Why close on a map doesn't always mean the quickest route - part 2

It was about three in the afternoon, and since we had only eaten a granola bar that day, we decided to find something to eat. There didn’t seem to be many restaurants, but we went to the market, where flies and other insects competed with each other. We thought that bananas would be safe to eat, so we bought a few, and found a ledge nearby to contemplate our next move.

We wandered down to the harbour area, hoping that the immigration officer had somehow made a mistake, and that the hovercraft would operate the following day. But any hope of that happening was quickly dashed when we started talking to a young man, who was dripping wet after having swum in the lake. The next day was Sunday, and for sure, he told us there would be no boat, and no one was really sure when it would operate.

“Aeropeurto,” I said, sounding desperate, and with my arms stretched out mimicking an airplane. The guidebook suggested that San Carlos was served with flights to the capital, Managua. From there, a short taxi ride would take us to Granada. The young man led us to a small office, where one could supposedly make reservations. No one was there, but someone nearby said that it should re-open in an hour or so. We sat outside grasping a sliver of hope that a flight would leave that evening, or even the following day. For a moment, I thought that we might get to Granada sooner than if there had been a ferry. We kept glancing at our watches, but no one returned to the office. Feeling somewhat helpless and dejected, we returned to our room.

We hadn’t eaten much all day and our bottle of water was running low. We were emotionally drained. Both of us had travelled a lot, but as we sat on our beds, our heads hung low, it was the first time that we felt the road had beaten us.

The walls between the rooms in the hotel were made of thin, wood paneling. A ledge ran along the wall, and we noticed a light coloured, powdery substance on part of the ledge. We wiped it clean, but within minutes it reappeared. My wife then lifted the mattress and noticed an army of bugs moving about. “I guess we are both sleeping in one bed,” she said, after inspecting the other mattress. The thought of two people trying to sleep in a single bed in the sticky, tropical heat didn’t seem overly inviting, so I made a last attempt to see if the airline office had re-opened.

It looked as deserted as it did when we had been there earlier. It was then that I thought to myself that we should abandon our goal of reaching Granada, and return to Costa Rica the following morning. I walked along the town’s main street, where women were preparing an evening meal over open fires. I stopped and spoke to a man who sold soda and other confectionaries from his tiny home. I gave him a dollar for a large bottle of Pepsi. I made my way back to our hotel. The streets were empty. But I could hear music and singing, coming from a nearby church. I peered in, and noticed that the pews were overflowing. I stood outside for a few moments, soaking up the atmosphere. It was the most beautiful thing in this squalid and impoverished town.

I returned to our room, and pronounced that we should forget trying to get to Granada, and return to Costa Rica in the morning. My wife took the Pepsi from my hand, gulped a few mouthfuls of the warm fizzy drink, and then said matter-of-factly, “I made that decision hours ago.”

We had started the morning with a full bottle of water, but the long journey had left us with very little, and not enough to brush our teeth. We didn’t trust the tap water, so I ventured out again to see the man that sold me the pop, in the hope that he might have some bottled water. He didn’t, but he led me to a small bar of sorts, where bottles of water were lined up against the back wall. I had used up my last U.S. dollar buying the Pepsi, and all I had, apart from some traveller’s cheques, was a wallet full of Costa Rican money, which they wouldn’t accept. With no Nicaraguan Cordobas, they wouldn’t sell me any water.

After brushing our teeth, we ended up rinsing with the Pepsi. Having only eaten a granola bar and a banana that day, I was starving for anything, so I rummaged through our bag and found a package of M&Ms. I was about to tear into them, but not before my wife suggested, in a sensible yet forceful manner, that we might need them the next day. Who knew when our next meal would be, she reasoned.

We turned off the lights and tried to get comfortable in the single bed. I lay on my side, pinned again the wall, while Carrie, also on her side, fought to stay on the bed. The only saving grace was a fan that whirred away in the corner, providing some relief from the heat. Sleep wasn’t really an option that night, but when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. Around two in the morning, a torrential rain pounded down. Thunder and lightning followed. Then the power went off, and with it the fan. Soon the hot, still air in our room got feverishly thick.

The moment day broke, we hurried down to the harbour, hoping to catch an early morning boat back to Los Chiles, but the first one wouldn’t be leaving for a couple of hours. An older man, who was also waiting for a boat negotiated with someone to take us to Los Chiles in their speedboat. The cost was five dollars each--double the cost of the regular boat, but we would get there in half the time, and we wouldn’t have to wait for two or three hours. But this good news was quickly dashed when the immigration officer wouldn’t allow the boat to leave, because he saw the operator drinking alcohol.

After some time, we climbed aboard the regular riverboat, and sat on a wooden bench at the back, next to the older man that had tried to secure our release earlier. His English was limited, but good enough that we learned he was travelling to his home in Liberia, a city in northwestern Costa Rica, and a gateway to the Pacific beaches. It was where we wanted to go, so instead of enduring a long bus ride back to the capital, San Jose, and then another long ride north to Liberia, he offered to drive us. With so much that had happened over the past 24 hours, it was the kind of good fortune we needed. By nightfall, we would be in Liberia, and the following morning, we could be sitting on the beach.

Once in Los Chiles, we climbed into his old and battered car. It sputtered to life. I wondered how we would ever make it across the country. We stopped at a roadside eatery for some lunch, and not having eaten in 36 hours, I gobbled down a large plate of chicken and rice. My wife, on the other hand, poked at a sandwich that I think she still regrets ordering. We jumped back into the car and roared across Costa Rica, driving on mostly deserted and unpaved roads. There were few towns of any note, until late afternoon, when we rolled into Upala, a small town near the Nicaraguan border. Our car had been making a terrible noise for some time. We were surprised it had made it this far. While our driver got out and started hammering away at one of the wheels, we looked around wondering if we would be forced to spend the night here. But a little hammering seemed to do the trick, and we carried on. We stopped at a service station, and our driver filled the car with about $20 worth of fuel. I had considered giving our driver $25 when we got to Liberia, so I felt content that his gas would be covered, and then he would have a little extra.

It was a warm evening when we arrived in Liberia. People were congregating in the city’s main square. We asked to be let off in the centre of town, so we could easily find a hotel. We pulled our bags out of the car, thanked the driver and gave him twenty-five dollars. His demeanour changed and he demanded a hundred dollars. We had never agreed on a price, and he was driving to Liberia anyway. He wasn’t persuaded when I told him that twenty-five was enough. In hindsight, I wonder what would have happened if we just walked away. Instead, I emptied my wallet and gave him eighty dollars. We felt cheated, but were relieved to be in Liberia without having to endure an arduous bus journey.

The following day, we found a small hotel on the beach, and recounted our recent adventure. We even laughed about it. It felt as if we had been travelling for weeks, but our trip was only a few days old. Almost sadly, the rest of our vacation went smoothly. I often wonder how things would have turned out if we hadn’t taken the road less travelled, or if we had made it to San Carlos before the ferry left. Whatever the case, I still long to see Granada.

Why close on a map doesn't always mean the quickest route

The other day my son, Jack, and I were exploring the world on Google Earth. “Daddy, is that a volcano,” he asked as we passed over Mexico. “It is, but let me show you a volcano in Costa Rica that your mother and I climbed.”

We closed in on Arenal, an active volcano that looms over Fortuna, a small town in the north of the country. I was reminded of the trip we took nine years ago (that's me part way up the volcano).

Below is part 1 of that adventure.

On a map, everything in Costa Rica looks deceivingly close. And so we staggered off a bus in the border town of Los Chiles, after a seven-hour journey that included two buses and an indiscriminate number of stops along the way. If there is a system to when Costa Rican buses stop to let passengers off, or take on others, I never figured it out. Standing by the side of the road, people would wave down the bus in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. And likewise, passengers would call out to the driver to let them off in equally remote places.

We found ourselves in Los Chiles, because when we looked at a map, it appeared close to Fortuna, where we had spent the previous night. There are two main border crossings between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Most travellers use the crossing on the Pan American highway, near the country’s west coast. The other access point between the two countries, and the one less frequented by foreigners, is at Los Chiles, a small town on the Frio River.

Los Chiles, with its many rundown, wood buildings, had the feel of a border town. It seemed less a destination, and more a stopping point on the way to somewhere else. For us, the somewhere else was Granada, Nicaragua’s oldest Spanish city, and graced with many colonial buildings. The city rests at the northern end of the mammoth Lake Nicaragua. Our research suggested that a short boat trip down the Frio would bring us to San Carlos, in Nicaragua, and from there a catamaran would whisk us across the lake to Granada. It seemed easy enough.

Looking around at the sparse amenities that Los Chiles offered, my wife commented that she was glad we weren’t spending the night there. Someone directed us to the Immigration office, where we had to report before leaving. We waited in the sultry heat for close to an hour until the office opened. And with the kind of promptness not necessarily accustomed to in this part of the world, it opened at one o’clock, as the sign promised. The officer took a few dollars from us, stamped our passports, and directed us to the river.

A long, narrow, wooden boat, with an outboard motor attached to the back was waiting, and we were waved aboard. The boat carried about 20 people, most of whom were Nicaraguans travelling home after working in Costa Rica. The river was muddy, and flowed at a languid pace. Dense jungle rose up from the banks. After thirty minutes, we came upon a small wooden shack, set high above the river. A large Nicaraguan flag moved lazily in the tropical heat. Six men, most wearing army fatigues, stood idly. One of the men looked menacing, and carried a large gun. It was the Nicaraguan border patrol, and I couldn’t help but think these guys must have drawn the short straw to be posted at such a remote location.

One of the men sauntered down to the river as our boat pulled alongside a small dock. The man with the gun kept his eyes trained on us, while his colleague spoke to the operator of our boat. Speaking in Spanish, we couldn’t understand the conversation, except when the soldier pointed at us, and the boat operator said, “Canadian”. The soldier smiled, saluted us, and with that our boat pulled away and continued downstream. The jungle soon gave way to marshy lowlands, and we passed small homes, built on stilts above the river. Large egrets soared overhead, while others were perched high atop the trees. The river emptied into the wide, open waters of Lake Nicaragua, where we could see our destination, San Carlos, in the distance. To our right, the San Juan River carried water from the lake to the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, engineers had once considered building a trans-American canal between the Atlantic and Pacific here, but political instability, forced them to build the canal further south, in Panama.

From the river, it was hard to get a sense of San Carlos. Small, wooden buildings backed onto the river. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived, and we knew that the hovercraft to Granada would have already left for the day, but we were content on staying the night in San Carlos, and would take the ferry across the lake the following morning.

We scrambled onto the dock, went to the Immigration office, and handed over our eighteen-dollar entry tax. When asked, we told the officer, with knowing assurance that we were going to Granada. “But the boat has already left,” he said. “Then we shall go tomorrow,” we replied with confidence. As our conversation unfolded, it became clear that there was no ferry service the following day, and maybe not the next day either. Not wanting to believe this information, we picked up our bags, shook off some pesky kids offering to help us, and continued through a narrow walkway that led to the town’s main street. We walked through the dusty streets. Flies and other bugs flew up in our faces, as our feet disturbed them from feasting on discarded fruit peels and other bits of garbage. It was a surreal experience as people stared at the gringos that had come to their town. Maybe they were simply curious, or maybe they wondered why we had taken the road less travelled.

The mid-day heat was wearing on us, and since we were probably going to have to spend at least one night here, we decided to look for a place to stay. We pulled out our guidebook, which suggested the only clean place was the Cabinas Lykos. As luck would have it, not more than a few feet in front of us was a large painted sign with an arrow pointing toward that hotel.

We climbed a set of stairs, and stood at a small reception area. It was dark inside, except for the light that radiated from a television that sat on a table in the middle of a large sitting area. Soon a woman appeared. Her English was only slightly better than our Spanish, but she knew enough that we were looking for a room. The small, fifteen-dollar a night room fronted the darkened sitting area, where we saw the television. Two single beds separated a narrow space that led to the bathroom. Aching for a shower, I turned the taps that were hooked up to a pipe protruding from the wall, but nothing came out. I found someone and not knowing the Spanish word for shower, I acted it out. They went out back, and like magic, water trickled from the pipe.

Tomorrow, the adventure continues

Enchanting Transylvania will have you wanting to return - Part 2

Part 1 of my Transylvania adventure took me to Brasov.
Today, we travel to Sighisoara.

Gabriel, the young guy who owned the Brasov apartment I was staying in, drove me to the train station. He got my ticket, carried my bag on to the train, and led me to the correct train compartment. We shook hands and said goodbye as if we had known one another for a lifetime.

I shared the compartment with an older couple. He was nicely dressed in a three-piece suit, and she wore a dress and a periwinkle scarf that matched the colour of her wispy hair. As our train pushed deeper into Transylvania, the morning fog added a sense of mystery to the passing landscape. I wished I spoke Romanian, because I’m sure my seatmates would have stories to tell about life in Romania. Besides, they were probably just as curious of me as I was of them. Instead, I offered them some chocolate. Wrapped up in his newspaper, he declined, but a smile lit up across his wife’s face and she gladly accepted. It was nice to see that a woman’s love for chocolate is universal. She rustled through her purse and pulled out a bag of peppered pretzels, which she offered to me. “Multumesc”--thank you, I said. The train slowed as we neared Sighisoara, and since this was my stop, I gathered my bag from the rack above. I nodded and smiled at the couple as I left the compartment. They waved back.

“Are you from Canada,” a woman asked, as I jumped off the train. I wondered how she knew where I was from. “I’m Christine…Gabriel said you would be on this train.” Christine and her husband rent out part of their home to visitors, and it came well recommended. Up on a hill, not far from the station, stands Sighisoara’s beautifully preserved citadel. Lucky for me, Christine’s home was located in the middle of this charming medieval town.

We walked up the cobbled streets to the citadel, where we passed under the 15th Century clock tower. It was like stepping back in time, and being invited into a town that we usually read about in history books. In the shadow of an ageless church, artisans sold their crafts much as they would have hundreds of years ago. A maze of quaint streets, void of vehicles, led us to Christine’s home. I left my bag and began exploring this restful town. I enjoyed losing myself down enchanting lanes.

Sighisoara is rightly known for its ancient heritage, but it also lays claim to the birthplace of “Dracula”. The legend of Dracula is difficult to sort out. Vlad Tepes, a 15th Century Wallachian Prince, who was born in Sighisoara, is often credited with being Dracula, the vampire-count featured in Bram Stoker’s renowned story. While Tepes was rather bloodthirsty, especially when it came to his enemies¾impaling them on wooden stakes--he was not a vampire. The only part of Stoker’s story that has any fact is that it was set in Transylvania.

Vlad Tepes, or “Dracula’s” house is now a restaurant and bar. I didn’t want to get caught up in the Dracula-hype, but I forced myself to have dinner in the home. It wasn’t tacky or kitschy like one might find in other parts of the world. In fact, except for a small historical marker on the outside of the building, one wouldn’t know it was the former home of the infamous “vampire”. I climbed a set of wooden stairs, where a narrow hall led to the main dining area. Sets of large, medieval looking chairs surrounded small wood tables. A knight’s metal armor, complete with axe, stood nearby in an alcove. And on the menu was Dracula [tomato] soup.

One day, I decided to rent a bicycle and explore the nearby countryside. I headed west on the main road that ran through Sighisoara. After a steady upward climb, the mountains parted and the road spilled out into a beautiful valley. Fields of corn, coloured by the mid-day sun, stretched out like a warm blanket on the earth. I shared the two-lane road with large transport trucks, buses, speeding cars, and horse-drawn carts. But mostly I was alone. The silence interrupted only by the passing of a distant train.

The first village I came to was Danes. Small, beautiful homes lined the main road. Each house was adorned with an ornate cross. I stopped at a small store to replenish my water supply. Instead of receiving a few cents of change from my purchase, I was given a bright red candy--a Romanian tradition I had read about. After a few gulps of water, I mounted my bike and continued on. In the distance, I noticed a church spire rising above a small village. As I got closer, a road sign pointed to the town of Dumbraveni. I pedaled across a narrow, wooden bridge and parked my bike in front of the large gothic church, the one I had seen from the road. I walked along quiet streets, past well-kept homes.

Finally, I made my way back to the church and found a bench, shaded by a leafy tree. After a quick rest, I looked at my watch, and was surprised that it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. Wanting to get back to Sighisoara before dark, I jumped back on my bike and took a shortcut to the main road. Along the way, I passed gypsy farmers finishing their work in the fields.

After two days in Sighisoara, I returned to the train station for the five-hour journey back to Bucharest. I climbed aboard the train, found my seat, and peered reflectively out the window. I didn’t see any vampires in Transylvania, but I did find enchanting and magical towns. And bucolic fields, surrounded by verdant hills. As the train slipped out of the station, and Sighisoara faded into my memory, I hoped that one day I might return to Transylvania.

Enchanting Transylvania will have you wanting to return - Part 1

Participants on tonight's The Amazing Race, travelled to Romania. I thought I would share with you my own Romanian adventure. I'll post part 2 tomorrow.

After having explored Bucharest for a few days, I decided to visit Transylvania. It was a place that conjured up images of darkness--a land of mystery and legend. I kept wondering if I should have brought bag-fulls of garlic to ward off the vampires. But whenever I mentioned that I was going to Transylvania, Romanians always spoke of beauty--rugged mountains, verdant hills, and medieval villages.

I arrived at Bucharest’s main train station, Gara de Nord, prepared for the roving gangs of gypsy kids that were supposedly waiting to pick my pocket. I was almost disappointed when I didn’t encounter them. There was the odd kid begging for money, but they were quickly swept out onto the street. The station was bustling with activity, but I found my train easily enough. I climbed aboard and located my compartment, where I discovered that I had been sold a first class ticket. I didn’t mind. The eleven-dollar fare was a bargain for the three-and-a-half hour journey to Brasov, my first destination. I settled into my seat and peered out the window. Weary travelers were just waking up as the overnight train from Belgrade crawled into the station. On the next platform, supplies and people were being loaded onto the Sofia – Moscow train, and then as scripted, my train jumped to life at 7:24 am, and inched away from the station. We rolled past drab, concrete, Soviet-style apartment blocks, but soon the train picked up steam, or should I say electricity. Bucharest melted away, leaving us in the middle of a vast, fertile plain that stretched to the horizon. Except for my music, I was alone in the compartment. The sound of the train’s whistle drifted across the passing cornfields, which the morning sun had brushed a golden hue. It was as if someone had spread sweet honey across the landscape.

Ninety minutes after leaving Bucharest, we began snaking through the Transylvanian Alps. We passed small villages. The conductor threw newspapers to expectant and eager townspeople. The scenery took on a decidedly alpine look. The autumn leaves were painted with vivid yellows and rich reds. Even the houses had a mountain-look to them.

The train rolled into Brasov’s train station. The town was much larger and more industrial looking than I imagined. I clamored down onto the platform, and followed the crowds to the station.

Brasov is one of Romania’s most visited towns. In winter, people flock here to indulge in the nearby ski resorts. Others are drawn, so they can follow in the footsteps of Dracula. But since I was only in Brasov overnight, I chose to discover the town’s medieval centre. I followed my map, and walked about fifteen minutes from the train station past modern-looking apartments, banks and a multi-level shopping mall. As I got closer to the historic part of town, the buildings teased me as they took on more colour and character. Then, as if in a theatre production, I walked onto the town’s main stage--Piata Sfatului, the central square. Narrow streets had opened up into a stunning plaza. Beautifully crafted and coloured Baroque buildings lined the square. The Council House, built in 1420, and painted custard yellow, rose gently in the middle. It was in this building that the town councilors, or Centurions, as they were known, would meet. Today, the Brasov Historical Museum calls it home. As I strolled through the plaza, with its many outdoor eateries, I had to keep reminding myself that what I was seeing was genuine--it wasn’t some Disney or Las Vegas creation that we get so accustomed to in North America.

Brasov’s famed Black Church, named so because of its blackened appearance from a fire in 1689, towered above the square and is still used today by German Lutherans. Brasov is comfortably tucked in a v-shape valley between two mountains, and began as a German mercantile colony in the 13th Century. Frequent attacks by the Tartars and Turks, forced the Saxons to fortify their towns with sturdy walls. Much of the wall surrounding Brasov is still intact.

I met up again with three people from Edmonton, who coincidentally I shared an apartment with during my stay in Brasov. We decided to go to the top of Mount Tampa, which climbs nearly 1,000 metres above the town. There was a cable car that whisks people up the mountain in minutes, but someone in our group suggested we hike up. We began the ascent, and followed the switchback of trails that went on forever. The colourful leaves on the trees formed a natural canopy. We stopped along the way to rest and admire the view. As we climbed higher and higher, Brasov got smaller and smaller. It looked like a town out of a fairy-tale. We made our way to a lookout that jutted out from the side of the mountain. The view was spectacular, but we couldn’t linger long, because the afternoon sun was quickly dropping behind the surrounding mountains.

We ended the day by finding a restaurant that had been built in an underground cave.

Look for part 2 tomorrow, as I travel deeper into Transylvania and visit the quaint town of Sighisoara.

The assumptions we make about men and flowers

The other day, I was standing on a train platform with a large bouquet of flowers. A woman came up to me, sized up the garden of flowers, and with a smile said, “She will like them!” I didn’t tell her that they weren’t for “she”, but rather they were for me.

Once on the crowded train, I noticed one of my neighbours, and since she had a seat, she offered to hold the flowers. I was thankful for this, because I wasn't sure how I was going to hold my bag, and the flowers, while at the same time trying to hang on.

“Your wife will like them,” my neighbour said, eyeing up the flowers.

“The flowers are actually for me,” I replied.

“Well, she will like them anyway.”

She was right. My wife did like them and, so did I.

I thought it interesting the assumptions people make about a man and flowers. It reminded me of the time I picked up some flowers for my wife one time for no particular reason other than it was a Tuesday. When I went to pay for the flowers, the clerk looked at me and said with sincerity, “What did you do wrong?”

Funny, how that question is always asked of a man. Could you imagine a woman being asked that same question if she were buying a six-pack of beer.

A number of years ago I was at a dinner party with a handful of couples. One of my friends was lamenting that her husband didn't give her flowers anymore. The other women at the table then glanced at their husbands, with one of those—the question is also for—looks.

While the husband under fire tried to explain himself, I asked his wife when was the last time she got him flowers.

“Yah,” said her husband, who now felt the pressure lift.

“But, he wouldn’t like flowers,” she said, with confidence.

I polled the men at the table and asked if they would like it if their wives gave them flowers. I remember all but one saying they would.

Fresh flowers can brighten any space, and while many men may much prefer a case of beer over a bouquet of flowers, they can be enjoyed as much by men as they can by women.

So, the next time you see a man carrying flowers, they may not be for “she”, they may in fact be for him.

Why Smart People Do Stupid Things

Why Smart People do Stupid Things. That was the provocative headline in Maclean’s magazine. I was intrigued. It reminded me of the story someone once shared about being on a road trip with a very intelligent person, who wasn’t very capable with a map. “Sometimes the smart guy isn’t so smart,” the storyteller said with a satisfied grin. A sign, I suppose, that even the highly intelligent are mere mortals when it comes to navigating with a map.

The premise of the article was that we should be doing more than simply measuring one’s intelligence, rather we should also be measuring a person’s rationality quotient—their ability to think rationally.

I was particularly drawn by the reference to scientists Peter Richerson and Robert Boyd, who suggest that Eons of evolution have selected for all animals, including humans, “to be as stupid as they can get away with it.” The article goes on to suggest that thinking is costly—in concentration, energy, time, and risk. Well, that explains society, then.

While we can blame evolution for our stupidity, apparently rational thinking, unlike intelligence, can be taught, and mechanisms put in place to encourage it.

Every day I see seemingly smart people doing stupid things. And a lot of them take transit. Here are some poignant examples.

Go to any metro station, and as a train enters the station, you’ll see people running for the train. It’s what I’ve come to call, Last Train of the Day Syndrome. Sufferers of this malady are incapable of reasoning that in less than a minute another train will arrive. In their haste they bump into people and knock down little old ladies. People with advanced stages of this disease can often be seen struggling as they try to squeeze through the closing doors of the train.

And speaking of train platforms, have you ever noticed the people who stand in front of the open door, impeding those trying to get off the train. If these people took a moment to think, they would realize that they would get on the train quicker, if they moved aside until those getting off had cleared the way. So simple really.

Then there are those who board a bus and then refuse to move to the back. They slow the boarding process, obstruct others trying to get past them, and even leave others left standing at the bus stop, because the driver thinks the bus is full, even though the back is empty. They have even started helping out the stupid people by playing a recorded message on some buses that tell people, if it wasn’t already obvious, to move to the back of the bus. Some people still ignore the message.

And what’s with line creep. That’s the strange phenomenon where a queue will form, say at a bus stop, and slowly people creep forward even though the bus hasn’t arrived, and there is no place for them to go. Before you know it a huge gulf, large enough to sail an aircraft carrier through, has opened between you and the person in front of you.

Have you ever noticed those people waiting in the departure lounge of an airport, who crowd around the boarding gate, even though their seat row hasn’t been called? What’s even more perplexing is when the gate agents make numerous announcements asking this huddled mass of stupidity to move away, so they don’t impede the boarding process, they still stand in the way. Are they afraid the plane will leave without them?

While there are stupid people on buses, and trains, and planes, there are also lots of drivers being stupid. Why do people block intersections with their car when traffic is stopped in front of them?

And don’t get me started on the epidemic of red light running. The other day I witnessed four vehicles going through an amber light. The second vehicle was in the middle of the intersection when the light was red, and the third and fourth cars left on a red. Not only is this stupid, it’s dangerous, and inconsiderate to the drivers traveling the other direction.

Imagine for a moment if we were a little less stupid. Sure it would take more time and energy, but the world would probably be better off and so we would we. In fact, I think we’d find life a little more pleasant.

You know you're in America when...

I recently spent 9 days in Southern California. Pity me, I know. Canadians and Americans are similar in many ways, but there are some very real differences. I found three easy ways to tell that I was in America. And flag waving wasn't one of them. No, because the biggest flag wavers are actually inane and insecure Canadians who plaster Canadian flags on their backpacks and bags when the travel. I digress.

Three ways to tell that you are in America:

1. Everyone wears sneakers, or running shoes
Doesn't matter the occasion, Americans will wear sneakers. I'm sure if you attended a black tie event, all the Americans would show up wearing running shoes with their tux, or evening gown.

2. You hear the word, "huh"

Instead of the ubiquitous, Eh, which Canadians are apt to use, Americans (and my mother) use, Huh, instead. If you thank a Canadian for something, you'll hear, "you're welcome," but if you thank an American, you'll get this response, "uh huh!"

3. You'll see ridiculous signs like these

The first sign was posted at the hotel's swimming pool, and the second at the hotel's restaurant.

"Hey honey, I think I'll go for a swim after breakfast!"

Good job I already have two kids. I guess I'll have to find myself a good Oncologist, now.

Disneyland secret still safe

Whenever I think of Disneyland, I often think of the following that appeared on one of the Deep Thoughts series of cards by Jack Handey

One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. "Oh, no," I said. "Disneyland burned down." He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real Disneyland, but it was getting pretty late.

We've tricked our son, too, but in a good way. We're taking him to Disneyland tomorrow for his 4th birthday. Thing is he has no idea we are within spitting distance of Disneyland. Probably not the best analogy considering spitting is so unDisneylike, but you get the idea.

We have spent the last seven days enjoying the sun and sand at San Diego's Mission Beach. When we started packing our bags last night, our son, Jack, asked if we were going home. My wife told him one of those lies that parents are allowed to tell. She told him that we going to a differrent part of San Diego to stay in a hotel for two days. He must think that San Diego is one big city, because he kept asking, "are we there yet...are we there yet?"

It's not easy going to Disneyland without your son actually knowing you are going to Disneyland. Our family, who are travelling with us--Grandparents, Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin have all sworn that they would not reveal the surprise prematurely. I think it was most difficult for the 9-year old Cousin to keep the secret, but he did a fine job.

Fortunately, Jack was asleep in the car when we drove past Disneyland on the way to the hotel. Then in the hotel he asked why there was a framed painting of Mickey and Minnie Mouse on the wall. I had to hide the monthly Disneyland calendar that the hotel places prominently for the convenience of guests. When we were swimming at the pool, I was afraid someone would ask if he went to Disneyland. They didn't. But I did have to distract him when we were walking back to our hotel room, and a little girl in front of us was carrying a Disneyland bag and wearing a t-shirt from said amusement park.

Later in the evening Jack and I were sitting by the pool staring at the stars and moon above. Through the trees, I could see the fireworks at Disneyland lighting up the night sky. I thought for sure he was going to ask about the fireworks, but he mustn't have seen them. A plane passed above, and I asked him where he thought it was going. "Maybe Disneyland," he said. To most, that may seem strange, but Jack often talks about Disneyland when playing make believe, and he likes to read the Disneyland park map before going to bed.

In his short life, Jack has already been to Disneyland twice. For whatever it's worth, it was unfortunate circumstance that led to his second visit.

Jack is now sound asleep, and the secret is still safe.

Photos from Trinidad and Antigua

You'll find some pictures from my 3 day Caribbean adventure here

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16622261@N07/sets/72157612952926248/



Enjoy!

A good day

On a small hill overlooking Antigua’s capital, St. John's, is the Cathedral that bears this attractive town’s name. It has stood here like a beacon, since it was constructed in 1720.

Ringed by a brick wall, I found a half opened wrought iron gate, and passed into an old cemetery. I stopped and reflected on the tablets that graced tombstones and crypts. Many had been weathered by time and were unreadable. I tried to imagined what history…what stories lay beneath the ground.

Who was Elizabeth Bendall, who died at 36 years of age? Laid next to her was Hopefor Bendall, who, presumably her son, died in 1728 at the age of 15.

On another I couldn’t make out the name, but what I could see read like this:

“He was home in London at the home of his parents in May
and died in Antigua in August, 1739.”

Before the days of telephone, and email, and 747s, I imagined that this man’s visit to see his parents was probably the last he spoke to them. And the journey from London to the Caribbean at the time must have been an arduous one.

I was moved by another that read:

This monument is dedicated to the memory of a tender and affectionate husband,
James Henry Wall, who died in 1795.

Further down was the inscription for a James George Wall, who died at 22 months and 8 days.
It ended with this:

By a truly grieved and feeling wife and mother
Anna Wall.

I hoped that through her pain, Mrs. Wall was able to find delight in the time she had with her young son and husband.

I walked into the church. The inside was made entirely of wood. It was simple, yet majestic. Pews spilled into every corner of this large church.

I left, and ambled down the hill to the harbour. Royal Caribbean’s, Serenade of the Seas, had just arrived, and was disgorging hundreds of tourists. This was unfortunate, because now I had to dodge the touts offering taxis and selling tours of the island.

Wanting to escape the throng of tourists, I walked a few blocks away from the port. Here the streets were lucky to see any pavement. The houses were run down, and roosters (and two goats) wandered freely.

I passed one man, who placed a closed fist to his chest and said, “peace.” It was here that I saw the smallest house I’ve ever seen. It measured no bigger than eight feet by eight feet. Despite its size it was home for someone.

I kept looking down the small streets and couldn’t help but notice the contrast of the neighbourhood with the cruise ship that loomed, a short distance away.

I stopped to take a photo of an aged man sitting on the steps of an old house. Behind him was a sign that read, Ancient Mariner. I wondered if he was once an old mariner himself. I continued past a small barber shop. Some might call it a shack. There was room for just one chair.

“Would you like a cut,” the barber called out!

I removed my cap to expose my bald head.

“Maybe, I can just clean up the edges,”

“Thanks, but my wife usually takes care of that.”

Around a corner, two guys sat on the steps of a small, bright green house.

“Are you from the ship,” they asked?

It was a question I was asked often. This wasn’t a part of town that many tourists visited, but what I enjoy about ambling through areas like this, is that it’s real. It’s not made up, or pretend. What you see—warts and all—is what you get. It reminds us that beautiful places, such as Antigua, and Fiji, where I’ve been before, are not all about exclusive beaches and fancy hotels. There are people, without much, who are just trying to eke out a living.

“We call this the ghetto,” one of the guys jokingly told me. “Uptown is where all the shops are. We don’t have a lot of money, but we’re still happy.”

I hoped I sounded sincere.

Inside the house, a television could be heard. With a smile, they told me they were watching Obama’s inauguration.

“It’s a good day, a good day,” one said.

They didn’t have to explain what they meant. I knew that a black man in the White House, ever how distant, gave these guys hope. We reached out and touched fists, then placed our hand on our chest, and said goodbye.

It’s a good day, indeed, I thought to myself as I wandered uptown and grabbed a bite to eat.

A hundred shades of green

Sometimes White Man Walking needs to give his feet a rest, and grab a set of wheels. That’s what I did in Trinidad. From the airport I had a vague idea where my guesthouse was. The guy at the car rental desk put it like this.

“Take this road until you come to the first street, and then turn left. Continue through the first set of lights and then when you come to the second set of lights, turn left. Follow that road for a while, then turn left, then right, then left again, and right again…when you get there just ask around they will know…”

Right, (or was that left) I got it.

I carried on in the general direction, making it past the second set of lights. Now I needed to find Water Pipe Road, which for some reason the map on the guesthouse’s website made it seem like a major road…I found out later it isn’t.

After stopping people for directions, and driving through narrow roadways and alleys and going around in circles…literally…I decided to call the guesthouse.

“Where are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you pass the supermarket? If you passed the supermarket, you’ve gone too far.”

Now, this wasn’t overly helpful, because I passed the supermarket several times, and didn’t really no if the guesthouse was on “this” side of the supermarket or “that” side.

“No problem,” I said, "I’ll find it." After some more asking, I stumbled, quite accidentally onto Water Pipe Road.

After dropping my bags, showering (yes, before driving I always shower...the car handles better with a clean driver), and taking an hour nap, I ventured out again, trying to figure out the directions, so I would know how to get back.

I drove through the capital, Port of Spain trying to find something interesting to see, but I couldn’t find anything, so instead I found the road that led to Maracas Beach, about 15 km north of the city. (have you ever wondered why the capital of a former British colony has the name, Port of Spain? Of course you haven’t). Maracas is Trinidad’s most popular beach, although this island is not endowed with many beaches. Those are all found on the island of Tobago.

Once I left the city, the road narrowed, and twisted like a serpent. The rain forest, with its hundred shades of green climbed down the mountainside. In some places heavy rains had deposited trees and mud and rocks onto the road. If dodging trees wasn’t enough, I passed oncoming vehicles around sharp bends with care. Driving on the left side of the road made it even more of a sport, as I tried to judge the distance between me and the passing car. Many times I caught myself cringing and sucking in my stomach so as not to hit, or get hit.

At times, the vegetation cleared and teased me with dramatic views. Down below, waves crashed against small rocky outcrops. It looked as if I could ride the lush, green carpet of hillside all the way down to the ocean.

I stopped at a roadside stand, where two Rastafarians were selling oranges, coconuts, sugar cane, and some hand-made crafts. One introduced himself as Edwin Hendricks.

“Like Jimmy,” he said with a laugh, emphasizing his last name. I got it, but I reckon Jimmy Hendricks probably had better teeth and played better guitar than this fellow.

He asked if I have ever tried sugar cane. I haven’t.

He pulled two stalks from the pile, shaved off the bark, and then instructed me on how to get the juice from the white, fibrous stick. I bit down with my back teeth, and freed the sweet liquid that had been trapped in the cane. His friend then offered me a small orange. It was tart, yet delicious and refreshing.

Edwin asked if I wanted to buy a maracas. Crafted from dried calabash, and filled with some seeds, he had a small collection of these simple instruments.

“Two for 100 TT Dollars,” he said.

“What if I only want one?”

“Then it’s 50 TT Dollars,” he exclaimed!

I should have guessed.

“My son will like this,” I told him as I handed over the money.

After choosing my new treasure, Edmond reached out to my hand with a closed fist. He then placed his hand on his heart. His friend did the same. And with that, I jumped back in my car, waved, and then headed down the hill to Maracas Beach.

At one end of the small bay rested a fleet of wooden fishing boats, coloured in varying hues. One man was mending a net, while his colleagues sought shelter under a palm tree close by.

I walked out on a narrow breakwater, where a man was fishing. I asked him if he catches much. He opened his small cooler and showed me his catch. “It’s pretty easy to catch fish, but it’s still fun,” he said, as he turned and cast his line. Less than a minute later, a rather unlucky fish was tossed into the cooler.

I found a little stall selling Bake and Shark, which I later learned was a culinary must. It started with a flat piece of dough that was dropped into a sizzling vat of oil. Then two pieces of fish, dipped in flour, were also placed in the oil. After a few minutes, and like magic, out came a fluffy round piece of bread, which was cut in half to slide the fish in. I finished it off by adding some spicy sauces, cabbage and diced cucumber. There was an explosion of tastes, as I bit into the sandwich.

The next day someone asked if I had the Bake and Shark at Maracas Beach.

Indeed, I did!

Sitting next to the Jolly Green Giant

Somewhere over eastern British Columbia, the flight attendant leans over to one of the passengers and says there's a Chinook in Calgary. Today's temperature was 10 degrees and if the television is to be believed, it will soar to 16 tomorrow. Something is messed up when one day it can be -10 and then 10 above the next. Someone's messing with the thermostat, I think. Kind of like my colleagues at work. One minute they're cold, next minute they're hot. They come into my office and start playing with the thermostat. What they don't know is that the building is whacked, so that the thermostat in my office really controls the copy room, or lunch room.

After my flight to Calgary, I returned to the same aircraft, an Air Canada Embraer 190--a sweet little ride--for my trip to Toronto, where I'll connect to a Carribean Airlines service to Trinidad. I settle into my seat at 25F, and as most of the passengers are on board, I'm glad for the spare seat next to me. Then this man plunks a bag down on the that empty seat. Some women would probably find this man's rugged looks attractive. But to me, he has just invaded my space. His curly, greying blond hair masks his true age. He looked like a surf dude from yester-year. Actually he looked a lot like Jesus. I don't know if Jesus was in to surfing, although I imagine him hanging 10, while Moses was parting the Red Sea.

This guy's hands were so big, I bet he could have snapped a surfboard in half. Have you ever sat beside someone on a plane or a bus that when they sit down they fall into the seat, sending a tsunami wave of energy to the people sitting next to them? It was like the Jolly Green Giant had sat next to me, but instead of pulling out a bag of peas or corn, he reached into his bag and unwrapped a smelly burger from Harvey's.

The airplane started smelling like a cheap hamburger joint, which wouldn't be a problem if we were at a some stinkin' hamburger joint, but we weren't. We were in a small confined space, and the smell of onions and pickles, mixed with ketchup and grease turned my stomach.

He then pulled out a bag of peanuts and started breaking the shells, which landed all over his lap and the floor. I swear if I had hair, I would still be picking peanut shells from my head. Did he think he was at a ball game. I half expected him to crack open a can of Bud.

And what's with people cracking open peanut shells. I thought it was just squirrels and chipmunks that did that.

What's almost as bad as sitting next to someone munching on a greasy burger, is sitting behind someone who thinks that no one is sitting behind them. There was a couple in front of me, who after selecting a movie to watch reclined their seat, so their head was in my lap. Unless it's a night flight federal regulation should prohibit seats from reclining. Did they think they were sitting in their living room. They would also move around in their seats, and send the drink glass and soda can flying (fortunately both were empty).

I amused myself by watching some foul-mouthed comedian on the TV monitor. Despite the limitations in this guy's vocabulary (I wonder if his mother knew how he talked), I caught myself laughing out loud a few times.

I thought I would listen to something more wholesome, so I clicked on the Celine Dion CD. I tired after one song. There was a time when I couldn't get enough of Celine, but I've matured. Despite pressing every button on the inflight entertainment system, I couldn't get rid of her. "My Heart Will go On," still rings through my ears.

A snowstorm greeted us as we landed in Toronto. If only I had a moment to go for a walk as the fluffy white flakes swirled down. But alas, I had a flight to Trinidad to catch.

Airline TV Commercials

The other day I came across a Virgin Atlantic TV commercial, marking their 25th anniversary. It's a great ad, especially with many references from the 1980s .

You can view the ad here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KS_6HHQ7jOA

I then searched for some other great airline commercials, which I have linked below. Some very creative spots. I have also included two non-airline spots, which are excellent.

Jet Blue - Just like Dad

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4Dzg1jkZfA

Southwest Airlines
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDdboVGJPfQ

Virgin Atlantic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bon-qNCnePY&feature=related

Emirates

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vQLVIaPkW0&feature=related

Aerolinas Argentina - winner of best airline commercial (Cannes 2004)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI8MgYUsen4

1Time

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qe2ncZ1ObIw

I first saw this ad a few years ago, and it is still one of my favourites

European TV commercial

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BqJ0_2Xd3gI&feature=related

Don't Wake the Star

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQsWjv8M_YI&feature=related

Bill Gates creeated a spel chek, so yous it!

I was at the doctor's office today. It wasn't my general practitioner, but rather one of these medical clinics. I have the Ebola virus, but don't worry for me...I'll be fine.

While waiting, I noticed four small posters taped to the walls throughout the office that read:

Caution
Wetfloor
Be
Carefull
Please

Do I really want to be treated by a doctor whose staff are careless and lazy? I can forgive such a sign if it were in Blagovescensk or Nay Pyi Taw or Ougadougou, or even Yokadouma, but in Vancouver such poor spelling is inexcusable.

While technology has unfortunately turned us into lazy and poor spellers, there is no excuse for not using one's computer program's spell check. A few seconds of time would have revealed the errors contained on this sign. But even worse, I suppose, is that no one in the office has any care to correct the offending signage.

Speaking of doctors, one of my inquisitive colleagues no longer asks me about my doctor's appointments, after she probed much further than she probably liked a few years ago. The conversation went something like this:

Colleague: So, why are you off tomorrow?

Me: Oh, I have a doctor's appointment

Colleague: What's the appointment for?

Me: Well, some doctor is going to shove a camera up my ass and take a look around. Wanna come take a look? Invite some friends, bring some popcorn, we can all watch my rectum and colon on the big TV monitor.

Now when I tell her I have a doctor's appointment, she never asks why.

Being somewhere without actually being there

After my previous post, where I listed a number of my dreams, including going on a Canucks road trip to Chicago, Boston, or New York, my friend Anna game me added inspiration by creating a picture of her husband, K2, and me on the side of a building in Times Square.

Almost as good as being there.

If you're interested, Anna also has a great blog at:
Mommy's Empty Head

A crappy afternoon

Yesterday, my four month old son was covered in pooh. Literally, from head to toe. He had a massive explosion that even his kevlar diapers couldn't stop. When I carried him upstairs to get changed I had no idea what I was dealing with. I noticed some wetness on the front of his blue shirt, but I thought that it was simply a collection of drool.

I laid him on the change table and my other son, Jack, looked at me and said, "Daddy, what's that on your shirt." A patch of light brown goo had mysteriously appeared on my white shirt. What I initially thought was a pool of drool on my son's shirt was indeed poo. It's amazing that the force of this explosive natural phenomenon could send crap up his front and backside at the same time.

I didn't know where to start. I unsnapped the bottom of his "onesie" (if you aren't sure what a onesie is, then call one of your friends who has children), and this runny, pumpkin-hued liquid gushed out from around his diaper. I had never seen anything like it.

Jack ran into the bathroom where my wife, Carrie, was relaxing in the tub, and announced, "Max pooed...mommy Max pooed."

He then ran back into his brother's room, where he watched me assess the situation. First, I got some safety tape and cordoned off a six foot perimeter around the offending child, who laid there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I stood for a while trying to figure out how I was going to take off the poo-soaked shirt without getting crap all over his head.

With little choice, I had to pull the shirt over his head. Jack then ran and told his mother that Max had poo on his head. My wife almost drowned laughing about the crappy predicament that I found myself in.

I looked to my youngest son, who now had poo over his entire body, and apologized. I don't know what I was apologizing for, but it was the only thing I could say to him at that moment. He just looked at me with those big blue eyes and smiled. I guess there's a reason we don't remember things in our first few years of life.

Jack kept up the play by play, and relayed the progress to his mother. She must have thought that I was able to handle everything, because she didn't make any effort to extricate herself from the bath.

I got out the jumbo box of wipes and started to clean his body. The wipes did little but spread the gooey liquid around. I started gagging, so I took him outside and hosed him off. That didn't work, so I strapped him to his change table, at which time Jack yelled, "mommy, now there's poo on the straps." I filled his little bath tub and threw him in, but as if on cue he started peeing. Oh well, what's a little pee in the water when your body is covered in crap.

By now, Carrie had climbed out of her bath and was now smiling as I was trying to take control of this shitty situation. The bath did wonders and Max was sparkling clean. A few hours later while feeding Max, my wife turned to me and matter-of-factly said, "I think you missed some, there's still some poo on his ear."

Overcoming Brick Walls

I'm reading Randy Pausch's, The Last Lecture. It's one of those, makes you think kind of books, and one that should be required reading.

For those of you not familiar, Pausch was an accomplished professor at Carnegie Mellon University. In 2006, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. On July 25, 2008 Pausch died. That in itself isn't overly significant. More than 30,000 Americans die each year from this hideous disease. It's the legacy that Pausch left that is significant.

In September 2007, he captivated an audience of 400 people at Carnegie Mellon University, when he delivered the Last Lecture called, Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams. The lecture became a phenomenon, as millions of people around the world viewed his lecture on the web.

Throughout the book, Pausch uses a brick wall as a metaphor to describe the challenges we face in our lives. He writes: "The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough." and "They [brick walls] give us a chance to show how badly we want something."

Throughout our lives, each of us face brick walls. Sometimes we want something bad enough that we climb over that wall. Other times, we look back and regret that we didn't want something bad enough. If only we had done things differently. The point isn't to dwell on those "if onlys". The world isn't a perfect place and neither are we, but if we can learn from those experiences, we'll be ready when we come to the next wall.

Pausch talks a lot about childhood dreams, and as the title of the lecture suggests, really achieving those dreams. As I was reading the book, I began to realize that I didn't really have a whole lot of childhood dreams to reflect upon. I remember telling my parents that I would move out when I was 18, spend six Christmases by myself (whatever that meant), and then get married when I was 24. Not surprising, my life didn't play out like that. It was my parents that moved out when I was 20, and I didn't get married until I was 28. And when I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I used to pace when I was talking, especially when debating and arguing different points of view. I would also act as an arbiter in some of my parent's disputes. My mother said I would make a good lawyer. But when I hit that brick wall, I suppose I didn't want it bad enough.

I asked my wife if she had any childhood dreams. And apart from marrying some handsome, brilliant and charming man, she rattled off three--swim on the Great Barrier Reef, jump out of an airplane, and go on safari in Africa. She's done two of the three...she still yearns to see the world's biggest zoo.

Not long ago, my three-year old son, Jack, said to me, "Daddy, I would like to go to Paris one day." I'm sure he's not alone, but it is refreshing to see such a young boy with big, worldly dreams.

While I don't have a lot of childhood dreams, I surely have many as an adult. And maybe that's how it should be, as our life experiences show us opportunities that we didn't know existed as children.

So, I started making a list. In a sense sharing your dreams with others can make you feel vulnerable, but vulnerability is one brick in that big wall. It keeps forcing us to ask the question, how badly do we want it?

In no particular order, here are my dreams

• take Jack to Paris, so he can ride the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower
• there isn't a place in this world that I wouldn't want to visit, but high on my list are India, Pakistan, South Africa, Morocco, Vietnam, and Granada, Nicaragua. My wife and I attempted to get to the latter, but circumstance foiled us, and despite a great story to share about spending the night in an impoverished Nicaraguan village, I still yearn to get to Granada.
• walk from Nazareth to Bethlehem
  
• take my parents to a part of Europe (Venice, Vienna, Prague) they might not normally go to. A reminder there's more to Europe than Britain.
  
• show my in-laws some vibrant cities in East Asia
• explore New York City with my family, and take my sons on the big Toys R Us Ferris wheel in Times Square
• Visit New York, or Chicago, or Boston to watch a Vancouver Canucks game with my wife, or father-in-law, or my friend, K2
• drive across the United States
• go to the World Hockey Championships in Europe
• raise $1,000,000 for charity
• have an article published in National Geographic or National Geographic Traveler (even better would be for my wife's photos to accompany the story)
• interview Robert Milton, who is the Chairman, President, and CEO of ACE Aviation Holdings, the parent group of Air Canada (I had been chasing an interview with Mr. Milton for a few years, but kept running into brick walls)
• work in the aviation industry, whether for an airline or airport

Maybe you have a list of your own.

A link to the Last Lecture website

Yes, Carrie, there is a Santa Claus!

Last night the jolly old fellow from the North Pole paid a visit to our house. I know this because the cookies that Jack left out for him, and the carrot for his reindeer were gone. The only evidence that something had once been on the plate were the crumbs. And he left some gifts under the tree. Oh, and the deer droppings in our backyard.

About a month ago, we all went to see Santa at the Mall. He asked Jack what he wanted for Christmas. A video game was the response. This sounded like a reasonable request. Santa then looked over to me and asked what I wanted. I told him I would like a book. Again, a very reasonable request. Then he turned to Carrie and asked what she would like Santa to bring her. She paused for a minute, and then said she would like a trip to Hawaii.

Somewhat surprised by such an audacious request, Santa looked to me with one of those, "well Dad, how are we going to get out of this one," looks.

"I'll see what I can do," Santa said, after a moment's hesitation.

Maybe Carrie had some doubts about whether Santa could really deliver, so she decided to test him. Never underestimate Santa, I say.

On Christmas morning we each got a gift from Santa. A video game for Jack, a book for Dadddy, and a trip to Hawaii for Mommy. It was at that moment, when Carrie unwrapped that last gift, that all doubt had been erased.

With apologies to Francis Pharcellus Church--Yes, Carrie, there is a Santa Claus!

Leave Santa alone

So, some do-gooders in Germany want to get rid of Santa Claus. They claim he has commercialized Christmas. Right! And Santa is also responsible for the current world economic downturn, and much of the scourge and deprivation that afflicts our world.

The jolly, bespectacled, old man, who wears a red coat trimmed with white fur, and calls the North Pole home is an easy target. Much easier than taking responsibility for our own actions. It's not Christmas that has become commercialized, it's our society.

If we're going to blame Santa, then let's blame Jack O' Lantern (by the way, does anyone know what Jack Lantern's middle name is?) and the Easter Bunny, and St. Valentine, and teachers, too, because they are surely responsible for the commercialization of going back to school. And good God if we're talking commercialization have you been to the Vatican and seen all the kitchy (and tacky) souvenirs they sell to the masses.

Every year we here how the true spirit of Christmas (as if Christmas has been around since...well, since Christ) is being ruined by our indulgent pursuits. I disagree.

In my 37 years of life, Christmas has changed very little. It's still a time for family to come together, and for most to share a big meal. It's a time when Santa stocks me up with socks and underwear. And those who go to church and celebrate the birth of Jesus, do so gladly (you know he wasn't really born in December) . They even get to catch up with the C&Es. They're the ones who only go to church at Christmas and Easter.

Sure, some people go a little crazy. Like the lady on the news who says she usually spends $1,000 on each of her four kids at Christmas. But her ridiculous behaviour isn't exclusive to Christmas, I'm sure.

Hands off the old man! Santa isn't to blame. If we feel society has become too commercialized, then maybe it's time we looked at our own behaviour. In the meantime, tomorrow night not a creature will stir in our house, not even a mouse. We'll hang our stockings by the chimney (how does Santa deal with gas fireplaces?). And we'll have oranges (I'm not fond of sugar plums) dancing in our heads. Since I don't hear anything when I'm asleep, my wife will have to open the shutters and pull up the sash, when she hears the clatter on our lawn, announcing the arrival of Saint Nick and his herd of reindeer. And in the morning we'll race downstairs and see what magic he has brought.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

The Kindness of Strangers

The Kindness of Strangers, published in 2003 by Lonely Planet Publications, is a compilation of travel stories proving that even the most hardened traveler will come to rely on the helping hand of a stranger.

In that book, seasoned travel writer, Don George, wrote:
"In 25 years of wandering the world, I have learned two things: the first is that when you travel, at some point you will find yourself out of money, out of food, unable to find a room, lost in a big city, or on a remote trail stranded in the middle of nowhere. The second is that someone will miraculously emerge to take care of you--to lend you money, feed you, put you up for the night, lead you to where you want to go. Whatever the situation, dramatic or mundane, some stranger will save you."

While reading the book, I couldn’t help but think of my own brushes with the kindness of strangers. While exploring the world, I have never run out of money, or food, but like most people, I have come to rely on strangers to help me on my way.

Fifteen years ago (longer ago than I care to remember), I visited France, as part of a two-month, trek through Europe. I had always heard, and still do for that matter, that the French are rude and not overly helpful towards tourists. But my experience on a cool, windy day, in a small French town shattered those pre-conceptions.

We were the only ones to step off the train in Arras. It was eerily quiet. Our intended destination was Vimy, a sacred place where thousands of Canadians lost their lives in the First World War. From the station, our guidebook suggested that Vimy was a “healthy hike”. But not knowing if the author was a marathon walker or a couch potato, we weren’t quite sure what a “healthy hike” was.

We wandered around to the front of the station, which looked just as deserted. The only clue to our destination was a small guidepost, which pointed in one direction. After a few minutes, we waved a car down, and I tried to summon all the French I had learned in school, which wasn’t much. There were three people in the car, and we spoke to a man, probably in his forties, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

He told us his father would return and drive us to the Memorial. Minutes later we found ourselves in the little car, zipping along a country road. The older man chatted away in French, and I in English. It all seemed to make sense. I could tell that he was grateful for the sacrifice made by Canadians. When we got to Vimy, he arranged with another visitor to drive us back.

The day ended when a couple from North Vancouver drove us back to the train station and offered us a bottle of wine, one of many they had purchased on their travels through France.

While on the same trip, we found ourselves in St. Goar, a quaint village on the banks of the Rhein River. The youth hostel was located in an old castle. Most castles were built in difficult to reach places. This particular one was perched on a cliff-side, high above the river. As we searched for the trail that would lead us up the mountain, a man stopped his car and asked if we were going to the youth hostel. “Jump in,” he said, “I’ll drive you up there.” The man lived in St. Goar and always felt sorry that visitors had to walk up to the hostel, so whenever if he sees someone, he offers them a ride.

In early 1998, Carrie and I were in Seoul, Korea. Carrie’s health was deteriorating, and we spent many days at the hospital seeing doctors. On one occasion, she had to have a number of tests, all of which had to be paid for in advance. Each wasn’t overly costly, but after several of these tests, my wallet had been emptied of cash. Turned out the hospital didn’t accept credit cards, so I went to a bank machine in hospital lobby. At the time, only a handful of ATMs in Seoul accepted foreign bank cards. And this wasn’t one of them.

Another test was ordered, but now I had to show my empty wallet to the nurse. It was difficult communicating to the nurse. How did I tell her that I had money, it was just in the bank not my wallet. Then an older woman, who seemed like a hospital volunteer, overheard our conversation and offered to pay for the tests. She gave me her bank account number and I assured her we would return the money in a few days time.

The next day, I was telling my students about this woman’s kind gesture. At the end of the class one of the students offered to make the deposit for me. I gave her the money and the next day she gave me a receipt from the bank.

A number of years ago, my wife and I were in Sydney, Australia (not to be confused with Sydney, Nova Scotia, where the odd wayward traveler some times ends up instead). It was late afternoon and we left the downtown area for my brother-in-law’s house, north of the city. We had the vaguest idea where we were going. Instead of taking the bus all the way, we decided to take a small ferry part way before connecting to a bus.

After some uncertainty as to which bus to take and where to get off, we arrived at a shopping centre, which served as a hub for city buses. We weren’t far from Bob’s house, but we still needed to find the right route to his house.

I should point out that it was May (late Fall in Australia), and I was the only person wandering around in shorts and a t-shirt. A cool rain had already started falling. And everyone we asked had no idea how to get to Bob’s house. Finally, after looking lost and being told to wait at various stops, a bus driver came to us and said, “My shift is over, you can hop on my bus.” He was delivering his bus to the depot, but on his way he made a detour, and dropped us off in front of Bob’s house. When we told my sister-in-law, a native Australian, about the kind bus driver that just dropped us off. She didn’t believe our story. “Our bus drivers aren’t that nice,” she said.” Well Des, there’s at least one.

When Carrie and I visited Iran, a work colleague arranged for her brother, who we had never met before, to tour us around Tehran. In the morning, Fereidoon arrived with a bouquet of flowers for Carrie. We climbed in his car, and drove through the crowded and chaotic streets of Tehran. Then we visited his parent’s home in the northern part of the city, where Iranian hospitality included copious amounts of tea, oranges, and cake. After filling our stomachs we headed off to Fereidoon’s home, about 40 minutes west of the Tehran, where his wife had prepared a gastronomic feast.

After a lazy afternoon, sharing stories with Fereidoon and his family, he drove us back into the city. The following morning we left Iran for a few days and traveled to Sharjah, one of the United Arab Emirates. We spent a few days here before returning to Iran and visiting Esfahan and Shiraz. Fereidoon offered to pick up our plane tickets and hotel reservations from the tour company, and would meet us at the airport around noon on the day we were scheduled to arrive back in Tehran.

As it turned out our morning flight from Sharjah to Iran had been cancelled. We were booked on on another flight, but it wouldn’t leave until 11:00 pm that night. This delay meant that we would miss our flight to Esfahan, and Fereidoon still had our tickets for the rest of our trip. He assured us by telephone that someone would be waiting for us at the airport with the tickets. When we arrived in Tehran, at 1:00 am, Fereidoon was there. But how and when would we get to Esfahan. Turned out Fereidoon had arranged an overnight taxi. And so we found ourselves racing across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night.

After a few days ambling through two of Iran's most beautiful and historic cities, we flew back to Tehran, where Fereidoon was again waiting. This time he took us back to his parent’s place where we stayed the night and enjoyed dinner with what seemed like family. Fereidoon's kindness and that of his family were a reflection of Persian hospitality.

Before arriving in Bucharest, my impressions of Romania were largely negative ones.
From all the stories I heard, I half expected to be attacked by roving gangs of gypsy kids at the airport. Instead, I was offered a ride into the city. I was looking for the bus outside the terminal and asked someone where the correct stop was. A man pointed to the stop a short distance away, but said that he was driving back into the city, and offered me a ride. What a pleasant introduction to Romania, as we drove into the city past wide, tree-lined boulevards.

I often reflect on these stories, and wonder if we would do the same. Would we open our homes or our wallets to someone we had never met? Would we go out of our way to drive a stranger somewhere? I like to think we would. You too must have stories of your own, when a stranger offered you a helping hand.

Why we should care who Jørn Utzon was

Jørn Oberg Utzon died last month at the age of 90. If not for a brief mention in the latest issue of Maclean's magazine that piqued my interest, his name would have meant nothing to me, as I'm sure is the case for most people. Yet, he designed one of the world's most iconic buildings. And while it is arguably this city's most photographed site, Utzon never got to see the completed building. In fact, when it was opened in 1973, he wasn't invited, nor was his name mentioned.

In 1957, Utzon won the competition to design this building. It was his first competition outside his home country of Denmark. From the beginning the project was mired in political interference. And it was politics that would eventually befall Utzon, when he was forced to resign as Chief Architect in 1966, after the government stopped payment on the project.

Decades later he was brought in as the building's architect to develop a set of design principles to at as a guide for all future changes. And in 2003, was honoured with the Pritzker Prize, Architecture's highest honour.

Fifty years after Utzon won the design competition, the building was declared a World Heritage Site, and the expert evaluation report to the World Heritage Committee stated: “…it stands by itself as one of the indisputable masterpieces of human creativity, not only in the 20th century but in the history of humankind.”

It's a shame that Utzon never got to see his masterpiece, but as his son commented about his father's work, "...as its creator he just has to close his eyes to see it."

This year marks the 35th anniversary of the opening of Sydney's Opera House.

Children can be a detriment to one's health

My youngest son was screaming his face off last night (sometimes my other son does that too, but not last night, thankfully). I was holding my son while said screaming was happening, which means the sound, and not a pretty one at that, was traveling right into my ear.

I thought to myself (because no one would have heard me if I vocalized the thought) that there must be some inherent danger to my health and well being, as I was forced to endure this incessant noise. Somehow noise just isn’t the best descriptor for the high-pitched sound that emanates from deep inside this screaming kid. It’s kind of like when I try to explain the snoring sound that roared and grunted from this animal-like person that I had to sleep above in an Austrian youth hostel. Sometimes there isn’t a word that can adequately describe something. This is the case with my son.

I handed my son to my wife and walked away.

“What are you doing,” she asked.

“I’m refusing unsafe work…”

Wife looks perplexed

“…it’s in my contract that I can refuse unsafe work, and according to the latest worksafe regulations your son’s (insert glare from wife)—I mean, our son’s screaming is unsafe.”

Forget listening to loud music, or working next to a jet (now, how do I get that job), or riding a jack hammer like a pogo stick, the son’s decibel crushing scream is ruining what little hearing I have left. And my wife wonders why I can’t hear her.

After pawning son off to wife, I made a hasty retreat to bed, so I could recover from the relentless ringing in my ears. (Okay, before you all think I'm shirking my fatherly duties, my wife can cheat by shoving her mamories in son's mouth for a feed, which usually keeps him quiet)

Then he started again. And making matters worse, federal regulations require a baby monitor to be installed throughout our house, which seems pointless considering someone would have to be deaf not to hear some shrieking baby, especially this one. “Would someone shut this kid up,” I wanted to yell. But I knew that no one would hear me.

I’ve now resorted to disassociation. We were at a townhouse Christmas party last weekend, and my wife was talking to our neighbour, whose very quiet baby was born one day before our shrieking son.

“So, do you hear him,” my wife asked.

What she really wanted to know was, do you hear him through the walls of our house?

Yes, sometimes,” our neighbour reluctantly offered.


“Oh yes, I can here him too,” I said, pretending not to be associated with wife and son.

Most of us have never experienced fear

Fear Grips Nation. That was the ominous sounding headline splashed across the front of The Province, with a picture of a brooding sky and a Canadian flag. In a word or two--one of the most sensationalist and ludicrous newspaper covers that I have seen in years. Apparently, 75% of Canadians are truly scared for the future of the country--so says a poll published in the paper. Let’s get real. We need to grow up and put an end to this lunacy. Yes, we find ourselves in a time of unprecedented political instability, but the sun will rise tomorrow, chickens will still lay eggs, and salmon will amazingly find their way back to the river of their birth. And Canada will forge along as it has for 141 years.

Most of us have never experienced real fear.

Fear is when you were the sole income earner, and you just lost your job, or you’re not sure where you’ll find some money to buy your kids presents at Christmas, or you don’t where you’ll sleep tonight, because you have no home to go to. Fear is when a soldier points a gun at your husband’s head and shoots him, and then rapes your daughter. Fear is when you have to walk miles through the searing heat looking for clean drinking water, or when war drives you to pack up all your belongings (which you can carry in your hands), and forces you to trek for hundreds of miles to another country, only to find yourself with thousands of others crammed into a refugee camp, uncertain if you will ever return to your home. Fear is when the Ebola virus, or some other insidious disease, sweeps through your impoverished village.

Fear is when you know you are drowning and you take one gasp of air before slipping beneath the surface. Fear is when you are trapped in a burning building, or lost and injured on a freezing hillside, or you lose your brakes while driving down a steep mountain road. Fear is when a foreign army rolls across the border and occupies your town. Fear is when you and your family are huddled in the cellar of your house waiting for the monstrous destruction of a tornado or hurricane to pass, or when you survive a massive earthquake, only to find that 100,000 of your neighbours perished and cholera is now rampant. Fear is when your son, who has found a home in the South Side Compton Crip gang, gives you a hug on his way out the door, and you wonder if it will be the last time you see him alive.