail across the ocean rather than step into an airplane, the routing -- Vancouver-Toronto-Rome-Cairo-Rome-New York-Los Angeles-Vancouver-- may not have suited you, but for $350 I would have offered to walk the aisles clearing away meal trays.

Now what does all this have to do with the title of the post? Well, if you've noticed the flight deals in the newspaper recently you might have seen that you can fly to Mexico from Vancouver for $15. Of course, you'll have to leave on September 27 and return a week later. Oh, and you'll need to add $290 in taxes and fees. But for $305 you can find yourself on a beach in Mexico.

So, where does one find cheap fares? Sometimes it's luck, like the $400 round trip fare from Los Angeles to Sydney I once stumbled on just hours after the folks in Australia woke up from a night's sleep and discovered the error. But often it's take some poking around the Internet. And before you jump on that cheap fare, make sure you've added in the extras -- like fees for checked baggage, advanced seat selection, and for those with birthdays that fall on Wednesdays.

A couple of useful sights I have used.

www.itasoftware.com/

Click on Airfare search and plug in some destinations. You can even search for a month period to find the best deal. And while you can't book directly from this site, it will give you the fare breakdown, which you can then use on a booking site or the airline's website.

www.flyertalk.com/forum/
You will find a lot of travel related information on this site. If you're looking for cheap airfares, then click on the Mileage Run Deals. Many of these deals are posted for people wanting to maximize the number of miles in their airline loyalty program, so you'll read about people who'll fly from San Francisco to Australia, only to spend a couple of hours in the airport, before reboarding the same aircraft back to the U.S.

http://www.kayak.com/

Kayak is another useful tool for sourcing out good fares and prices on flights, hotels, and car rentals.

And remember, if you find a good deal, send me a postcard (do people still send postcards?).

Sometimes we can't taste success on the first try

2010-09-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

Like it was for the 4,000 other participants, it was the unique challenge of cycling 120km from Vancouver to Whistler that first attracted me to the GranFondo Whistler. I’ve driven the Sea to Sky Highway countless times, but to do it on a bicycle would be an entirely different experience. And so for the past five months I’ve excitedly been waiting for the day of the event. That it would end prematurely on a stretcher in the Medics tent was not how I imagined it to unfold, but more on that later.

As I mentioned in a previous post I had never been one of those real cyclists, clad in Lycra, but over the past four months I followed a training program that would make it easy to climb the hills and cover the distance to Whistler. Physically I was feeling great. I had lost a few pounds and was in better shape than I had been in years. I felt a great sense of accomplishment about 6 weeks ago, when I completed a 170km ride in Washington. Sure my legs felt like they had been hit by a truck when I finished, but considering I had been pedalling for more than seven hours, it was to be expected.

But soon after that ride, I would learn that my iliotibial band (a tough group of fibers that runs along the outside of the thigh; connecting the gluteal muscles and the tensor fascia lata muscle to the tibia, just below the knee) had become irritated, causing pain and discomfort in the knee.
I hoped that with rest, visits to the physiotherapist, and exercises specifically designed to strengthen the muscles in my legs and butt, I would be able to ride the GranFondo.

The day couldn’t have begun any better, as I joined the more than 4,000 cyclists crowding the start on Georgia Street, with the sun rising behind us. Soon I was rolling through the Stanley Park causeway and onto the Lion’s Gate Bridge. I admired the stunning view, while chatting with some other cyclists.

My legs felt great climbing Taylor Way in West Vancouver, and I was pleased with my time, when I hit 20 km, near Horseshoe Bay, in a little less than an hour. As I snaked along the Sea to Sky Highway I took care of my legs by resting them and not pedalling down steep hills. I nursed my left knee by pushing harder with my right leg--a strategy that I would later learn may work on a short ride, but would not stand up on a long one.

As I rounded a corner at Furry Creek, the first large hill rose up like a giant towering in front of me, as if daring to challenge its might. On the side of the road a group of supporters cheered on riders. Two women held a sign with a Lululemon logo on it that read, Do one thing a day that scares you. I overheard one cyclist say, “It doesn’t scare me... it just hurts.”

I was buoyed by the halfway sign, near Squamish and felt that despite some discomfort in my knees I was going to make it. After downing some pizza and pasta at the Squamish rest stop, I continued on and felt confident tackling what many would consider the most challenging part of the ride, a continuous climb that goes on for more than 7 km, and rises more than 1,000 feet.
“What a damn hill,” I heard a woman next to me mutter, as a line of cyclists, looking like a group of mountain climbers scaling a peak, pushed higher. Further on, I said to that same woman, “Are we there yet?” She replied that the hill had to end sometime.

I got off my bike at the fourth aid station, and I could feel that the ride was taking a toll on my knees. But after a quick rest, I set off again, and with just 30 km to go, I thought I could eke it out to the finish. I even imagined sending an, I DID IT text message to two of my friends and former colleagues, who are always keenly interested and supportive of my worldly exploits. But in the end I would never send that message.

As I soldiered on, the pain in my knees became sharp, and I winced each time my legs struggled to push down on the pedals. I knew a rest stop was only about 5km away, and I thought that maybe, just maybe if I could make it there, I might be able to get to Whistler.

But as I passed a sign on the highway marking 100km, the pain was excruciating and I could no longer will my legs to push anymore. I climbed off my bike, sat on a concrete barrier by the side of the road, and called my wife, who was waiting for me in Whistler.

“I can’t do it,” I said to her sounding defeated. “My legs won’t go anymore.” I asked her to come and pick me up. But just then two motorcyclists doing first aid duty stopped, and when I told them I couldn’t go any further, they called for someone to pick me and my bike up.

I stood on the side of the road, and as other cyclists passed by me I thought about success and failure. And while I was disappointed that I didn’t reach my goal, I tried to console myself with the fact that I gave it everything I had. And I reminded myself that sometimes we don't always taste success on the first try.

It was more than an hour later before I would arrive in Whistler, near the finish line in a small bus. I tried to stand to get off the bus, but I couldn’t. I tried again, but fell back into the seat. My legs had seized up and I couldn’t walk. Someone came to the bus and said they would get a wheelchair and a doctor. I was helped off the bus, and wheeled to a stretcher in the Medics tent, where they worked on my legs until they would move again. In great pain, I got into our car and my wife drove to our hotel. It’s not how I thought it would all turn out.

If my body will allow I’ll ride again next year, and try and slay this beast.

Colours of the World

2010-08-25T21:51:00.000-07:00

I like airports. Once...okay, now that I think about it, it was twice --my wife and I needed to use a toilet, and since we were near an airport, we decided to drive there to use the facilities.

But I like airports for more than just their washrooms. There is nothing like the feel of an airport. The excited anticipation felt by those flying to destinations near and far. And equally so, the anticipation of meeting someone at the airport. The opening and closing scenes in the movie, Love Actually, captures the essence of this spirit perfectly.

I love airports with large destination boards that read like pages from an atlas...Tokyo, Hong Kong, Shanghai, London, Paris, Sydney, Istanbul, Cairo, New York, Buenos Aires. Sometimes I'm not familiar with a destination, like when I was in Paris, and I saw a flight leaving for Douala. I later learned that it is in Cameroon, in western Africa.

There is nothing more graceful than watching a Boeing 747 on approach to an airport. Equally impressive is watching the same airplane weighed down with passengers, fuel, and cargo, lumbering down the runway and seemingly thumbing its nose at gravity and climbing into the sky. Or even catching sight of a nimble Boeing 737 that rockets off the runway.

But one of the best things I like about airports is looking at the colourful liveries (that's the paint scheme) from airlines around the world. In fact, once you get to know a few, you'll be able to spot them in the air. While white is a common base colour, each livery is unique.

Many airlines feature birds, symbolizing flight. Included on this list are German carrier, Lufthansa (crane), LOT Polish (crane), and Turkish (wild goose).

Others are iconic, like QANTAS and Aer Lingus and Swiss -- unmistakable in their origins.

Some, like this UK example proudly display messages of a very personal nature.

U.S. airline, Frontier is a different kind of animal as can be seen below, with a distinct tail on each of its aircraft.

Many airlines display their national colours with a stylized flag on the tail. Examples here include British Airways, Russia's Aeroflot, Emirates, and Pakistan International Airlines.

Some Asian airlines like kitchey themes as witnessed by this ANA Boeing 747 from Japan, and Taiwan's, EVA Air's Hello Kitty look.

A relatively recent phenomena that seems to be taking off with some airlines, especially the low-cost variety, are the flying "billboards", as seen here with South Africa's Kulula promoting Europcar car rentals, TUI's Volkswagen advertisement, and Ryan Air covered by Hertz.

Some choose to advertise special events, such as Etihad's Abu Dhabi Grand Prix scheme, or China Eastern promoting the 2010 World's Fair, or Air Canada's support for the 2010 Winter Olympics.

My son's personal favourites include Alaska's Disney themed aircraft

Maybe the next time you're at an airport, you too will marvel at the unique colours of the world's airlines.

Lining up for Apples

2010-08-02T12:10:00.000-07:00

I’ll confess. I don’t have any Apple products. No iPod. No iPad. No iMac. No iPhone. And I’m okay with that. I have an Mp3 player, and a telephone that lets me send and receive calls. I can even take pictures with it, albeit with crappy resolution. And while I admire the marketing guru’s at Apple for turning a want into a must have, you know that your country has nothing to worry about when hundreds of people line up, some for more than eight hours, just to be the first to purchase the newest iPhone. The unlocked 32G phone sells for $800. In some countries people line up for water. In Jakarta I saw people line up for cooking gas. Here, clean water flows uninterrupted from our taps, so we can line up for expensive gadgets.

Okay, so some people justify the need for an $800 phone (I know it’s more than just a phone), like the woman interviewed in the newspaper, who said the phone (she bought two) will serve as “her all-around communications, social networking, and video device.” Sounds like a line from the Apple marketing machine.

But what’s with lining up overnight for the device? I know it’s not a new phenomena, because when I was younger parents would line up for hours and then beat on each other just to get their kid a cabbage patch doll. And more recently people would line up for hours, because their children just had to have the latest video game system for Christmas. It seems a little odd to me. Does someone really need a phone that bad, or is it more about status and bragging to your friends that you have the latest and greatest? I wonder, because one guy who lined up for a new phone also lined up a few months ago to be one of the first to get his hands on a new iPad, and surely he wasn't the only one. And no doubt when Apple launches a new iPhone in the next couple of years, those same people will be complaining about how terrible their phone is, and they'll camp out overnight, so they can be the first to get a new one. Meanwhile, in another part of the world, someone will line up for hours hoping for some clean drinking water.

Time to start thinking outside the box

2010-07-28T15:23:00.001-07:00

The other day I was at a workshop, and one participant used the expression: think outside the box twice during a brief introduction that lasted no more than a minute. I cringed.

Few phrases wrankle me the way this one does. She even said that she was good at thinking outside the box, which is ironic, because if someone was truly good at thinking outside the box, they would have thought of a different way to express this idea, rather than using some tired catchphrase.

I was surprised to learn that while the phrase has recently become common jargon in the workplace, it apparently had its origins in the United States in the late 1960s.

And while we're onto common phrases, why is it that we don't compare bananas and pomegranates, instead of the more common comparison of apples and oranges? And instead of saying, six of one and a half dozen of another, be different and say, thirteen of one and a baker's dozen of another.

Remember that once common phrase, it's not rocket science. Well, have you considered that maybe rocket science isn't that difficult after all? Okay, it probably is, but let's pretend it's not.

What time is it?

2010-07-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

On Sunday evenings, my father-in-law can be found dispensing helpful information to wayward travelers, as a green coat volunteer at Vancouver International Airport. He loves the job and takes great pride in it, especially last Sunday when he told me that he was the ONLY green coat working the ENTIRE airport. Imagine the responsibility.

He’s had a few fleeting brushes with fame—Renee Zelwegger, Eric Stoltz, and Daniel Sedin, or was it Henrik Sedin (apparently, only their mother can tell the difference). The stories he often shares are usually ones about confused passengers who are convinced that someone from their hotel or cruise line, or tour company is supposed to meet them at the airport, when it turns out that no such arrangement had been made. Conversely, there are stories about lax (or lazy) tour operators who are late picking up passengers, creating unnecessary anxiety for many visitors. But one story still sticks with me.

A confused looking woman came up to my father-in-law, and asked, “Where do I find Air New Zealand’s nine-thirty flight to Auckland?”

“That flight has already left,” he answered. “It departed at 7:30 PM.”

“But my itinerary says nine-thirty. See, right here…it says 1930,” she continued, showing her itinerary to my father-in-law.

He had to tell this distraught, teary-eyed woman that 1930 is not 9:30 PM, but rather the 24-hour clock equivalent to 7:30 PM, and that she had indeed missed her 14-hour flight to New Zealand. Fortunately, someone was still at the Air New Zealand ticket counter, and my father-in-law directed her there for assistance.

An amusing tale of course for those of us who have never been in such a predicament, but it begs the question, how many of us are familiar with 24-hour time, and is it being taught in school, or is it simply dismissed as some obscure military practice?

The 24-hour clock has been used for centuries, and is a convention of time keeping in which the day runs from midnight to midnight and is divided into 24 hours, indicated by the hours passed since midnight, from 0 to 23. It is the most commonly used time notation in the world today. The day begins at 00:00 (midnight) and the last minute of the day is at 23:59. Its use is intended to prevent any ambiguity.

If 24-hour time isn’t being taught in schools, then maybe it should.

What's in a name?

2010-07-16T14:03:00.000-07:00

Given the state of the auto industry, it’s probably not surprising that General Motors gave up its sponsorship of Vancouver’s GM Place, which is now the Rogers Arena. This begs the question, if GM Place was known as The Garage, what will the Rogers Arena become? The Cell? The Net?

Naming rights for stadiums and arenas is a large revenue stream, which is why most in North America now have corporate names attached. In fact, all but three National Hockey League arenas have naming rights. The three hold outs include: Joe Louis Arena (Detroit), Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum (Long Island, New York), and Madison Square Gardens (New York). Of the four major professional sports leagues in North America (hockey, basketball, NFL football, and baseball), football is the one where more of the stadiums are not corporately named. There, 13 of 31 stadiums don’t have naming rights, compared to five basketball arenas and seven baseball stadiums.

Some stadiums and clubs are so steeped in history that it would be sacrilege to sell naming rights. Take the New York Yankees for instance, who even after building a new billion dollar stadium, still call it Yankee Stadium, and vow to never sell the name, despite purported offers.

If you want to know, the money is in the bank. That’s because more banks and financial companies have their names on arenas than any other industry, including: Scotiabank Place (Ottawa), RBC Center (Raleigh, NC), Bank Atlantic Center (Miami), and Lincoln Financial Field (Philadelphia). Some, though, have tried to maintain a sense of history. When the venerable Boston Gardens was closed, the city’s new arena became the uninspiring Fleet Center (named after a bank), but the world doesn’t stand still, and the arena is now known as the TD Gardens. Yes, still named after a bank.

Some names though just shouldn’t be put on an arena or stadium. Like in Phoenix, where you can watch a hockey game at the jobing.com Arena. Or in Cleveland, home to the Quicken Loans Center. Another that I was never fond of was the National Car Rental Center in Miami. It’s now named after Bank Atlantic. And in Minneapolis, you’ll find the ever succinct Mall of America Field at Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome

All of these corporate names got me thinking, where would be the best place for fan appreciation night? In Denver or St. Louis, you’d score a six-pack of beer, compliments of Coors and Anheuser-Busch. If you were watching football at Heinz Field, in Philadelphia, you’d leave with a bottle of ketchup. In Phoenix, you could get a job thanks to the folks at jobing.com (which would be good for some people). If you’re after a flight somewhere, then you’ll want to catch a game in Toronto, Dallas, Miami, Chicago, or Phoenix. If reading is your thing, you might get a year’s subscription to the St. Pete’s Times newspaper, in Tampa. Need new tires? Then head to the Bridgestone Arena, in Nashville. But the best place to score at fan appreciation night would be at the Honda Center, in Anaheim, where you’d get a new car. Beats some razors and shaving cream at Gillette Field, near Boston.

You know your child is getting older when...

2010-07-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

With apologies to parents with children older than mine...

I know my son is getting older when...

- His Mother and I accompany him to his Kindergarten orientation

- He calls us Mom and Dad, instead of Mommy and Daddy

- We now have two pets named Casper and Bluey (fortunately, they are just fish)

- The older girl next to us knocks on our door and asks if Jack can come out and play

What next...the keys to the car?

I feel like a cyclist...sort of

2010-07-03T09:02:00.001-07:00

Okay, I'm no Lance Armstrong, but I'm starting to feel more like a real cyclist. I wonder, has Armstrong ever fallen off his bike (twice), because he couldn't unclip his shoes from the pedals in time?

I recently got a new road bike, which is another term for a bicycle with skinny tires and a hard seat. For several years now, I have been using my father-in-law's old mountain bike, and while I never did well in physics, it was easy to understand that cycling 120 km to Whistler would be better served with a bicycle that didn't have big knobby tires, like the kind found on jacked up pick-up trucks.

I've never worn the spandex get-up that those real cyclists wear, and so my wife joked that for the ride to Whistler I'd probably show up (and embarrass myself) wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers. And what would be wrong with that? "You know, I'll only laugh at you for about 10 minutes if you get the riding gear," she mused.

When I was getting the bike, the guy at the shop said you'll need some pedals with clips for your shoes. Shoes? I thought I was just going to wear my sneakers. I now have shoes. And then the guy said I can't wear baggy shorts with a bike like this. My shorts weren't even that baggy...not like those young punk kids with their baggy pants. Who knew there was such a clothing etiquette to cycling? I figured I'd just jump on and pedal away.

After riding for a couple of weeks with my "baggy" shorts, and at the urging of my wife (she just wanted her 10 minutes of laughter, I'm sure), I finally bought a cycling shirt and spandex shorts, which nicely come with some padding in a very important place.

The other day I slid into my shorts, pulled on my new shirt, clipped my shoes into the pedals and hit the road. It was the first time that I kind of felt like one of those real cyclists. Maybe the same way the bowler, who has his own shirt, shoes and bowling ball, feels.

My wife didn't even laugh when she saw her spandex-clad husband climb on his bike, though she may have snickered to herself.

Palestinians and Israelis are deserving of a better future

2010-06-03T21:38:00.000-07:00

The recent violence and escalation of tension in Israel is disheartening. It’s easy in situations like this to simply point fingers and pass blame, but that type of exercise becomes tiresome. Besides, like all conflicts, the truth usually lies closer to the middle. This doesn’t diminish the struggle that Palestinians face in their pursuit of respect, dignity, and freedom; nor does it lessen the fear that Israelis feel when erratic missiles are lobbed into their territory, or a fanatic kills innocents, spreading terror through the streets of Tel Aviv, or Jerusalem, or Haifa. As one Israeli cab driver said to me while there a few months ago, “we [Israelis and Palestinians] are both living in a prison.”

Missing beyond the news stories, and protest, and bellicose rhetoric of--this land is mine. No, it’s mine--are the ordinary people, who are eking out an existence and just want to enjoy the simple things that life has to offer. In the nearly two weeks that I traveled throughout the West Bank, I was continually met by gracious and hospitable Palestinians. At times of heightened tension it is these people one thinks of most.

I remember the playful boys who waved and scampered down a large hill to meet our group. There was Nadal, our first guide who has lived his entire 48 years in a refugee camp. I’ll never forget the delicious meal his wife prepared for us. Yet, I wonder what the future holds for his children, as they grow up in an overcrowded refugee camp plagued by a lack of resources, limited opportunities, and high unemployment.

“Hello. Hello. Welcome. Welcome.” I’ll never forget the greeting we received from young and old, as we walked into Nablus, the largest city in the West Bank. And Habib one of our guides, who opened up his home to us one night and who, amongst the spectacular, yet sparse, landscape was adept at gathering some leaves to brew a delicious pot of tea.

I reflect upon the Bedouins I met, whom for centuries had lived a nomadic existence. Preferring the wide expanse of the land, they moved from place to place, where the politics of national borders meant little. Today, they are penned in on small, scrabbly tracts of land. Misunderstood and discriminated against, their traditional way of life has disappeared.

And I’ll never forget the festive scene on Palm Sunday in Beit Sahour, just outside Bethlehem, where hundreds of Arab Christians spilled out of the Church in an uplifting and celebratory mood. The Boy Scout band marched its way up and down the street, and children were holding balloons in the shape of cars, and flowers and cartoon characters.

I think of Jack, who owns a small souvenir shop in Bethlehem’s Manger Square. Dressed in a tweed suit jacket and matching tam, I guessed him to be in his late 70s. He laments the lack of business. Few visitors stay long enough to shop or experience the town that gave birth to a religion. The tour buses bring people to the Church of the Nativity, but just as quickly as they come, they hurry back to Jerusalem, past the checkpoints, and the imposing 26-foot security wall that Israel has constructed.

I was bouyed by the inspiring message from Abdelfattah, who heads the Alrowwad Centre that provides artistic, cultural and theatrical training for children in Bethlehem’s Aida Refugee Camp. “Peace and love are human values that we all share.” Indeed they are. And so it is that I think of the Israelis in Jerusalem, who I saw in the little café I frequented. And the young couple on the train to Haifa, who helped us find our way, or the throngs of people in Tel Aviv sitting in seaside bars watching the sun set into the Mediterranean.

Unfortunately, you’ll never the see these people on the news. And while each has probably chosen sides in this conflict, they all have something in common--they want what we all want. A life filled with security, and purpose, and dignity. I know it may sound simplistic, but I hope that reason and compromise can overcome the heated rhetoric. Both Palestinians and Israelis are deserving of a better future.

Legacy of the printed word

2010-05-17T15:55:00.000-07:00

My grandmother died six years ago. She was 84. It was one of those days that leave you with wonder. She died the same day that we learned my wife was pregnant with our first son. The sorrow of death mixed with the joy of new life.

I often think about my grandmother, and wish she were still around. She was a source of quiet inspiration. It wasn’t so much what she said that counted, for she would never have been the loudest in a group, but rather how she led her life. She was a writer—mostly of poetry and short stories.

My mother gave me a small suitcase yesterday. It was decades old and sturdy. Inside were poems and stories written by my grandmother. Most of the pages were typewritten (she grew up in a period before home computers), and many had been yellowed by time. I pawed through the pages and couldn’t help but marvel at the legacy that my grandmother had left. Her life. Her memories. Her most cherished thoughts were contained in this one little suitcase. As I read her work it was as if she had come alive.

I imagined her sitting in her kitchen or garden and being inspired by the simple things that life gives us. She lived most of her life in the Cowichan Valley, on Vancouver Island, and wrote about her community, her garden, the seasons, and her loving relationship with my grandfather, I suspect. She wrote about a once magnificent, turned run down hotel in Brandon, Manitoba. And about leaving Cuba, a place my grandparents visited often, long before it became the tourist mecca it is today. And she wrote simply about the flowers in her garden.

Her musings spanned the last half of the 20th Century, some of which were published in newspapers and magazines. In 1995, she published a book of poems called, Through Cedar Portals.

Little would she have known that years after death, her grandson would find such delight in this treasure trove of memories. I hope you do as well. Here are a handful of her poems.

Cold
is a forgotten fridge spilling ice-cubes
in the lemonade light
Cold is the prick of frosted stars
in a popsicle night
Cold is a glass lid on the pond
a white-sugared morning in December
Cold is what the sticky
cotton-candy mind of summer
tries to remember

B.R. Donohue, 1970

The Writer of Hate Literature
Long ago he fed a ribbon of venom
into his typewriter, and each word
he clacks spells HATE!
Twisted mouths seize his wild-eyed words
writhe them into different shapes
and spit them under the roof
of fanaticism, where they quiver
in electric air and re-form to spell
HATE!
And in the end
when his slimy ribbon-trail has led
beneath the last grey stone
will the chiseled words
REST IN PEACE?

B.R. Donohue, 1965

Friends
Over the years
the climate of our friendship
has changed;
now I can almost
warm my hands
on the letters
of your name

B.R. Donohue 1981

Anniversary
Sometimes it seems
you know my thoughts
and often
I too hear unspoken words
in the comfortable silences;
this lovely magic is
elementary to us now
and over the years
our thoughts have tangled—
it would be hard to extricate
mine from yours
and anyway
I much prefer
the magic

B.R. Donohue, 1980
(on the occasion of my grandparent’s 40th Wedding Anniversary)

Life lessons from the seat of a bicycle

2010-05-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

When is a bike ride more than just a bike ride? When it comes with life lessons.

I am taking part in the RBC GranFondo Whistler, a one-day, 120 km cycling event from Vancouver to Whistler. On the surface that may not sound all that significant, until you realize that I have never participated in something of this nature before. In fact, I would hardly call myself a recreational cyclist.

I was forced to take up cycling a number of years back when the bus drivers went on strike and I needed to get to work. So, I dusted off my father-in-law's mountain bike and started pedalling. I continued biking for a while after the buses began operating again, but stopped when we moved further away. Every once in a while I will take the bike for an afternoon spin, but that has been the extent of my cycling.

When I learned of the GranFondo Whistler, I was attracted by the challenging nature of the ride. And I knew that with hard work, preparation, and a determined spirit, it was something I could accomplish. As an added challenge I decided to join Team Diabetes, and had a goal of raising $800 for the Canadian Diabetes Association. Thanks to the generous support of friends, professional colleagues, and family, I have now reached that goal.

Crazy. Lunatic. These are words that some people have expressed when they learned that this neophyte would be cycling to Whistler. Not that I needed any reminding, but my mother-in-law had to tell me that after Squamish it was all up hill. Indeed it is. An appropriate metaphor, perhaps, for life in general, which often isn’t easy.

“I guess, you can stop if it gets too difficult,” she continued. I told her I wasn’t a quitter, and I would finish even if it took all day. “You’re so positive,” she ended.

I don’t know any other way than to be positive. Besides, my parents instilled in me a strong work ethic, where quitting isn’t an option. While I don’t remember my mother or father saying as much, there was an unspoken sentiment that if you start something, you better finish it.

I recently began training, and one day while riding, a stiff head wind was slowing me down, and I felt as if my legs wouldn’t pedal anymore. I cursed and wondered why I signed up for this. But I pushed on, turned a corner and I then I felt like I could ride forever. Cycling gives one a lot of time to think and contemplate, and it was at that moment, when I thought I couldn’t keep pedaling that I realized that this is more than just a bike ride; there are important lessons to be learned. It’s about setting a goal and having the resolve to overcome adversity, regardless of the challenges trying to slow us down.

When I told my five-year old son that I was going to ride a bicycle to Whistler, his eyes grew large, and he said bluntly, “that’s a long way.”

It is my hope that I can inspire confidence in my two young sons, so that they too can dream and not be afraid to accept challenges. I want them to know that success comes from not always taking the easy road, but rather setting goals and being disciplined to see them through.

Sure, it would be easier to just sit on the couch than climb onto my bicycle, but what fun is there in that--always watching someone else do something. I am under no illusions that cycling to Whistler will be difficult, maybe even grueling at times, but I relish the challenge. In fact, knowing how hard it will be pushes me to work even harder, as I train and prepare.

Life shouldn’t be about regrets, and wishing you had done something. Maybe there’s something that you have always wanted to do, but thought it was too challenging. With the right motivation, discipline, and preparation, nothing is too difficult.

Crazy? Maybe, but knowing that life lessons are being learned and passed on to my sons, makes pedaling into that headwind all the more easier.

Good and Tasty

2010-05-13T20:38:00.000-07:00

I was on an Austrian Airlines flight recently, and while reading the inflight duty free catalogue, I couldn't help but wonder about the last page. On the top was a bold header with the words: Good and Tasty. Below it were pictures of chocolates and cigarettes for sale. Now, let's presume that chocolate is tasty, because I don't think even the most hardened smoker would say that cigarettes are tasty, though maybe. Does this then mean that cigarettes are GOOD? Apparently so, according to Austrian Airlines.

This got me wondering about the smoking rate in Austria, which maybe not surprising considering the national airline thinks cigarettes are good, is quite high when compared to other European countries.

The data below was gleaned from the World Health Organization's, European Tobacco Control Report, 2007
http://www.euro.who.int/Document/E89842.pdf

Between 2002 and 2005 (the last year data was available), the number of smokers, both male and female, actually increased in Austria, to more than 40% of the population. This is remarkable, because except for Ukraine, every other European country sampled saw declines in the number of people that smoke. While 65% of Russian males smoke (the highest in Europe), women in Austria are tops in Europe, with 40% of the female population there smoking.

Curious as to which country has the lowest number of smokers? Thought you might be.

Sweden has the lowest percentage of males smokers at 16%, while Kyrgyzstan and Moldova report only 5% of females that smoke, though men in those countries more than make up for it as half of them enjoy their cigarettes.

And how might all of this compare here in Canada? Well, according to a 2009 report by Physicians for a Smoke-Free Canada, just 18% of Canadians smoke.

Given all of this, it would seem to me that Austrian Airlines should probably do an edit of its duty free catalogue, because while it probably makes a killing (pun not initially intended, but it does work well) at selling cigarettes, they are neither tasty, nor good.

What If...

2010-05-02T08:55:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder how the world would be different had events in history been different?

You know, what if the Campanile, or Bell Tower, in Pisa didn't lean. Pisa would just be another quaint, yet random Italian city. Surely, it wouldn't have the same notoriety that it does.

And what if Elvis hadn't died at the age of 42. Would he still have been making music into his 60s? And what would that music have sounded like at the end of the 20th Century?

Even the marketing folks hired by the National Hockey League, had a what if moment. In their current series of TV spots, they show a classic moment during a Stanley Cup playoff game, and then reverse the footage, ending with a, What If...tag.

In one, the Boston Bruins are playing the St. Louis Blues in the 1970 Cup finals, and we see Bobby Orr's now famous overtime goal in which he is flying across the crease after scoring the game winner, giving Boston its first Stanley Cup in 30 years. The spot ends with, What if Bobby didn't fly? History will be made.

photo: Ray Lussier

You can view the spot and others (as well as some parodies) here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUnS5gq0BZ4

During my recent travels to Israel and Palestine, I mused over some of those, what ifs.

What if 6 million Jews hadn't been exterminated by the Nazis?. Would there have been the same guilt and impetus by the world community to create a Jewish State (Israel) in Palestine? And what if the Arab armies that attacked Israel in 1948 weren't so inept, and had in fact defeated the Israelis as they boasted they would? Of course we can't rewrite history (though many try, or at least write it differently) But I wonder how different the region be today, had events been different?

Being in the Holy Land and all, I was also wondering how different the world would be had Jesus not been crucified. I mean the cross or crucifix plays such an integral part of Christian imagery. Would the religion have gained such a following had Jesus just died of old age. Maybe it wouldn't have changed the course of Christianity, but I wonder. Imagine how different churches would look. And what of the ubiquitous crosses that many women wear - part statement - part jewelry.

Maybe you have your own, what if moments.

Deserving of a better future

2010-04-27T21:17:00.000-07:00

We had gone to the Palestinian city of Ramallah to deliver chocolate. No, really. We had a bag of the finest Belgian chocolate that someone in our group wanted delivered to a Doctor friend.

Ramallah was more vibrant than most of the Palestinian towns we had visited. The streets were lined with shops and the sidewalks bustling with people. It had a very cosmopolitan and worldly feel to it. We stopped at a European-style café and ordered a delicious apple pastry. Next to us was a table of young women whose headscarves and knee-length coats couldn’t hide their sexiness—the designer jeans, makeup, and eye-catching smiles. Ramallah seemed different. More promising. More open to the world. Less like the rest of Palestine.

From Ramallah to Jerusalem it is a mere 15 kilometres. Actually, to be more precise it is 14.7 kilometres. I know this because of the small signs with the distance between the two cities placed throughout the city. A reminder how close, yet how so far away Jerusalem is for Palestinians. In fact, on several occasions it was said that it is easier for Palestinians to get to the rest of the world than it is to get to Jerusalem. For most Palestinians, a trip to Jerusalem involves an onerous approval process, which can be denied at the whim of an Israeli bureaucrat.

Crossing the Israeli checkpoint from Ramallah to Jerusalem was relatively easy—despite the world media erroneously reporting that Israel had closed all crossings into and out of the West Bank for a week during the Jewish Passover. Neighbours, yes, but it was like traveling to the far side of the world. In contrast to Ramallah, Jerusalem’s streets seemed more orderly. There was less honking of car horns, and pedestrians waited their turn at traffic lights. There was little trash on the sides of streets. And stately stone buildings stood next to manicured boulevards. On several occasions during our stay, we ambled along Emek Refaim Street in the city’s German Colony neighbourhood. A delightful thoroughfare lined with quaint restaurants, bookstores, shops, and cafes. It was comfortable. In fact, we could have been in Zurich or Munich, or Brussels. Here, the people seemed more prosperous, and full of life, even though unknown to me at the time, the Café that we fondly visited twice (they make a delicious tuna sandwich) was the site of a terrorist bombing seven years ago, in which 12 were killed and dozens injured. Yet, that seemed in the distant past. Forgotten, on the surface, anyway.

In Jerusalem, and maybe even more so in Tel Aviv, where Israelis filled beach side bars and restaurants, played volleyball and other games next to the Mediterranean, and where families (both Arab and Jewish) found a piece of green space in the many parks along the beach for a picnic, or to watch the sun set, the vivid contrast of life in Israel and Palestine, was never more clear.

As I saw people running leisurely next to the ocean in Tel Aviv, I realized that jogging is a luxury. A luxury, you wonder? Well, if you have the time to go for a jog, it means that you’re not toiling away somewhere, trying to eke out an existence, and your job (because you have one) isn’t backbreaking and arduous. In contrast, the feeling I got from spending two weeks in Palestine was one of despair, hopelessness, and a disheartened future. Throughout the country (okay, I know it’s not officially recognized as such, but I wish to give them some respect and hope), the stories are the same. While Jewish settlements in Palestine (deemed illegal by the United Nations) flourish with abundant supplies of water and electricity, Palestinians in neighbouring villages languish with inadequate and unreliable access to these very same life-sustaining necessities. In so many ways, Palestinians are at the mercy of Israel, an occupying force, which controls much of their lives. It’s not fair, are words I heard more than once.

I overhead one Palestinian say: “Are some Palestinians lazy? Yes. Do some Palestinians lack imagination? Yes. But what we need are more role models, so we can lead ourselves and be successful.” Isn’t this really what any self-respecting people would want?

While I’m not suggesting that there aren’t sounds of laughter in Palestine, surely there is, a future full of hope and prosperity is made more difficult with overcrowded refugee camps, staggering rates of unemployment, and masses of idle young people, who have lived their entire lives under occupation.
The history of this ancient land is complex, and seemingly so too is the solution to ending this conflict that has raged on for more than 60 years. An Israeli taxi driver put it this way: “we’re both living in a prison.” Indeed. Israelis live in a prison of fear. And Palestinians live in a prison surrounded by concrete walls and checkpoints. Both deserve a better future.

The 99.99% that you won't see on the news

2010-04-21T14:14:00.000-07:00

The image many people have of Palestinians is one of violence. And who can blame them really, because that’s the overall impression they get through the lens of the media. It’s easy for the young, angry stone thrower, or suicide bomber to make the news. But as the Dutch free speech organization, Loesje says: 99.99% of what happens is not on the news. And so it’s likely that you have never heard of the Alrowwad Centre, an independent organization that provides artistic, cultural, and theatre training for children in Bethlehem’s Aida refugee camp, one of three Camps in the city, and where Israel’s 26 foot high concrete security wall stares down at the 4,700 residents. The aim of the Centre is to provide a safe and healthy environment to help young people foster creativity and to express themselves amidst the difficult conditions in which they are forced to live.

It was the negative image that people had of Palestinians through the media that moved Abdelfattah Abu-srour, who has a PhD in Biology, and was a mechanical engineer by profession, to establish the Centre. “Peace and love are human values that we all share,” he says, sitting in his office. “Palestinians have every right to resist Israeli occupation, but it will be a beautiful resistance, with a focus on theatre, dance, and art. Our children deserve a better heritage.”

The Centre was founded in 1998 when it was learned that because of the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, more and more children were found to have learning difficulties. It’s hard not to imagine how all of this wouldn’t have an impact on the children living in the Camp, as they witnessed death, injury, and the destruction of homes after incursions into the Camp by Israeli soldiers in jeeps, tanks, and attack helicopters. “The Camp suffered a lot during the second intifada, between 2000 and 2005,” remembers Abu-srour. “We noticed that children began exhibiting violent tendencies and were regressing in school.”

The roots of the Centre started in Abu-srour ‘s parent’s home, where little by little it grew until people started to notice. Alrowwad, which means pioneer in Arabic, is now housed in a multi story building and home to two theatre groups, one for children aged 8-16, and the other for those aged 16-22. The groups have performed in Europe and the United States. Young people also have the opportunity to learn skills in photography and video production.

In an environment devoid of green spaces and parks, where the unemployment rate is 70%, and two-thirds of the population are under the age of 18, the Alrowwad Centre is one positive in Aida Camp. “We can’t just say our situation is hopeless,” says Abu-srour, “because our children would ask us, what did you do?”

Why do I mention the Alrowwad Centre? Because it’s an example of something positive, and a source of optimism, and those two things rarely make the nightly news. I mention this also because during the two weeks that I spent in Palestine, I didn’t find a lot of optimism, but I did find Palestinians to be kind, gracious and hospitable, all of which is part of the 99.99% that you don't see on the news.

To learn more about the Alrowwad Centre, visit http://alrowwad.virtualactivism.net/index.html

A video produced by young people at the Centre, titled Bethlehem Checkpoint 4 am can be seen at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1FaWE1SIZk

Far from home

2010-04-12T15:33:00.000-07:00

“I’m not proud to be a refugee, but I insist on it,” Nadal said, over a lunch of turkey shawarma, bread, humus, and bright pink turnip-like vegetables. Nadal was our guide for the first three days, and lives in the Far’a Refugee Camp, where we stayed one night.

When you think of a refugee camp, you probably think of some squalid place with people living in tents, something temporary, to be sure. In Palestine, this may have been the reality 60 years ago, but six decades on today’s Palestinian refugee camp looks much like any other village, at least to an outsider like me. While the Camps house small shops, schools, libraries, and community centres, overcrowding is a big issue, as is unemployment, and discrimination. And for those living in the camps, home is some place else.

So, why is it that millions of Palestinians are still living in these semi-permanent Camps, with the most basic of infrastructure? It’s shameful, really, but the answer is as complex as the forces that led to this situation.

The creation of Israel in 1948 has a complicated history, but essentially the United Nations agreed to partition Palestine, giving more than half of the territory to the creation of a Jewish State, and the rest would remain under Arab control. The Jews didn’t have a problem with this plan. Of course, they didn’t. The Arabs, on the other hand opposed partition, which led five Arab nations to attack Israel. Arab bravado quickly turned to ineptness, as the plucky Israelis defeated the Arab armies.

While Israel calls this the War of Independence (a bit of a misnomer considering they weren’t gaining independence from anyone, theirs is the only state that was created by the United Nations), Palestinians refer to this time as the Nakba, the Catastrophe, in which hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were forced from their land, or fled in fear. In an instant they became refugees. Some Jewish apologists will tell you that if the Arabs had just accepted the partition of their land, and integrated themselves into the newly created State of Israel, then there would have been no refugee issue. Of course they will. Would you mind if your Uncle lorded over your house, and then decided to allow some strangers to take up residence in more than half of the house?

In 1948, Nadal’s family lived in a small village near Jaffa, part of present day Tel Aviv. On the advice of a Jewish friend, his parents were encouraged to flee the area, when the conflict began. Others in the village that chose to stay were killed. When they left their village, for what they thought would be temporary, Nadal’s parents unknowingly became part of the 900,000 Palestinian refugees that resulted from the 1948 War. Today, the number of refugees in Palestine has swollen to more than four million, with more than a quarter living in Camps spread across the West Bank, Gaza, and in neighbouring countries of Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon.

Nadal’s parents settled in the Far’a Camp, which was created in 1949. Sixty years later, the Camp is home to 7,600 people, with close to 45% of the population under the age of 14. In fact, only 5% of the population is over the age of 60; meaning most, like Nadal, were born in the Camp. Overcrowding, high unemployment and water shortages are the Camp’s main challenges.

What I found remarkable was that despite living his entire life in the Camp, Nadal talked as if his home was the village that his parents left more than 60 years ago. In fact, I heard this same strong and pervasive sentiment, from young and old, during my travels throughout Palestine.

Palestinian refugees want dignity, respect, but most of all they want the right of return. After six decades, most are under no illusions that they will ever return to their homes or villages, but at the very least, they want that right to return. Israel on the other hand is fearful of this given that if refugee status is hereditary, then potentially four million Palestinians would be able to settle in Israel, tipping the country from a Jewish majority, as it currently is, to one where Jews would be in the minority, and potentially erasing the entire raison d’etre for Israel’s creation.

With poor and crowded living conditions, staggering rates of unemployment, and a sense of despair, the future looks bleak as more and more young people are born into and grow up in these Camps. While I wouldn’t want to conclude that one person can speak for an entire population, one young guy put it this way, “all there is to do here [in the Camp] is smoke, have sex, and play video games.” Not the most optimistic future.

A good site to learn more about Palestinian refugees can be found at: www.unrwa.org

More photos from the Holy Land

2010-04-07T20:21:00.001-07:00

Church of Mary Magdalene

A view of Jerusalem's Old City from Dominus Flevit

Jerusalem's iconic Dome of the Rock

The Edicule, housing the tomb of Jesus, inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Angelic light in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Walking the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem

Good Friday in Jerusalem

Jerusalem

Some people get serious about Good Friday in Jerusalem

Big sellers on Good Friday

Waiting around

The cross I bear

Tel Aviv sunset

Good Friday in Jerusalem

2010-04-02T12:39:00.000-07:00

A bloodied man dressed as Jesus was led along the Via Delarosa by a Roman soldier carrying a cross. Tagging along was a woman barking into a microphone, imploring “Jesus” to continue walking. Earlier, I had seen a man with shoulder length hair, wearing a white toga, and walking barefoot. And so begins Good Friday in Jerusalem.

Throughout the day, throngs of pilgrims retraced the 14 Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa, Way of Suffering, to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where it is believed Jesus was crucified.

We decided to walk with the Franciscans around noon, and given the anticipated crowds, a kind lady in the Christian Information Centre suggested we enter the Old City by way of the Lion’s Gate, which is close to the First Station.

Since we were a couple of hours early, we decided to not heed the advice and instead walked through the Old City. Soon, we were swept along with a sea of people. There was no choice but to follow along. After some time we were able to break from the group. We turned down a narrow street, then down another, and yet another. Then we stopped, realizing we had no idea where we were. Navigating the Old City can be like that. Then we found ourselves in the middle of another group of pilgrims. Only problem was we were going against the tide, trying to squeeze our way up the Via Dolorosa, while hundreds were stopped with nowhere to go.

One guy shook his head and said it would be impossible to make our way up. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I thought to myself. Besides, some might say that Jesus often went against the grain. At one point the crowd was so tight that I was pushed on an angle, and I feared falling over. Two others were also trying to make their way against the crowd, and from behind me I could hear, “In the name of the Holy Spirit...God please make a path for us.” Maybe someone was listening, because soon after the crowd thinned, and we scrambled past.

It was amazing to see thousands of people from all over the world chanting hymns in different languages. I met Yousef and George, two Palestinians who live near Bethlehem. As one group began the procession, Yousef turned to me and said, “God created many languages.”

He then asked me if I was a Christian. I always find this question uncomfortable, because of the requisite lecture that usually comes. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just say, yes. Instead, I’m honest.

“Well, not really,” I stammer. “I was baptized as a child, but I don’t believe in God.”

“You mean you don’t feel anything in your heart,” he pushed.

“Oh, I feel lots of things in my heart, just not God,” I replied, hoping the topic would change.

“You know, if you believe you will live for eternity, but if you don’t, you won’t. Well, it’s good that you were baptized, but you need to work much harder,” he concluded.

I just smiled, and left the conversation at that. This is what I dislike about the overly pious. The insinuation that if you don’t believe somehow there’s something wrong and you need to “work harder”. It reminded me of a sermon I once heard at church in which the priest asked the question, are there Saints outside the Church? I wanted to yell out, you bet there is!

By 12:15 PM hundreds of people had gathered at the First Station. Once underway, the procession squeezed through a narrow doorway and started down the Via Dolorosa, stopping at each Station along the way to recite prayers and hymns. It took an hour for us to walk the 500 metres.

Near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a scuffle broke out as soldiers and police tried to stop the procession, in an effort to control the crowd. In front of me, a group carrying a seven foot wooden cross surged past the police, and through an archway that led into the church courtyard. Feeling victorious about pushing past the authorities, they pumped their fists in the air and chanted. In the ensuing fracas, I found myself standing at the entrance of the courtyard. Behind me the throng wanted to push forward, while inside I saw people pushing and shoving with police and soldiers. To gain a semblance of control, the soldiers started to push the big steel door in front of me closed. I didn’t resist, but others tried to force the door back open, but to no avail. Within a few minutes, the big door swung open and we continued to spill into the Church.

Inside, hundreds of pilgrims roamed through the cavernous Church, in search of the last five Stations. Near the entrance was a long piece of stone, which was placed here just 200 years ago, at the spot where people believe that Jesus’ body was prepared for burial. A large group surrounded the stone. Some poured water on it, while others wiped it with a cloth. Others still knelt down and kissed it.

We walked to a large rotunda, where in the centre sits what is believed to be the tomb of Jesus. A large mob of people jostled with one another to gain entry to the tomb. John and I felt safe standing behind a makeshift barrier, but knew these kinds of situations could turn ugly at any moment. Security struggled to keep people orderly.

Wanting to leave this circus-like atmosphere, we vowed to return the next day when we hoped the feverish atmosphere would subside.

Good Friday in Jerusalem...a remarkable experience to be sure.

Build bridges, not walls

2010-03-31T09:04:00.000-07:00

“There’s the fucking wall,” our guide said to us as we caught a fleeting glimpse of Israel’s separation fence. Begun in earnest in 2002, the length of the “fence”, which in many places consists of a 26 foot high concrete wall, has now been approved by the Israeli government to run for 703 km.

Supporters of the barrier argue that this is necessary to curtail Palestinian terrorism, and use the decreased number of suicide bombings, as a measure of success. Opponents often call it the Apartheid Wall, and contend that the barrier deviates into occupied Palestinian territory, and is merely an attempt by Israel to annex Palestinian land under the guise of security. In some places, it diverges more than 20 km to include Jewish settlements in the Palestinian West Bank on the Israeli side.

I didn’t know what to think or feel when I first saw the Wall. It kind of smacks you into silence. The massive, gray concrete slabs resemble giant domino blocks, only these ones you can't knock down. Menacing watch towers are staggered along the Wall. I looked up at the windows, and wondered if anyone was looking at me in return. And if they were, did they have their hands on a gun? It reminded me of something one might have seen during the Cold War in Russia or Eastern Europe.

All over the world, humans have been building walls for thousands of years. Indeed in our relationships with family, friends, and colleagues, we often build walls. So, maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that we continue to build fences instead of bridges. In some ways, it’s easier to put up a barrier than deal with conflict. A sad testament to the human condition, really.

The Wall may be a separation barrier, but it has also become a massive canvas for social and political expression. Scrawled across the bleak gray concrete are messages of all kind. Some of it art, some just simple, yet poignant messages, but all of it represents a solidarity of sorts.

I wrote down a handful of the messages. Some represent resolve, others a sense of helplessness, while others still, a sense of hope:

We will never give up

It’s not a fence, you stupid

Why is this grey piece of shit still here

Imprisonment is as irrevocable as death

Even Rome fell

Free the people now

When is change gona (sic) come

England loves you (honest)

Fear builds walls

Let the people dance, sing, hope

FORGIVE...it feels better

One day will change

A restaurant next to a portion of the Wall has tried to turn the miserable looking area into a positive, by renaming their restaurant the Wall Lounge, and posting their menu in large letters on the concrete across the street. Others, though, are confronted with it in a more direct way. i walked down one street and the Wall was little more than 20 feet from the front of people’s homes. Once they would have looked across to Jerusalem; now they are forced to look at 26 foot slabs of concrete.

Whenever I think of this Wall, I’m immediately taken to the 1987 speech that U.S. President Ronald Reagan made in front of Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate, in which he called the Berlin Wall a scar, and uttered what became the most famous words from that speech: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

I hope that in my lifetime the wall separating Israel from Palestine, which only further divides people, will be torn down.

Five dollar haircut

2010-03-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

Even a guy like myself with little hair, needs a haircut every once in a while. My wife usually cuts my hair, but I haven’t seen her in almost a month, so I was in desperate need of cut. While ambling through Bethlehem’s old town the other day, I dropped into a small barber shop, with just room enough for two big, old chairs.

There was no one inside, but within seconds a young guy walked in, and intimated that he was the barber. I climbed into the chair, and thought that we would wait for his father to return. Instead, he draped the protective cloth around me, and asked what I wanted. Sweeping my hand across my head, I told him that I wanted it all off.

“Number zero, then?”

I was about to trust my head with a kid that looked no more than 16. He pulled out the electric razor and started shearing off three weeks of growth (for many people this may not seem like a lot, but for someone who prefers his hair close cropped, it was getting downright shaggy). To get to number zero, he had to force the razor close to my scalp. Then he pulled out a straight blade and trimmed the nape of my neck and around my ears. A man, who I guessed to be in his late 50s and the owner of the shop, came in. He had a pompadour style of cut himself.

When the young guy was finished cutting my hair, he sprayed some nice smelling liquid on my head, and rubbed it in. I felt free and liberated. In the short time that I had been there, four other people had entered the shop. Turned out it were the boy’s parents, friend and sister.

The sister asked where I was from and what my name was. I then asked her how much the cut cost.

“Pay what you like,” she said

“What does a cut usually cost,” I asked?

“10 shekels, she replied.”

Wow, that’s $2.70, I thought to myself. They couldn’t make change for a $100 shekel bill, so I reached into my pocket and gave the guy five dollars.

As I was leaving, I asked the sister how old her brother was.

“He’s 20,” she said with a smile.

Some photos

2010-03-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

Overlooking Nazareth

Mount of Beatitudes

On the way to Nablus

Shepherd near Al Fara'a

Young boys near Zababdeh

Mar Saba Monastery

Walking through Wadi Auja

Crossing the Judean desert, and running from the storms

Sheperd boy, near Jericho

On the way to St. George Monastery, Wadi Qelt

Old market in Bethlehem

O little town of Bethlehem

2010-03-29T10:03:00.000-07:00

Eight days, and 125 km, after walking into a farmer’s field near the northern West Bank town of Faqu’a, we arrived in Bethlehem. Bethlehem is built atop a large hill. In fact, I sense that Mary and Joseph would have had a difficult time navigating the hilly region between Jericho and Bethlehem.

We made our final push to Bethlehem, an arduous 13 km trek uphill, from the Mar Saba Monastery. Perched on the side of a cliff in the Judean desert, the monastery was founded in 439 and is one of the oldest inhabited monasteries in the world.

Each day presented its own set of challenges. After the first day, in which we covered 20 km and walked up and down three large hills, I wondered how my feet were going to carry me the rest of the way. The third day to Nablus was especially taxing, as we slogged up a mountain in the searing heat. Our overnight stay in an impoverished village, near Auja, was challenging for a host of reasons. The basic house we stayed in was made of mud brick, and the only electricity powered four small light bulbs throughout the home. The toilet had a crack in it, so when you flushed it, water shot out the side, and when I pulled the cover in my small bed over me, I couldn’t help but wonder when it was last washed. The screens on the windows had long since been torn away. This meant an army of mosquitoes feasted on us all night long. I figured that I may have needed a blood transfusion, considering the amount of blood that was drained from my body. At one point, I put my jacket over my head to shield me from the unrelenting barrage. None of us got much sleep. Morning came as a relief.

But for every challenge, there was a corresponding reward. Seeing a country on foot, as few people have, was a one-of-a-kind experience. The Palestinian countryside is rich in beauty. From thriving farmland and bucolic hills in the north, to the stark beauty of the desert in the south, there were lots of Wow! moments. Like walking through Wadi Auja, where the canyon walls towered hundreds of feet above. We navigated around large boulders on the valley floor, and then found ourselves walking along a path that was only a foot or so wide, along the top of the gorge, which required a focussed mind so as not to slip. And just when fatigue and the warm afternoon sun were wearing us down, we stumbled upon a spring that was gushing clear, cool water from the ground. There was also the trek through Wadi Qelt, a Grand Canyon like scene that led to the St. George Monastery. It was here in the peaceful surroundings of the monastery that we waited for the rain to let up. And then a short time ago, I watched a full moon set over the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem’s Manger Square.

If the landscape is beautiful, then so too are the people. Despite the challenges that Palestinians face, and they are many, we were welcomed with bright smiles and big hellos, wherever we went.

Bethlehem or bust

2010-03-26T08:42:00.000-07:00

Look at a map and you’ll see that the most direct route from Nazareth to Bethlehem is about 90 km straight south, but some believe that Mary and Joseph would likely have gone east to the Jordan Valley, before travelling south. This route would have been less mountainous and safer, as it would bypass Samaria, which was often at odds with the Jews. After reaching the ancient town of Jericho, whose history dates back 10,000 years, they would have turned west for the last stretch to Bethlehem.

We learned that a group of Belgians would be joining us for the first three days, so after a bit of a disorganized start, our guide, Nadal, led the 14 of us into a farmer’s field for the start of our eight day journey to Bethlehem. We walked past fields brimming with onions, through groves of olive trees, and up hillsides blanketed with wild flowers. We crossed paths with two shepherds and their herd of sheep.

While our walk to Bethlehem isn't following the exact route that Mary and Joseph would have travelled, I still felt as if I were following in their footsteps; minus the donkey, of course.

We stopped for lunch under a stand of trees on a hillock near the village of Al Mughayer. Not long after arriving, a taxi arrived with the ingredients for our meal-- bread, humus, some sliced meat, pickles, and a white cheese-like substance that is squeezed out of bag into a coil. Fine the first few times, but it would get a little tired after a few days of eating the same for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Over lunch, Nadal pointed in an easterly direction and told us that Israel’s security barrier was not far away.

“Maybe we should go there for an adventure,” someone in our group jokingly said.

“There is no adventure in Palestine,” Nadal responded curtly.

It was a sharp reminder that the conditions in Palestine aren’t simply some sideshow to be gawked at. The conflict between Israel and the Palestinians has raged on for more than 60 years, and has exacted a terrible toll on both sides, but more so for the Palestinians.

With our bellies full, we found a path that cut through a valley. Passing one village perched high on a hill, a large group of young boys saw us. “Hello…hello…welcome…welcome,” we could hear them call out, as they clamored down the steep hillside to greet us. We exchanged greetings, shook hands, and posed for pictures. When we moved on our group swelled, as the boys ran after us for another kilometer or two. We left one path for another and waved goodbye to the boys. They waved back and ran back to their village.

After climbing one more hill, we descended through a grove of olive trees, some of which were more than a 1,000 years old.

“This all looks very biblical,” John said, taking in the scene that unfolded before us. “Well, of course it is.”

Almost 20 kilometres after setting our in the morning, we entered the town of Zababdeh, a predominantly Christian town, where by law the mayor must be a Christian. Someone commented that they thought we were the military. What a rag tag militia that would have been. They probably thought that because Ronald was wearing his camouflage pants, and walking out in front, as he always does.

John and I had a discussion, well actually I forced him into the discussion by suggesting that it seemed a little exclusive that the mayor had to be of a specific religious persuasion. Couldn’t an Atheist or Muslim, or Buddhist do just as good a job as a Christian?

“Most of the people in the village are Christian, so they would want to vote one of their own in,” John offered.

Still, I was bemused that religion need be a requirement for the mayor’s job. That’s when John said, “In this part of the world, you have three choices [Christianity, Judaism, and Islam], pick one.”

Roman columns, gold lions, and a hotel

2010-03-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

The first thing I noticed after crossing the border into northern Palestine was the quality of the roads. In contrast to the roads in Israel that were smooth and well paved, here they were rough and dotted with potholes. Though, in many areas the U.S. government is funding a lot of new road construction.

Loud Arabic music filled the car, as we debated whether to go first into Jenin, or to our hotel. “Hotel or Jenin...hotel or Jenin,” our driver barked, as we neared a turnoff.

“Okay, to the hotel,” the three of us answered in unison.

Surrounded by rich, fertile fields, the Haddad Hotel is located two miles from Jenin. The city made headlines in 2002, when it was the scene of fierce fighting between Palestinians and the Israeli military, in which 75 were killed.

From the road, the first thing that greets visitors is a small amusement park, but after driving up a long driveway, the extent to the Haddad family’s ambitions and garish taste reveals itself. Sure there is a small, modern hotel, but so too is there a theatre, with a capacity for 2,000 people, and a stage set that Caesar would be proud of with its faux gold coloured Roman columns.

Next to the hotel are three mansions, whose architecture could only be described as southern U.S. antebellum meets Rome. One house is the father's, and the others for his two sons. The middle house has a large relief and statue of St. George slaying a dragon. Scattered haphazardly through the grounds are Roman columns and life-sized statues of gold lions. In fact, the only danger I have experienced so far on this trip is the chance of being knocked over by a Roman column. The family is also putting the finishing touches on a museum highlighting Palestinian history.

One of the sons showed us around the amusement park, which features 16 rides. All of the rides were built in the family owned factory, which gives the park a bit of a dated, worn-around-the edges feel to it. Maybe the kind of midway my parents may have experienced in the 1950s or ‘60s. The family goes online to see what the latest rides are out there, and then designs similar ones for the Park. The family is looking at expanding the amusement park, which was filled mostly with young children and their mothers.

Walking around one couldn’t help see the irony between this place and the Jenin refugee camp, which we had driven through earlier in the day. John thought the entire place was tasteless, especially given the conditions that many people in the area live. I reminded him that the hotel and amusement park, along with the other attractions employed lots of people desperate for jobs. In fact, the factory that builds the rides employs 70 people alone. He agreed, but still shook his head. We watched one ride come to a stop. A woman vomited. We all turned and walked away.

That night for dinner, our guide arranged for us to eat outside amidst the trees and Roman columns. While the days were warm and sunny, the evenings were cool. John was wearing a sweater and jacket, and both Ronald and I went inside to retrieve our own jackets and sweaters. Back outside, each of us, including our guide, Nad, had our arms crossed trying to stay warm.

“This is absurd...it this what Palestinians do,” John asked Nad, in a half-joking, half-serious manner.

We all laughed at this subtle suggestion to move inside, where a others were enjoying dinner, without having to wear a sweater and jacket.

With St. George slaying a dragon nearby, we continued to chuckle about the absurdity of sitting outside in the cold, while deriding the over-the-top atmosphere. If you find yourself in Jenin, the Haddad Hotel might just be your best bet, especially if you like a kitschy ambience.

Magical mornings in Nazareth

2010-03-22T22:24:00.000-07:00

Note: Long days have meant little time for writing, so I'm a little behind in my posts. Have completed three days walking--about 54 km. Leaving Nablus this morning and heading for Duma. May not have internet access until Jericho in a few days. Also haven't yet been able to find a way to upload any photos.

The effects of jet lag forced me awake earlier than I would have liked, but in doing so I was treated to a magical scene as the morning sun peeked above the hills surrounding Nazareth, bathing the town in a warm glow. Our hotel, St. Margaret’s Pilgrims Hostel, sits atop one of these hills, offering sweeping views of the town and surrounding countryside. Each morning I was awoken by the wonderful sounds of roosters and church bells. The centre of the town is dominated by the Church of the Annunciation, which as the story goes is the place where the Angel Gabriel came to Mary and told her that she would bear a son.

Over breakfast, we met the third person in our group (though we would learn later that 11 Belgians would be joining us for the first three days). Ronald was a young guy from The Netherlands, who wasn’t shy about advertising his politics. One day he wore a black t-shirt with a red image of a Nike symbol that had been turned into the old Soviet Hammer and Sickle image, with the words, Strike – Just Do It, emblazoned on the front. He has been to Palestine twice before, supporting local farmers by picking olives. He has an unabashed passion for the Palestinian cause, but has a habit of using the pronoun “We”, when discussing these issues, even though he isn’t part of the “We”. In talking about the Wall that the Israelis have built to separate the Palestinian West Bank from Israel (though in many cases the Wall, or Security Barrier, as the Israelis call it, actually separates Palestinians from Palestinians, but more on that later), Ronald quickly shot back: “We call it the Apartheid Wall”. Sometimes he talks as if he is Palestinian himself. Maybe when one is so passionate about a cause they assume the identity of that group. It’s still annoying, nonetheless.

The other member of our group, who I have referred in previous posts, is Dr. John Soos (yes, his name is pronounced the same as the famed author Dr. Seuss, though we haven’t had any green eggs and ham). John is spirited, easily excitable, and has become the source of much comic relief. On more than occassion he has exclaimed, "I can't believe I'm here!"

As a transplant psychologist for the past 20 years, I knew John as a colleague. We would often swap stories about our travels, and several months ago he asked if I had any trips planned. I told him about this adventure. Thirty minutes later he returned to my office and exclaimed, “I’ll go with you!”

The three of us were sitting in the back seat of a car that was winding its way up Mt. Tabor. John was educating us about the significance of the mountain in Christianity. Something about a mystical experience and Jesus talking to Moses and Elijah, and a foretelling of his death and resurrection.

I asked Ronald about his religious beliefs.

“Yes, I’m Catholic.”

“Then, we’re kind of like a sandwich,” I said, sitting between two Catholics. “You guys are the bread, and I’m the ...” I was trying to think of a good metaphor, when John quickly said, “And you’re the spam.”

After descending Tabor, we drove about 15 minutes through the fertile Jezreel valley to the Israeli military checkpoint on the Palestinian border, not far from the city of Jenin.

We were not able to cross by car, so our driver and guide left us, and we crossed on foot. We weren’t sure if anyone would meet us on the other side.

We walked through a narrow maze-like passage way that was hemmed in by a high chain link fence. Not far away was a watchtower. It felt much like I imagine a prison might. Inside the heavily fortified building were 16 customs booths. It wasn’t busy, so just one booth was open. The woman took our passports and told us to wait. Two security guards took our passports away. We watched as Palestinians were forced to show an identity card and put their hands on a fingerprint reader before being allowed into their country. For me, the poignant moment came when I saw an elderly Arab man shuffle up to the checkpoint. Years before Israel even became a state in 1948, this man probably lived on the same land, where he now had to be fingerprinted each time he came and went.

I didn’t see them when we first entered, but up above on a cat walk were two Israeli security personnel. They walked around slowly, all the time with one finger on the trigger of a very large gun. Every time I looked up at them, they would lock eyes. It was very unnerving. Then, 30 minutes after arriving at the checkpoint, our passports were returned and the security officer told us to enjoy our trip.

After negotiating a series of security gates, we were in Palestine. No one was waiting for us, but we knew the name of the hotel we were staying at, so we jumped into a taxi, and sped off.

The 9th Beatitude

2010-03-19T10:12:00.001-07:00

The land around us was hundreds of feet below sea level. The green hills, pitted with rock and stones, rolled down toward the Sea of Galilee. We found an unmarked path and began the steep climb. Waist high grass on both sides of the dirt trail whipped back and forth in the stiff wind. The top of the hill lay hidden, like a mystery waiting to be revealed.

We pushed ourselves higher and were rewarded with a sight that some believe could only have come from the divine. As we crested the hill, the land became flatter and the wide swath of cut grass in front of us formed a maze-like pattern that led to the Church of the Beatitudes. This Roman Catholic Church is believed to be built on the site where Jesus gave his Sermon on the Mont, a compilation of moral sayings. Best known of the Sermon are the eight Beatitudes (Matthew: 3-10)

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,
for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

Built in 1938, the Church of the Beatitudes is octagonal in shape, reflecting the eight Beatitudes. Around the Church, palms, and hibiscus, and tall slender cypress trees added to the sweeping views across the Galilee.

Earlier in the day, while waiting for a bus in Nazareth, a taxi driver, named Riad, persuaded us to empty our pockets of 170 shekels, about $50, to drive us the 45 minutes to Capernaum, a few kilometres up the road from the place where Jesus gave his sermon. Riad had said he would drive us back to Nazareth, but we didn’t want to be at the mercy of a pesky cab driver, so we said we would find our own way back.

So, after visiting the Church, and with little idea how we would get back to Nazareth, we descended the grassy hill, and wandered along the side of the road hoping to find a taxi. But there were none; only speeding cars and tour buses.

We walked on a little further and thinking that we would never get a taxi, I asked John if he would pray for a taxi. I figured since he would always do the sign of the cross each time we went into a church, and inside he would often pray or meditate, I thought he may have a connection to God, who would be able to call a cab for us.

“You pray for a cab,” he shot back

“But I wouldn’t know what to do or where to start,”

So, none of us prayed. Instead, we walked on. In the distance, a threatening storm cloud grew larger. I made half-hearted attempts to try and flag down passing cars and trucks. But none stopped. Hadn’t they heard of the Good Samaritan story, I thought as they all zoomed past? We finally made it to a busy road, and found a bus stop. We waited for some time until a taxi stopped with another passenger and asked if we wanted a ride. We climbed in and raced toward Tiberias.

With apologies to Jesus, I think that given our experience trying to get back to Nazareth, and to make the Beatitudes a little more relevant to our time, a ninth Beatitude should be added. And to make the process a little easier, I’ll propose some draft text:

Blessed are those that can find a taxi
for they won’t have to stand on the side of the road wondering if they’ll get home before nightfall

Getting in

2010-03-17T13:58:00.000-07:00

From the window of the airplane, I saw the placid waters of the Mediteranean sweeping onto sandy beaches. This was the ancient land of Israel. Below me was Tel Aviv--a compact and tidy looking city, whose buildings all wore a creamy white colour. A lively freeway snaked around a stand of modern office buildings. The land around the city was as flat as a dinner table, and nourished by the winter rains the fields had turned a rich, vibrant green, like the outside of a watermelon.

From above, this peaceful scene belied the fact that for thousands of years this little sliver of land with few natural resources had been conquered and reconquered and conquered again. The pattern repeating itself through the Centuries.

I walked to the customs hall prepared to be greeted by a steely-eyed young soldier, with aviator sun glasses and an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Instead, sitting behind the plexi-glass partition was an attractive young woman, with long, curly dark hair. She wore fashionable glasses, and guessed her to be in her 20s.

“Shalom, or good day,” I said to her.

“What is the purpose of your trip,” she asked, officiously.

“For a holiday”

“Where are you going? Where are you staying? Who are you travelling with?”

The inside of my mouth went dry as she peppered me with questions.

I told her I was going to Nazareth. And when she asked what I was going to do then. I told her I was going to walk to Bethlehem, and spend Easter weekend in Jerusalem.

“Are you travelling by yourself?”

I told her I was meeting a friend from Canada in a couple of hour’s time.

The questions kept coming. “Who are the people that arranged this trip? How do you know them? Have you met them before? Have you been to Israel before? Are the people that arranged this, a travel group?

I anticipated such questions, but still wondered about the consequence of my answers. I purposely didn’t make any reference to Palestine, and left such books, as Rene Backman’s A Wall in Palestine, for fear my bags would be searched provoking an unfavourable reaction.

Then she flipped through my passport examining the pages of stamps. For some reason she stopped at the page containing the Macedonian and Indonesian visas. She consulted her colleague beside her. Then another woman entered the booth and started asking me the same questions.

Hoping they would take pity on me, I told them I had been planning this trip for more than a year. Then they asked me if my visit to Jerusalem on Easter weekend was for Christian or Jewish. I tell them Christian. Isn’t that what Easter is all about, I think to myself. Maybe they just assumed, but I’m relieved they didn’t ask me if I was a Christian. It might have complicated things.

I had been there for only about 10 minutes, but it felt much longer. Then she stamped my passport and told me to enjoy the trip.

Walking into the arrivals area reminded me of the opening scene from the movie, Love Actually, where mothers and fathers, and grandparents, and friends, and lovers were waiting to greet their loved ones. A grandfather was holding two large balloons. One was in the shape of a motorcycle and the other a horse. I watched him for quite some time, wondering when the balloons would no longer be his, but in the hands of a child. I saw two lovers reunited, sharing a long embrace. And a mother and father who ran and hugged their son tightly. It was lovely to watch, and I noticed others being moved by this wonderful human experience.

After a couple of hours my friend came through, and I asked him how the questioning was. It was very quick, he said. He told her he was going to Nazareth, and then said to her, “can you believe it, I’m going to walk to Bethlehem.” She said people do that and asked if it was part of a tour. And that was it.

To witness the scene at the airport was to see a people seemingly at ease with itself and its surroundings. Surprising to the visitor was the lack of an armed presence. There were no soldiers strutting around with guns, as one might expect. In fact, except for some direct questions about my visit, there was nothing intimidating about the airport. And so we hopped aboard a train and headed north to Nazareth.

The Unlikely Pilgrim

2010-03-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

Life itself is a pilgrimage. Every day is different,
every day can have a magic moment ~ Paulo Coelho

For thousands of years, the biblical story of Mary and Joseph’s journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem has captivated the imagination of people the world over.

It is this timeless narrative, on the eve of my 40th birthday, that has inspired me to walk the same journey that Mary and Joe took (though I don’t think I’ll have a donkey with me).

I began envisioning this trip more than a year ago, and first imagined it as a solo journey. I pulled out a map, and noticed that Bethlehem is a straight line south from Nazareth, about 90 km. Looked easy enough.

Detecting a slight concern for my safety and security in this troubled part of the world, my wife asked if there was some sort of tour that I could join. I appreciated her point, but being herded on and off a tour bus was not the experience I was looking for.

I wanted to find out what the “situation” was like from people who lived in the region, not through the lens of the media, which often fixates on isolated events, giving one a sensationalist and distorted view of what life on the ground was really like. I began contacting random people through the social networking site facebook, explaining my idea and asking if it was indeed possible to walk from Nazareth to Bethlehem.

The first response I received said I couldn’t do it. I felt a little deflated, but I wasn’t about to let that get me down, so I asked for some clarification. There’s a big difference between can’t do something and CAN’T do something. The person sent another message saying that it could be done (now that’s more like it), but when I got to the Palestinian territory of the West Bank, of which much of the Nativity Trail travels, the Israeli Defense Force may not allow me to enter and if they did, they wouldn't be responsible for my safety.

After a few more contacts, I was put in touch with someone named George, whose runs a small group that among other things organizes walking tours from Nazareth to Bethlehem. By this time, and much to the delight of my wife I’m sure; I had warmed to the idea of a small (emphasis on the small) group tour. Early last year, I remember coming home one day and my wife said someone named George from Bethlehem left a message on the answering machine. I found this amusing because I had only associated Bethlehem with one name, and it began with a "J". After chatting with George from Bethlehem for a bit, I figured this would be the best way to fulfill my desire to visit Israel and Palestine.

The group will spend the first couple of days in Nazareth, and the northern part of the West Bank, before beginning the 130 km, nine day walk to Bethlehem. We will overnight in Zababdeh (where interestingly, by law the mayor must be Christian), Fara’a, Nablus, Duma, Alauja, Jericho, and Mar Saba, and finally Bethlehem. I will then end my journey in Jerusalem on Easter weekend.

Click here for a larger view of the map:

As if only the devout could appreciate religious history, I’m often asked why a nonbeliever like myself would be interested in visiting the Holy Land. A fair question, I suppose.

I was baptized in the Anglican Church, and as a youngster went to Sunday school. It was there I would listen to idyllic stories and daydream about this far away land. Once I was even in a Nativity play. Though I don’t remember, I think it was a bit part – a shepherd, maybe. Or was it a donkey, or maybe a tree?

As I grew older my beliefs began to take shape. I never thought of, or referred to myself as an atheist. I have a good friend, who on occasion will say, “but that’s what you are…that’s what you are.” Maybe so, but I'm just a guy that believes certain things and have never needed a label to satisfy those beliefs. Despite my thinking, and the fact that Churches, and other places of worship, often make me feel uncomfortable, I have an appreciation for religious history and the intoxicating lure that has drawn pilgrims (and conquerors) to the Holy Land for thousands of years.

After more than a year of planning and reading countless books, the Unlikely Pilgrim sets off for Tel Aviv tomorrow.

A writer's life in Hawaii

2010-03-10T13:29:00.000-08:00

When I told people that I was going to Hawaii to write some magazine articles, the usual reaction was one of envy. My English friend (who talks with a funny accent) would probably say something like...you jammy sod, while others would use much stronger and more direct language. Words that I can’t repeat, because my mother might read this. The point being—who wouldn’t want to jet off to Hawaii to do some writing?

While I’m not looking for any pity, especially given the fantastic view I have of the beach from my room at the Marriott’s Waikiki Beach Resort and Spa, let me give you an idea of what life is really like in Hawaii for this intrepid writer.

A year or two ago, Asia Pacific Airlines, a cargo airline that operates out of Honolulu approached the magazine about covering their operations. The editor passed it on to me and said to look into it if I ever found myself in the area. I don’t often need an excuse to come to Hawaii, though the timing never worked on my previous visits here, but since I was here again reporting on Hawaiian Airlines, I could probably make some time. And so I found myself on the phone yesterday talking to Jimmy Sy, the airline’s Honolulu station manager.

“Ok, the flight is coming in at 0430 (yes, that’s four-thirty in the morning),so you’ll need to be at the airport by 0400, and you have to call me in the morning, so I can let you know if the plane will be arriving on time.”

“Right (insert pause)...four in the morning. No problem...I’ll be there, and I’ll call in the morning.”

I got off the phone with Jimmy, and began to ponder what part of the morning I would be calling him if I needed to be there at four. Better not to think about it.

Since I had set the alarm for 3:00 am, I decided to go to bed relatively early, though the drifting sound of ukuleles from the hotel next door made sleeping a bit of a challenge. I looked at the clock at 1:00 am and thought this would be a good time to call Jimmy. But he didn’t answer his phone. So, I went back to bed and when I woke at three, and called him again. Yes, the plane was on schedule.

After showering and getting dressed, I grabbed my bag and went to the hotel lobby to try and find a cab. I only saw one couple, and wondered if they were coming in from a night on the town. The city looked deserted as we drove to the airport. The smart people were all still sleeping.

Jimmy arrived at the same time I did, so he led me to his modest office, where he fired up his computer, and checked his emails while I asked him some questions.

The flight we were meeting originated in Guam 10 hours earlier, and made a stop at Majuro en route to pick up 45,000 lbs of fresh tuna.

Never heard of Majuro? Well, it has a population of 25,000 and is the capital of the Marshall Islands. You’ll find this speck of land in the middle of the Pacific at 7⁰4’N 171⁰16’E (check it out on Google Earth). It’s so narrow that the width of the Island can only accommodate a two lane road. Oh, and given the load on the flight, there must be a lot of tuna around.

Just after 4:00 am, Jimmy stepped out of his office. That’s when the pilots of the plane radioed in.

“Honolulu...”

I could hear coming from the radio in that crackly, far away sound. A minute passed and another call came in.

“Honolulu Ops...?”

I wanted to go over to the radio and tell them to circle the airport for a few hours, so we could go get some more sleep. When Jimmy came back I told him that someone was trying to call.

He got on the radio and the pilots confirmed that they would be arriving at 0428. Jimmy confirmed that 1-Charlie was the parking stand.

Jimmy gave me a security badge and a bright reflective vest to wear, and we drove over to the cargo area of the airport. Not long after we arrived, the airplane could be seen touching down. A short taxi brought the Boeing 727 freighter to the stand, and once the stairs had been pushed against the aircraft, the door opened and the three pilots didn’t waste much time getting off. Presumably to go to a hotel for some sleep. With equal haste, the large side cargo door was opened exposing the interior of the jet. Snugly packed in the aft fuselage were seven pallets of fresh tuna. It only took 20 minutes for the aircraft to be unloaded. Inside the warehouse, the boxes of whole tuna were being separated and sent to their final destination in Honolulu, Los Angeles, and New York.

After thanking Jimmy for his time, I took a taxi back to my hotel and climbed back into bed just before 6:00 am. A quick nap before I needed to be at a meeting two hours later.

There you have it. A taste of what life is like for this writer in Hawaii. So, the next time you bite into that piece of tuna sashimi or tuna sandwich, think of me standing in the dark at the airport in Honolulu, at four-thirty in the morning.

Hawaii...you gotta be here

2010-03-08T20:32:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who says Hawaii is overrated. Is it possible for someone to rate something they have never experienced? I’m not so sure, but I think I get his point. Because Hawaii is a little over five hours flying time from the west coast of the U.S. and Canada, it’s accessible. And given the curious love affair that the Japanese have for Hawaii, the place can feel a little, well overrun by holiday makers. Well actually it’s only Honolulu that is a zoo, with its traffic and jungle of high rise hotels, and shops, and packs of tourist touts wanting to sell tours, jeep rentals, and the opportunity to shoot a real gun indoors. Why anyone would come to Hawaii and want to shoot a gun is beyond me, but presumably there is a market.

But this is what amazes me about Honolulu. Out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean (okay, not exactly the middle, but you get the drift) is this vibrant, dynamic city of close to a million people that pulses with energy. The closest city of any note is San Francisco, and it’s 2,400 miles away.

Like my wayward friend, I didn’t have much interest in visiting Hawaii, and even after my first visit 12 years ago, I wasn’t totally sold. Then I was introduced to Maui, the quieter side of Hawaii. And I love it. I blame my wife. She’s knows Hawaii like Don Ho knows ukuleles She was one of those spoiled (I mean that in the kindest, most envious way, of course) kids that always went to Hawaii. Yes, yes, I know that my five year old son has been to Maui twice. Please remind me to be less indulgent.

Crossing the vast ocean, you begin to wonder if it’s all a rouse. While the sea has turned a delightful blue colour, there is nothing but, well, water. Though the wisps of cloud below look like sweet pieces of cotton candy pulled from its paper stick. Then the islands—Maui, and Hawaii, and Molokai, and Oahu sneak up on you, and as you land in Honolulu you pass the famed Waikiki beach, with Diamond Head, a 760 foot volcanic crater rising majestically at the end of the beach. And when you step off the airplane, there is something seductive about breathing this lovely tropical air, and watching people flock to the beach in the evening to watch the sun melt into the sea, or see the surfers trying to catch one last wave before dark.

You gotta be here...my friend doesn’t know what he’s missing.

Missing Sunday

2010-03-06T19:43:00.000-08:00

Some people don't like Mondays. For my five-year old son it's Wednesdays and Sundays that he doesn't much like. What could be so horrible about those two days? They're hair wash days, and washing his hair is like a trip to the dentist for some.

He's flying to Australia this evening, and if I didn't know better, I'd think that it was he who chose the day to leave, because through the magic of time travel, he will miss Sunday all together. How is that, you wonder? Well, he leaves Vancouver late on Saturday evening, and will land in Australia on Monday morning. In effect, Sunday, March 7th will not exist for him (or his brother, mother, and grandmother, who are all travelling with him). And if Sunday doesn't exist then he misses a hair wash day. Smart kid. Good planning.

Another interesting quirk of nature is that in the next month he will experience all four seasons (though not in normal sequence) -- winter, summer, autumn, and spring. Figure that out.

Some technology I can live without

2010-02-14T20:15:00.000-08:00

Late last year I came across a website that noted 21 things that had become obsolete during the past decade. A bit of a misnomer, because most of things profiled aren’t obsolete. Anyway, because of the proliferation of GPS units in automobiles, maps, according to this website, are apparently obsolete. A shame really because I really like maps, and considering the number of times my five year old son has looked at his dog-eared and crumpled Disneyland map, he likes them too.

I’ll admit to being a reluctant user of new technologies. I was the last person to get an ATM card, the second last person to get a DVD player (my parents were the last), and I’m able to resist the urge to buy the latest electronic gadgets.

Last week when renting a car in Los Angeles, I asked the guy for a map. “Oh, I forgot to ask if you wanted a GPS.” No, just a map, I replied. It’s all I would need.

With words like, “Oh, you HAVE to get one of those" -- others have extolled the virtues of these little devices, but I’m not sold. They seem more of a novelty to me. Plan your route in advance, know how to read a map, and follow the signs. And if you do get lost, delight in the detour.

I’m not sure if it’s just my family, but has anyone else ever gotten lost when using a GPS? Last year while in San Diego, I told my sister (whose car was equipped with a GPS) to take a particular road along the beach for a nice drive. She was following me for a while, and then turned off. When I asked why she turned off, she said the GPS told her she was seven miles from Mexico, and she thought she was lost. How ironic the person with the GPS thought she was lost. Indeed my sister probably was seven miles from the Mexican border. While my sister was afraid of Mexican banditos or something else, my wife and I enjoyed a pleasant seaside drive.

The other day I was driving with my parents, again in San Diego, and they had programmed the GPS to take my son and me to Sea World. It’s an easy 4km from where we were staying. From the front of the vehicle all I heard was an annoying woman’s voice (no, not my mother’s) coming from the computerized unit sitting on the dash.

"Turn right 250 metres, bear left 200 metres, turn right, turn right, turn left, go straight, recalculating, recalculating."

Instead of just following the well-marked signs to Sea World, my parents were so focused on the GPS unit. In fact, when we left we actually missed a turnoff, because they were listening to the directions. I asked my mother if she could turn the annoying voice off. I have no idea how anyone could concentrate on driving when this nagging voice is telling you where to go. It’s worse than the worst backseat driver. I would have thrown the device out the window before getting past the first block.

Where’s the joy in not always taking the most direct route? Or the unexpected pleasures that invariably come with getting lost? Technology has indeed made our lives better, but there are some things that I can do without. Does anyone have a map?

Going gray

2010-01-24T21:30:00.000-08:00

So, the other day I noticed a gray hair in my amazon-like forest of chest hair. Isn't it a bit early. I mean I'm not quite 40 yet. Then my wife kindly told me I had another three, or four, or five...I told her to stop counting...on my back.

"You know, if it was all gray, it wouldn't look like you have any hair on your body!"

Great, the kind of support one can count on from one's spouse. Do they sell gray dye at the 24 hour pharmacy? Probably not.

This got me wondering, why does our hair turn gray? My parents used to blame it on the stress I caused them as a child. Apparently, that's a load of bunk. Here's the follicle on my unscientific research.

Hair follicles contain pigment cells, which in turn produce a chemical called melanin. This gives the growing shaft its colour. When the pigment cells die, the hair turns gray. I did learn that it may take more than 10 years for all the hair to turn gray.

One other fact. The average scalp has 100,000 to 150,000 hairs on it. And for those of you who know me, I'm not all that average.

Yes, there was a time when my head didn't look like a clear cut:

15 years later

West Coast Air

2010-01-22T20:52:00.000-08:00

My article on West Coast Air is being published in the March issue of Airways magazine. Included in this article is a report on a fantastic flight from Victoria to Whistler. You can view the article by using the zoom (+) button, and the scroll bars, or you have an option of downloading the article.

Enjoy,

A169_WestCoastAir2

The great places the news will never tell you about

2010-01-07T16:04:00.000-08:00

If it weren’t for an episode of Friends, many people would never have heard of Yemen. As it is, most know little of this Middle Eastern country, or could even locate it on a map. Yemen, with a history that spans thousands of years sits on the southern side of the Arabian Peninsula. Saudi Arabia borders the country to the north.

Apparently, the ancient Romans called the area Arabia Felix, Happy Arabia. But there is little to be happy about in Yemen these days. It is the poorest country in the Arab world; burdened by an unemployment rate of 40% (183^rd in the world), and oil reserves that are expected to be depleted in 2017. And while the government has attempted to improve economic conditions and reduce illiteracy, Yemen has come in the news recently for largely negative reasons. The government has been fighting a civil war with religious rebels, and parts of the country are purported to support terrorist training camps.

I mention Yemen because despite the negative attention that the country has received, there are some historical treasures that are worthy of knowing about. In fact, a few years back I was interested in writing about Yemenia, the county’s national airline, but the folks there were inept; hence I was unable to arrange a visit (this ineptitude is not exclusive to Yemenia, similar useless public relations people can also be found at AVIANCA, Aer Lingus, TransAero, and a host of other airlines, I digress).

We often see a country through the lens of a television camera, or the tip of a pen (do writers still write?), and usually what we see is the negative, so if you have actually heard about Yemen in the news recently, they probably didn't show you the old walled city of Shibam. Dating to the 16^th Century, the city is known as the Manhattan of the Desert, because of its ancient mud brick skyscrapers. Below are a few photos of Shibam and Sana'a, courtesy of http://www.traveladventures.com/

The news probably didn't share with you the old city of Sana’a, where 103 mosques, 14 traditional bath houses and more than 6,000 houses dating back a thousand years still stand.

Sometimes we need to get beyond the trouble and negative stories to see the jewels that exist in this world.

Bigger is not always better (unless we're talking about buildings)

2010-01-05T20:58:00.000-08:00

I usually eschew the bigger is better notion (I’m not sure what they are compensating for, but the drivers of Hummers and Escalades, and their ostentatious ilk, aren’t cool), except when it comes to buildings, and then BIGGER IS BETTER. The granddaddy of those buildings, the Burj Dubai, or Burj Khalifa as it is now named, was officially opened yesterday. Almost two years ago, I had the pleasure of seeing the Burj, which in Arabic means tower, while still under construction.

I arrived in Dubai in the late evening, and jumped in a taxi, glad to be shielded from the simmering heat. As the car neared my hotel, I could see this dark, monster-like building piercing the night sky. It looked foreboding and eerie. An army of construction workers, most plucked from Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh, scurried about like ants building up the colony for the Queen, or in this case, Sheik Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the current ruler of Dubai, one of the States that make up the United Arab Emirates.

I was staying at The Palace The Old Town (though a bit of a misnomer, because there is very little that is old in Dubai), and much to my delight when I awoke in the morning, I could see the Burj Dubai, rising majestically next to the hotel. Still in its unfinished state, the Burj had already surpassed the world’s next tallest building, Taipei 101. In fact, at this time, the tower’s final height was still unknown. Wow! The World needs more buildings like this, I thought to myself.

If the marvelous design of the building doesn’t wow you, then surely the details will:

- 160 stories
- 2,625 feet (almost 1,000 feet higher than Taipei 101)
- In 2007 became the world’s tallest building

- In 2008 became the world’s tallest man-made structure

Many great cities around the world are defined by their amazing skylines. Think Chicago, New York, San Francisco, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. Even Sydney and Paris have signature buildings that have given rise to these great places. While there have been a few positive developments, I often wish the citizenry and decision makers in Vancouver were bolder when it comes to taller buildings.

For the foreseeable future nothing will surpass the Burj Dubai, but surely some bold (and ego-driven) architect is drawing up plans in their head for a taller tower.

If you don't know me...better to just call me Mister

2009-12-19T21:15:00.000-08:00

I don't expect a lot from the cashiers at the supermarket. I'm not fussy about how they bag the groceries, as long as they don't squish the bread (in fact fewer bags the better). I don't care that they have to look up the PLU code for parsnips, parsley, or persimmons. And I surely don't expect them to know my name. So why then do some supermarkets insist on the cashiers thanking customers by name when they don't even know them. It's torturous for the poor clerk who struggles with the proper pronunciation, and it's torturous for the person who has to listen to their name being butchered.

The other day I was at Safeway, and Gus (who had a button on his shirt that said something like, "take pity on me, I'm new) was doing a good job. The line was moving well, scanner was beeping, groceries were being bagged, money was exchanged. Everyone was happy. Then Gus remembers line 15 of the training manual that says he has to thank the customers by name. So, he stares at the loyalty card of the guy in front of me, and after a moment stammers out a name that sounds like a mix of German and Chinese. Realizing that he probably didn't get it right, Gus tries again. This time the name sounds like a cross between Hungarian and Nepalese. The customer smiled and said, "Not really, but thanks."

When I handed Gus my card, he looked at it, and realized he probably shouldn't have skipped his phonetics class. He then offered up..."Mr. Don?" Not quite, but at least he went back to scanning my groceries. Then when he returned my change and card, he just called me, "mister". Which at the end of the day is just easier. Same thing happened yesterday with another Safeway clerk. This time I was called "Mr. Dono".

No, the name is DONOHUE (which in Irish means handsome, intelligent, and charming).

To further illustrate how ridiculous this practice is, a few years ago I was at a store and the clerk looked at my Air Miles card and said, "thank you Mr. Williams." She looked blankly at me when I said, "not really!" What she didn't know, and why should she, was that the card I had was tied to my wife's account, which still had her maiden name on it.

Customers don't expect random clerks in random stores to know their names, so let's just dispense with the nonsense. Better for the customer and better for the poor clerks. A simple, thank you, is all I need.

NZ least corrupt nation

2009-11-18T20:37:00.000-08:00

Transparency International, which calls itself the global civil society organization, released its annual corruption index. New Zealand (the only place my wife has been that I haven't) apparently is the least corrupt country in the world. Which is nice and all, but really how corrupt can a place be when the sheep population outnumbers humans 10:1. Yes, just over 4 million people call this island nation home, while more than 40 million sheep really run the place. As much as low corruption leads to good government, it sounds...well, rather boring.

In case you're interested, the five least corrupt nations are:

New Zealand
Denmark
Singapore
Sweden
Switzerland

Canada was tied for 8th, sharing that place with Australia and Iceland. But it's the countries at the bottom of the list that sound like exciting places to visit.

The most corrupt nation is Somalia, which isn't surprising of course to those on one of the 65 ships that have been attacked or hijacked by Somali pirates. There hasn't been a functioning government for many years. The 5 most corrupt countries are:

Somalia
Afghanistan
Myanmar
Sudan
Iraq

The most corrupt country that I have visited is Iran, which placed 168th. Again, not surprising considering this year's disputed Presidential election. We didn't experience any overt corruption during our visit, although we were detained by the police for a short while, and had to secretly remove the film from our camera and hide it in our host's sock, so that it wouldn't be found and confiscated by the police at the airport.

Honestly, and really isn't that what this is all about, the only corruption that we have knowingly engaged in was in South Korea. As foreigners working in Korea, we needed to obtain an Alien Registration Card. One day, the mysterious Mr. Park, whose job we never really knew and who just appeared from time to time, escorted Carrie and I, along with two other teachers, to the Department of Immigration. Housed in a non-descript , concrete building, we found a seat along a back wall. After a long wait we went individually to a counter to get fingerprinted and had our picture taken, so we could be registered as Aliens.

There was more waiting, and then Mr. Park led one of the other teachers to a counter, where we could see her signing some papers. She seemed stunned when she returned and told us that they asked her to sign someone else's name on some immigration documents. Mr. Park then led Carrie to the counter, where she was asked to do the same thing. We have no idea what the documents were for, or why they were asked to sign them. Sometimes it's just easier not to ask.

Everything in America is Big

2009-11-03T20:46:00.001-08:00

Have you noticed that everything in the U.S. is BIG--The Big Easy, Big Sur, Battle of the Big Horn, Super Big Gulps, Big Bear Lake, Big trees that they call giants, Big Brother. It's a big country (though not the biggest), with big portions and big people, big deficit, big cars that drive on equally big freeways. Even former president Bill Clinton talked big, when he said: big things are expected of us , and nothing big ever came of being small.

It's a larger than life place, so it wasn't surprising when I heard about the very big 4,060 year sentence given to a child sex offender and recently upheld by a Texas Appeals Court (apparently Texas is a BIG state, though not the biggest). I was thinking maybe a 3,000 year sentence was reasonable, but a Texas jury was looking for something bigger. James Pope will not be eligible for parole until the year 3209. Now that's a lot of years spent in the Big House.

Misleading Journalism

2009-11-01T19:37:00.000-08:00

If you read Saturday's Sun from cover to cover you might have caught these two references:

South African Airways offers low airfares and good service between Seattle and a choice of destination cities in South Africa. The flight from Seattle connects through New York which makes for a nice break for such a long journey.

and

Saxena arrived Friday on Thai Airways flight 615 from Vancouver via Beijing.

And if you did catch these excerpts, from different stories, you could be forgiven for thinking that South African Airways flies to Seattle and that Thai Airways serves Vancouver. Neither is the case. Just some sloppy journalism.

South African Airways, which by the way has one of the finest liveries (that's the fancy paint on the outside of the plane) in the world, doesn't fly anywhere near Seattle. In fact, their only two North American destinations are Washington DC and New York. Instead of fine South African service between Seattle and New York, you'll get no service on an American airline, and if you choose to book through the airline's website as the article suggests you'll be forced into making an inconvenient and expensive connection between New York airports (I've done it before it's a hassle, and the cab ride will be over $100). Oh, and the fare will set you back more than $2000. But in case you're interested, I checked on Travelocity, and found a fare for the unbelievable price of $1400, all in, and no need to transfer airports. Consider it my gift to you. Just send me a postcard.

Now on to the second misleading article. Presumably long time fugitive, Rakesh Saxena, who was extradited last week to Thailand after 13 years of playing the Canadian judicial system did indeed arrive on Thai Airways flight 615, but that flight originates in Beijing. Thai Airways has never served Vancouver. It is likely Saxena and his entourage of Thai police officers flew from Vancouver to Beijing on Air China.

So when you're at your next cocktail party and someone says they heard that Thai Airways flies into Vancouver, you'll know they don't. Don't believe everything you read in the paper.

By the way, if you were interested in purchasing a ticket on that South African Airways flight to Jo'burg, my legal name in my passport is KENNETH.

What exactly is the Prince's job?

2009-10-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

Next week, Prince Charles (known by close friends as Chuck) will be coming to Canada, and if a poll of 1,400 Canadians is a reflection of the country, then indifference will probably mark his 15th visit to Canada.

Out in the colonies, the British royalty are kind of like those distant relatives, who come to visit every once in while. They’re pleasant visits, but not really full of much substance. So, it doesn’t surprise me when I read that half of those polled no longer believe there should be a Queen or King as a Head of State, and that only one in five would make an effort to see the Prince of Wales if he were nearby.

What does surprise me about the poll is that almost 700 people thought that Chuck was doing a good job, while just 34% thought he was doing a poor, or extremely poor job. And 62% said the Queen was doing a fair, good, or excellent job.

Really? And what are there jobs? It’s not like the days of old when Kings and Queens led countries, oppressed their subjects, invaded foreign lands, and ruled distant empires. Even Chuck’s website is a little vague about what he does. Under the Work section it reads:

The Prince of Wales, as Heir to the Throne, seeks, with the support of his wife, to do all he can to use his unique position to make a difference for the better in the United Kingdom and internationally.

Yah nice, but aren’t many of us trying to make a difference for our respective countries and the world?

I was chatting about the state of British throne just the other day with my colleague, who apparently claims to be Canadian, but spent of her impressionable years growing up in London, so she talks a funny kind of English. She told me that the Windsors (sounds like it could be the name of a soap opera) took a much greater interest in British affairs than we hear about in the backwaters of the Empire. Maybe so, but it seems that the Royals of old had a much greater impact on the affairs of their countries. Take for instance William, the bastard, a French dude, who by the time he was 19 was dealing with threats of rebellion and invasion. Later he sailed across The Channel and invaded England and proclaimed himself King. Talk about overachiever.

While I don’t often run out when Elizabeth or her sons come to town (though in school once we stood on the side of the street waving a little Union Jack while Liz and Phil drove by, and I did bid farewell to the Royal clan when they boarded their Yacht), I am a sucker for pomp and pageantry, and I don’t mean to sell Chuck short, because he engages in many charitable causes and speaks out about environmental degradation, but it just seems that these Royal visits are merely tightly controlled glad-handing events.

His website says that he and Camilla hope to meet a cross-section of Canadians during their 11-day visit. If his handlers would let the guy loose, I’m sure he would have a more meaningful dialogue with Canadians, but he won’t get much of a sense of Canada being hustled from one heavily scripted event to another. Not like his younger brother, Edward, who while staying in Victoria at the 1994 Commonwealth Games, apparently donned a ball cap and slipped out the side door at Government House without his security detail and walked downtown to take in the nightly concerts in the Inner Harbour.

I wish the Prince and his Princess a pleasant visit, but like most Canadians I won't be rushing out to see them.

A long road trip

2009-10-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

So I learned today that it may soon be possible to travel to Mars in 39 days. This thanks to a new Ion propulsion engine. Not sure what that really means, but it sounds fast.

Apparently Mars and Earth only pass close together every two years, so space junkies always assumed a crew would have to travel one way, wait a year, then fly back the next time the planets were close together--raising the same kind of fear you have when your in-laws visit for Christmas and they might have to stay a year before returning home.

55 million km in 39 days--now that's one long road trip. I'm not sure it would work for our family. These days before we leave the garage, the older one is always asking, "are we there yet...are we there yet?". And when the little one starts screaming in the car, the older one starts in. Soon the back seat is a symphony of shrill shrieks.

Where would you stop for snacks along the way? Are there rest stops? "Hey honey, can you pull over, so I can use the toilet? Imagine the kind of musical play list you would have to put together.

"Haven't we heard this song before?"

"Well, not since day 17!"

My son would be playing one of his favourite songs over and over. A ditty by The Backyardigans (A grunge band from the early '90s) called, We're going to Mars.

It goes something like this:

Uniqua, Pablo and Austin:
We're going to Mars We're going to Mars A mission is what we've got

Pablo:
We're gonna say 'roger' a lot

Uniqua, Pablo and Austin:
We're going to Mars We're going to Mars We don't know what lies ahead

Pablo:
But we do know the planet's red

Uniqua, Pablo and Austin:
We're going to Mars

Austin:
What will we find when we get there

Pablo:
Probably some dude that is red there

Who knows, maybe we'll see you out there one day on the Milky Way travelling to Mars.

I'm no Brad Pitt, but I have three toilets

2009-10-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

I often hear my wife talking in her sleep. The theme goes something like this. Why didn't I marry someone with the rugged good looks of Brad Pitt, or the refined charm of George Clooney, or the wit of Louis CK. Then she wakes up. And sees my adorable face.

While I'm no Pitt or Clooney, I am a great husband, but for reasons that may not at first seem obvious. I have provided my dear wife with a house that has three toilets--one on the main floor and two upstairs. I know, the pampered luxury that my wife has become accustomed to.

Now before you minimize the significance of such facilities, consider that in rural India many young women are refusing to marry unless their suitor furnishes their future home with a bathroom. This means the ladies won't be inconvenienced by having to use community toilets or squatting in fields.

In one state, close to 1.5 million toilets have been built since the No Toilet, No Bride campaign started two years ago. One woman said she won't let her daughter near a boy that doesn't have a toilet. "No loo? No, I do," she was quoted saying in a newspaper article.

The culture of favouring sons, and thus aborting female fetuses (an illegal, yet widespread practice), means there are more bachelors than eligible brides. Women and their parents are now able to be more selective when arranging a match. There's always a price to pay for screwing with nature, isn't there?

Imagine what a catch I would be in India with three toilets. I just won't tell my wife that Brad Pitt's French home has seven bathrooms, with another seven in the outbuildings on the property.

15 cent Metro

2009-10-08T19:52:00.000-07:00

Those who know me well know that I'm a frugal guy. Not cheap...frugal, there's a difference. If I was cheap I wouldn't have given the homeless guy some money for volunteering the directions to my hotel, during a recent visit to Seattle. It's a trait I'm sure passed down from some Scottish ancestry, and tucked deep inside my DNA. My mind is often consumed by money--how much did that taxi cost me? And that breakfast? And those two belts I bought from a street vendor yesterday in Mexico City. $20, $12, and $8, in case you were curious.

I try to live by a simple philosophy. We all have a certain amount of money, and if we are careful with it, we can experience much more than if we squander it away. That's why I shared a room with 9 others a couple of years ago, and paid $35 to stay a night in midtown Manhattan, or stayed with a family in Bucharest with no hot water for $15. But back to Mexico City.

Yesterday afternoon, I left my hotel and started walking along the impressive Paseo de la Reforma towards Zocola, the city's historical area. The de la Reforma is a multi-laned road bordered by wide boulevards, and lined with leafy trees. After passing the impressive Fountain de la Diana Cazadora and further along the Angel of the Revolution monument, I stopped in at a tourist info kiosk, and asked how long it would take to walk. 30 minutes. So I asked about the bus. The helpful attendant pointed to stop on the far side of the round about, and told me it would cost 5 pesos, 40 cents. What a bargain. Frugal guy likes that.

After spending some time ambling through the central part of the city, I thought I would take the subway back to my hotel. I scanned the colourful subway map and figured that if I walked to the Pino Suarez station, I could take the pink line to Sevilla, which would deliver me two blocks from the hotel.

I descended beneath the street and into the baking and busy maze of tunnels below, like ants burrowing through the ground. I found the ticket counter, and handed over 2 pesos, 15 cents, for a ticket. Yes, 15 cents. For a frugal guy like me, that's like pulling three sevens on a Vegas slot machine. I could ride the metro all day long at that price.

In case you need to impress someone at your next cocktail party, here's a little information on the subway. Yes, time saved looking it up online. My gift to you.

The Sistemo de Transporte Colectivo Metro, the official name of Mexico City's metro. Opened in 1969, it is the second largest metro system in North America, next to New York's, and serves more than 1.4 billion passengers a year (the Tokyo metro is the most used with more than 3 billion riders each year). There are 11 lines and more than 450 km of track. And indeed it is the cheapest metro ticket in the world.

During the initial construction, two archeological ruins were discovered, along with an Aztec idol, which apparently is different than an American Idol, and the bones of a mammoth.

The trains are long, and normally full of people, although on one train coming back from the airport this afternoon, I was able to get a seat. The windows on most cars have been scratched up by delinquents, but I never felt unsafe. Vendors ply their trade selling tic tacs, freezies, flashlights, small toys, and presumably a factory of other things. The din of the train is sometimes disturbed, pleasantly so, by the pulsing music from someone's large stereo. Music is, after all, meant to be shared.

And the one thing I noticed is that it doesn't matter where you are in the world, people entering the train don't wait to let those getting off the train, before they barge on. Humans are idiots, but I love the 15 cent metro.

We're always waiting for something

2009-10-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

“It seems like everyone is waiting for something,” my 10-year old nephew observed recently over a family dinner. And while he was referring to the chicken, or potatoes, or salad, I thought it was an appropriate statement for life in general. Seems we’re always waiting for something.

Before we are born even, we wait to be freed from inside our mothers. And our parents, too, eagerly await our arrival. And when we do arrive, they hold their breath waiting for that shrill cry, and the thumbs up from the doctor.

As a youngster we eagerly wait for Santa Claus to come. Then on Christmas morning we wait some more until our parents get up and breakfast is made. And if you have a father like mine, you’ll wait even more, because he takes hours to open one gift.

At school, we wait outside until the bell calls us inside, where we wait until the teacher shows up, and begins the roll call (do they still do that). Students with names at the end of the alphabet always think they have to wait longer. Turns out we all wait the same amount of time. We wait for the results of our tests, while our parents wait for our report card. I always waited for my mother to ask why I don’t try harder and apply myself.

When we graduate from grade school we wait on the stage for our name to be called out, only to wait even longer until those students whose names are at the end of alphabet get called up. Then we wait for our final grades to see if we’ve applied ourselves enough to continue our education. We wait for the university to accept our application, where the waiting begins all over, except this time there are no bells to let us know when the class starts. And there is no recess.

Travelling is all about waiting, too. We go to the airport and wait to check-in, then wait again to put our bags on the conveyor belt. We wait at security and then again at the gate. Sometimes if the flight is delayed, we have to wait some more. Once onboard, we have to wait until all the passengers and cargo are loaded. Once in Dallas we had to wait until a thunderstorm passed. And when it was safe to leave we had to wait for the back up of airplanes to take off. The moment we leave, our loved ones can't wait until we return. They stand at the airport waiting for our plane to arrive.

Some mornings we lay awake waiting for the alarm to go off, and then wait for the hot water to warm up the bath or shower. We wait for the toast to jump out of the toaster, or the coffee to brew, or the Rice Krispies to go snap, crackle, pop.

Sports, too is a waiting game. We wait to enter the arena or stadium, then wait for the players to skate onto the ice, or run onto the pitch. We wait for the warm up to finish, and the puck to be dropped, or ball to be kicked. During the intermissions we wait some more--in lineups for food and drink, and for the toilet. We wait for the final buzzer to see if our team won. Then we wait to get out of the building, and wait some more to get our car out of the parking lot or to find a train home. In some cases, we wait decades before our team finally wins a championship, while others still wait for the first taste of victory.

At the supermarket we wait at the check stand for the person in front to pay for their groceries. It always seems that I’m waiting behind the person fumbling for loose change in their purse? We then wait for the cashier to scan our items, only to have to wait longer because they don’t know the code for organic spinach. We then wait for the total payment to be displayed. The cashier in turn waits for us to get find some cash or a plastic card.

The unlucky wait for the test results and then wait a doctor’s diagnosis, only to be told there is nothing more that can be done. They then wait to die. Life is cruel that way.

I’m not sure how they know this, but apparently we spend 10 weeks of our lives waiting. I guess I’ll have to wait to see if that’s true.

Now may be the time to visit the UK...or maybe not.

2009-09-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

If you’ve been putting off that trip to the United Kingdom or Great Britain or whatever you want to call that place where they talk that funny sort of English, now may be the time to go. As an aside have you noticed that the Kingdom, which is actually ruled by a Queen is hardly united, nor is it as great as it once was? I digress.

Instead of taking money from unsuspecting tourists and locals, 20 former pickpockets have been slipping 5 to 20 pound notes into people’s pockets or handbags for the past month in London. The “put-pocket” initiative, which is now apparently being rolled out country wide, and is being funded by Internet provider, TalkTalk. A clever marketing stunt, me thinks.

Fortunately, in all of my travels, I have never been pickpocketed. My camera was stolen at a Venice youth hostel (the miscreant didn’t even have the courtesy to leave the film behind), and someone tried to open my backpack while on a busy street in Costa Rica, but Carrie wrestled the guy to the ground and punched him in the nose.

What you may not know is that the biggest pickpocket is actually the British government. Compare the taxes and fees paid on flights to London and other European cities and you’ll see why you’re being fleeced. What's almost as bad is that most airline booking sites just display the total taxes and fees, so you have no idea who's ripping you off. But believe me, the UK government is getting a fistful of your Dollars or Euros, or Dinars.

According to the World Travel and Tourism Tax Barometer, taxes on international air passengers has risen more than 250% in London since 1994. In 1996, the UK government introduced a new international air passenger duty, which started out at 10 Pounds, but has now increased to 40 Pounds, and is set to rise again this year.

Below are the taxes and fees for flights to some European cities from Vancouver (in CAN$)

London - $457
Paris - $413
Amsterdam - $395
Frankfurt - $316

Alistair Darling, Britain's Chancellor of the Exchequer, must put his feet up each evening at 11 Downing Street, counting his dosh, because London's Heathrow is the world's busiest airport in terms of international passengers, with more than 69 million passing through each year.