Why do we closet away wedding dresses?

The other day my colleagues and I were talking about wedding dresses. I’m not sure how we got on to that subject, but we did. One minute we were talking the finer points of liver transplant surgery and the next we’re talking wedding dresses.

I was asking my colleagues why many women keep their weddings dresses closeted away years after the big day? It’s a question I’ve asked from time to time, but the answers I receive usually leave me with more questions.

After our wedding, my wife had her dress dry-cleaned and boxed, where it has sat in my in-laws storage room for the last 11 years. I don’t think she’ll wear the dress again, so why does it sit in a closet?

Call me practical (I, like most men, returned my wedding day get-up the day after our wedding. I didn’t even have to pay to have it cleaned), but if the dress has some value why don’t we sell it.
The responses I have received when I pose that question are typical. Some express sentimental reasons for keeping the dress. But surely sentiments are found in our love and the memories, rather than the physical thing stuffed away in a box that we’ll never use or rarely see again?

Others contend that a daughter may one day want to wear the dress at her wedding. A nice thought, but unlikely given that it may not fit, and the daughter may want her own dress, not something her mother wore a few decades before. When I told my colleagues that I have two sons, and I doubted they would need their mother’s hand-me-down wedding dress, they suggested that my son’s future wife might want to wear the dress. Right! With the utmost respect to mothers-in-law the world over, I really doubt that my son’s future bride (let’s not think too far ahead, they aren’t even in Kindergarten yet) will want to wear her mother-in-law’s wedding dress.

My ever persistent colleague, who interestingly got rid of the dress she wore at her wedding some time ago suggested that someone in the future may want to wear the dress. The future is now. Someone right now may want to wear that dress.

Wouldn’t it be nice to pass on a dress to someone who may not be able to afford a new one, and at the same time put a few bucks in your pocket? Maybe take a trip with your husband, and create some new memories.

We can send people into space, but we can't...

There's a lot about this world that I just don't understand. Like how I can send an email to someone on the other side of the world, and it is received in seconds, or how an office tower being built, just magically rises from a hole in the ground, or how the salmon finds the river of its birth after hanging out in the ocean for a couple of year. But why can't they (whoever they is) make the glue on envelopes taste better.

40 years ago today--before I was born by a hair--the first manned mission to the moon lifted off from the Kennedy Space Centre, in Florida. And just yesterday Endeavour lifted off from the same spot. Its three main engines and two booster rockets will propel the orbiter to a speed of more than 17,500 miles per hour, before docking two days later at the International Space Station. Now you're probably wondering how fast 17,500 miles an hour is. Let me put it this way. In 26 minutes you could fly from Vancouver to Sydney, Australia, where you could be sitting on a patio in Darling Harbour, enjoying a coldie and some lunch, and be home for dinner. Yet, we still can't make envelope glue that tastes good.

I don't often seal envelopes by hand, or rather by tongue anymore. At work we have a big machine that does that, and besides it's seems like a workplace hazard. Have you ever had a paper cut on your tongue?

Anyway, yesterday I sealed an envelope with my tongue and it tasted awful. It reminded me of the time when I was in high school and I had a work experience placement (which really means you stuff envelopes all day) at the Ministry of Education, and I had to mail out 350 packages. Not knowing any different, I started licking all the envelopes shut. When I got to package 349, someone told me that they have a sponge for that. Nice...now why didn't someone tell me that before I lost the feeling in my mouth. My tongue seemed as dry as the side of a camel for what seemed like days. (while I've ridden a camel, I didn't actually lick it to find out if it really is dry).

I'm still puzzled how we can send people into space, but we can't make better tasting envelope glue.

First flight...

25 years ago today, I took my first flight. I remember that day like it was...well, a quarter of a century ago. I was 14 years old and was visiting my friend in the Netherlands, who lived in Bilthoven, a small town not far from Utrecht.

For reasons that still aren't quite clear (something about good impressions) my parents thought I should wear a three-piece suit for the nine hour flight to Amsterdam. I'm not sure what my friend's parents thought when they first saw me. Maybe they thought every teenager in Canada wears suits all the time.

I had never been to an airport before. I remember saying goodbye to my parents, and then finding Gate 20, a short distance from security. I found a seat and marvelled at the large orange CPAir DC-10. I still like the look of this particular aircraft, but there are few still flying, as the last was built in 1989; however, if you're looking for an adventure, Biman Bangladesh Airlines still operates this type. In fact, for a time they operated a handful of former CPAir DC-1os.

My seat was located in the aft cabin close to the middle of the aircraft. It was an aisle seat (I have now come to appreciate window seats). Next to me on my left was an older lady, and across the aisle was a boy, maybe a year two older than I. Although he had flown before, he was travelling alone as well; on his way to visit family in Poland. A short taxi brought us to the end of what would have been at the time Vancouver's main runway for both take-offs and landings.

"CP 388, cleared for take-off, " the Tower would have directed the flight crew.

Both pilots would have then began pushing the thrust levers forward, while the flight engineer would probably have glanced sideways out the cockpit window, and then back at the control panel in front of him. With the parking brake off, the aircraft started rolling.

In the cabin, the sound of the three General Electric engines--two mounted on each wing and the number three engine sitting impressively atop the rear fuselage, beneath the tail stabilizer--was unmistakable. I remember the exhilaration of being pushed back into my seat, as we picked up speed down the runway.

Back in the cockpit, the co-pilot would have been calling out V-1, V-2 (at this point the aircraft would have been travelling 290 km/h), and finally - Rotate - which is when the nose wheel leaves the ground. At this point, the Captain gently pulled back on the yolk, and the aircraft would have climbed away from Vancouver.

Like an addict taking their first hit of Crack, I was hooked. So, this is what flying is all about.

It would be years later that I would come to appreciate the gift that my parents gave me that day. Growing up, I don't remember us having a lot of money, so for my parents to scramble together the $1,000 for the airline ticket was significant; however, the more important and lasting gift was something less tangible. They gave me the opportunity to see a different part of the world. Sure my Dad saw some of the world "fighting" for his country while in the Navy, but most of that time was probably spent in the bars of Mexico, or Hawaii, or San Diego. Getting on a jet and travelling to the other side of the world was something my parents had never experienced. Yet, they saw beyond that, and gave me opportunities unknown to them.

The movie that evening was James Bond's, Octopussy. A couple of hours into the flight, the young guy next to me asked the flight attendant if we could both visit the cockpit. The Captain obliged, and so we found ourselves on the flight deck, with the co-pilot pointing out Greenland, which looked like a large, white, barren mass of land, and not at all very green.

When we arrived at Amsterdam's Schipol Airport (thanks to Dutch ingenuity, at its lowest point the airport is 11 feet below sea level), I simply followed passengers from my plane to the immigration counter. My friend, Mark, and his father were waiting for me. Interestingly, they had been to the airport the day before thinking I was coming in then.

I remember Bilthoven being a small and charming town. With a population of 17,000, it is located in a forested region of the country. Mark's family lived on Soestdijkseweg, the town's main arterial street, lined with leafy trees.

I spent six weeks with Mark and his family. We spent most of our time riding bicycles--to the little shopping centre for ice cream, or to the town's outdoor swimming pool, or a short distance away to the Soesterberg Air Force Base, where we'd watch fighter jets scream into the air.

Mark taught me to play tennis. We played at the local school with no net. It didn't matter.
The Los Angeles Olympics were on at the time, and we would race around the block--he representing the Netherlands, and I, Canada. I remember Mark winning more of the races. But in the real Olympics that year, Canada won more medals.

During my stay, Mark, his parents, younger brother and I piled into the car for an 11 hour drive to Brissago, in southern Switzerland. We spent two weeks in a beautiful home high above the sunny shores of Lago Maggiore. I learned that palm trees do indeed grow in Switzerland.

When I arrived at the airport for my afternoon flight home, it seemed chaotic around the check-in counters. Looking up at the big board advertising the day’s departures, I noticed my flight:

CP 383 – Vancouver – DELAYED

At the counter, we learned that the flight would be delayed more than 18 hours. Mark’s mother wasn’t able to drive me back to the airport the next day, so like the rest of the passengers on that flight, I was given a voucher for an overnight stay at a hotel near the airport. Mark’s mother, and younger brother, had to return to Bilthoven that afternoon.

Mark, who was 13 at the time, was able to stay with me until the evening, so we boarded the shuttle for the short drive to the hotel. I called my parents, knowing they’d be a little surprised to hear me since I should have been on an airplane flying home. It was still early in the morning when my mother answered. Having woken her up, she didn’t seem too out of sorts. I sounded so unfussed telling her of the delay, and that I would be staying in a hotel for the night, and giving her the new time of my anticipated arrival the following day.

After hanging up the phone, she expressed to my father the kind of worry that any mother would have, knowing that her 14 year old son was spending the night in a hotel by himself on the other side of the world. My father, on the other hand, was more pragmatic about it all. “He’ll be fine,” he muttered, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

The delay didn’t bother me in the slightest. Mark and I took the bus back to the airport, so we could grab some dinner at the airport before he had to take the train home. Schipol is one of those progressive airports, and had a great outside viewing deck. Lost on me at the time was the significance of the EL Al Israeli plane that was parked a distance from the terminal at a remote stand, and guarded by a soldier with a machine gun.

After dinner, I said goodbye to Mark and went back to my hotel. I had purchased a large triangle of Dutch cheese for my father. It seemed to be getting a little soft, and I had no idea if it should have been refrigerated, so I filled up the bathroom sink with cold water and plunked the cheese in to “cool” overnight.

In the morning, I went to the hotel lobby, where others from my plane were waiting. I don’t remember checking in, but I do remember walking a long way to the end of the departures concourse, where a Boeing 747, wearing the bright orange colours of CPAir was waiting. After a stop in Calgary, I arrived back in Vancouver.

When I took that first flight 25 years ago, I would never have thought that one day I would write for the industry, or travel more than 350,000 miles on more 200 flights all over the world.

To my parents. Thanks.

Best Dad in the World

In some parts of the world yesterday it was Father’s Day. The one day a year that wives take out the trash, mow the lawn, and wash the car. Okay, maybe not.

There’s something I’m a little confused about. My sons made me a card, and on it read, For the BEST Dad in the world! I didn’t even know I had been entered into that particular competition. Wow! What an honour. Best Dad in the world. How can I live up to such high expectations? Then at work today my colleague told me that her husband also got a card that said he was the Best Dad in the World (I’m not sure if his was in all caps like mine). He’s a nice bloke and all, and patient too, especially considering his high maintenance wife, but Best Dad? How can that be? I thought there could only be one BEST DAD in the world.

Then I noticed all the Father’s Day cards on for half price at the store today and they all said, #1 Dad, or Best Dad in the World. Why weren’t there any cards that read, 4th Best Dad in the World, I mean fourth is pretty good, and it’s a goal that’s seems achievable.

This whole Best Dad in the world thing reminds me when you read about someone in the newspaper who died and everyone makes them out to sound like a do gooder, like Mother Teresa or Jesus. Really, you just want to someone to be honest and say that he was a nice guy, but he was a screw up.

Maybe the writers of cards could be a little more honest. Then we’d see ones that read, To an Okay Dad, or Dad, you’re a screw up, but Happy Father’s Day, anyway. I mean, Best Dad in the World. There’s a lot of responsibility in that, and quite frankly some people just aren’t cut out for that kind of thing.

To be sure, I just asked my four-year old son who the Best Dad in the World is. “You,” he said, pointing to me knowingly. I guess my colleague's husband will have to settle for the being the second best Dad.

Surprising Iran...a beautiful country and beautiful people - part 2

Part two of our Iranian adventure

After two days in Esfahan, we flew south to the southern city of Shiraz. The government regulates domestic airfares, so the total cost of the one-hour flight was less than $40.

European traders once exported Shiraz’s famous wine, but while you won’t find any wine in the city today, there are still lots of treasures to explore. More than its mosques and mausoleums and gardens, Shiraz is known as the gateway to the ancient ruins of Persepolis. No visit to Iran would be complete without exploring the remains of this city, which is the best-preserved legacy of the great Achaemenid Empire, which ruled Persia between 559 and 330 BC. We went to a local travel agency, and hired a driver and guide for the one-hour journey to Persepolis. The dry barren hills surrounding the city, surprisingly, gave way to a vast, fertile plain.

We first stopped at Nacropolis, where the tombs of four Persian kings have been carved out of a cliff, high above the ground. The magnitude of this burial place is impressive. After leaving the tombs, our driver missed the turnoff to Persepolis, which was ironic considering the ancient city was lost to time for centuries. Covered in sand, it was only in the 1930s that major excavations began. We finally found the ruins, and fortunately the parking lot was nearly empty. On weekends, and in high season, thousands of people flock to Persepolis, but on this day, we had much of the place to ourselves.

Our guide led us up the grand staircase, which would have been the main entrance to the city, and told us that instead of the stones we were walking on, there would have been marble floors covered with lavish Persian carpets. Surprisingly there is still much to see of this regal city that once stood more than 2,500 years ago. Of all the reliefs found here, the ones showing the 23 delegations are most interesting. Representatives from each country under the Persian Empire would come to Persepolis bearing unique gifts for the King. At its zenith, the Empire stretched from Europe to India. In 330 BC, Alexander the Great visited Persepolis, but he wasn’t the best house guest, as he burned the city to the ground. After a few hours of walking through history, we drove back to Shiraz, while our guide passed around delicious Iranian sweets.

The next morning, while walking through a small plaza, in Shiraz, a friendly group of students and their teacher surrounded us, and began peppering us with questions--what is your name? Where do you live? What is your job? We had come to expect this kind of attention. Shattering the perception that many have of Iran, we found Iranians to be kind and generous, and they yearned to meet foreigners. One student pulled out a camera and took a picture of me, and then more cameras came out. Soon my wife suggested it was time we went.

“Now I know how Brad Pitt feels”, I commented as we walked away. She looked at me and said, “You’re no Brad Pitt.” With my ego sufficiently humbled we headed for the bazaar.

As I peered out the airplane on our return to Tehran, I reflected on everything we had seen, and the people we met. Iran is easily one of the world’s most misunderstood countries. It is one of stark beauty--barren, moon-like deserts, soaring snow capped mountains, and historical treasures that will amaze. And despite its geographical location, Iran is a safe place for visitors. But the best thing about Iran is its people. They will welcome you with open arms the moment you enter the country.

Surprising Iran...a beautiful country and beautiful people - part 1

Earlier this year, Iran marked the 30th anniversary of its Islamic revolution. And while that change three decades ago was brought about for noble reasons, as most uprisings are, the Iranian leadership has failed its people. They are equally as repressive as the previous regime, the country is mired in double-digit unemployment, and the country's oil wealth has been squandered.

The unrest that we see today on the streets of Iranian cities is a manifestation of the failure of its leaders. Because of the government's isolationist policies and inflammatory rhetoric, Iran is one of the world's most misunderstood countries. Five years ago, Carrie and I were fortunate to visit Iran. What we found was a beautiful country, with a history dating thousands of years. The people we met were welcoming and gracious. It still ranks as the one of our best travel experiences. Below is part 1 of that story.




When my wife and I told people that we were going to Iran, we were usually met with two kinds of responses. Some openly questioned why we would even consider going to such a place. “Aren’t you afraid,” they would ask, in a way that suggested they knew something we didn’t? Others wouldn’t say anything, but we could tell from the look on their faces that they wanted to. The more people raised their eyebrows, the more we wanted to visit this much-maligned country. But more than anything, we couldn’t wait to prove people wrong. And so we found ourselves in a taxi, racing across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We were meant to fly from the capital, Tehran to Esfahan, a city in the central part of the country, but a cancelled flight led to a missed connection. With few options left, an Iranian friend arranged the taxi, which cost less than a hundred dollars for the five-hour journey.

Our driver pushed on, and as morning came to life, so did the desert. The rising sun created silhouettes of the cragged mountains, giving the impression of a backdrop for a Hollywood Western. The stark beauty of the desert soon gave way to another kind of beauty as we arrived in Esfahan, with its long boulevards lined with leafy trees.

After a quick nap at our hotel, we set out to explore the city, which many regard as the jewel of Iran. For a brief time, Esfahan was a capital of ancient Persia, but while its golden age was short lived, several architectural wonders were constructed, which still draw visitors more than four hundred years later.

Eleven bridges span the Zāyandeh River--five of them old, and six new. We set off across the Si-o-Se Bridge, which means Bridge of 33 Arches. This bridge, located across the street from our hotel, is 160 metres long and was built in 1602. Esfahan’s old bridges are a walker’s delight as they are free from vehicle traffic, and offer a great way to explore the Zāyandeh, and the surrounding parkland.

The bridge was teeming with people, and almost everyone we passed offered up a curious, shy smile, or a bold, “hello”. A young woman came up to us and started a conversation. She walked with us to the end of the bridge, where an older woman, cloaked in a bat-like chador said something to her in Farsi. She wanted to know where we were from, and so we told her we were from Canada. A smile lit up across the older woman’s face. It turned out her daughter had recently moved to Canada, and wanted to know that she would be safe there. We assured the woman that Canada was a safe place, and with that, we brightened the day of a stranger. The young woman, who had walked with us across the bridge, hailed us a taxi and offered to pay the fare. We appreciated the kindness that Iranians are known for, but kindly refused. She told the driver to take us to Emām Khomeini Square.

The square is closed to vehicles, so the driver let us off a short distance away. We walked down a narrow lane, which opened up into the stunning plaza; home to some of the most majestic buildings in the Islamic world. The famed Emām Mosque rises at one end of the square, while the equally magnificent Sheik Lotfollāh Mosque and Alī Qāpu Palace stand opposite one another. Traditionally, the square was closed to men for one day each week, so women could come and shop. Today though, everyone is welcome and the square is a magnet for visitors and residents alike. We were first drawn to the Emām Mosque, which is one of the most beautiful mosques in the world, and as a result, probably one of the most photographed sites in Iran. Work on the impressive entrance portal began in 1611 and took four years to construct, while the entire mosque itself took 18 years to complete. We began to appreciate the craftsmanship, as we got closer, and saw the intricate mosaic tiles that covered the outside of the mosque. The building is unique in that the entrance portal was built to face the square, but the mosque itself is angled to face the holy city of Mecca. Inside is a large, treed courtyard, and a large pool for ritual ablations.

In contrast, the Sheik Lotfallāh Mosque is smaller, yet no less impressive. Its dome resembles a Faberge Easter egg, and is covered with cream-coloured tiles, instead of the blue and turquoise ones that Esfahan is known for. The dome changes colour throughout the day, depending on the light.

Esfahan’s shops and bazaars, which flank each side of the square, are widely recognized as some of the best in Iran. We found the entrance to the main bazaar, and lost ourselves in the labyrinth of alleyways. Carpet merchants welcomed us into their shops with offerings of tea, and educated us in the finer details of Iran’s most well known export. We learned about the number of knots in a carpet, the natural products used to make dyes for the different colours, and the regional differences in the patterns. In another part of the bazaar, we found artisans banging away and shaping pieces of copper into works of art.

Any time is a great time to visit the square, but we returned in the early evening as the setting sun cast brilliant hues on the buildings. We sat on a bench and people-watched. Families and young couples ambled through the square. Ice cream vendors did a brisk business. An older man sat next to us and introduced himself. We talked about politics and the perception that many have of Iran, especially in the west. He lamented the poor economic situation and restrictions placed on his people, but noticed that more tourists have come to Iran this year, than in the recent past.

Our travels through Iran continues in part 2

The most delicious apple

I had the most delicious apple today. It was beautiful and sweet. The moment I bit into the pale red and creamy-yellow skin, I knew I found that once-in-a-lifetime perfection. It was like love at first taste. It was a solid crunch, like the sound of your feet walking through the snow on a quiet winter night.

Apples, like a lot of fruit, can be hit and miss. Some look deceiving good, only to offer up disappointment. Soft ones are especially disappointing.

I was once partial to Granny Smiths, those tart and refreshingly green coloured apples, which you usually see stacked neatly in a silver bowl, and gracing the glossy pages of an interior design magazine.

More recently, I have sought out the Gala. The delightful apple that I had today was a Royal Gala, which was grown in New Zealand. Such a long way to travel, I thought. I have never been to New Zealand (It’s the one place that my wife has been that I haven’t). I pictured my apple being nurtured by the richness of the Waimea Plains, on New Zealand’s South Island. Or maybe warmed by the summer breeze sweeping off the North Island’s Hawke’s Bay.

The taste of the apple took me back to my childhood, when I would visit my grandparent’s home, in Duncan. They had a couple of apple trees in their front and back yards. The warm summers of the Cowichan Valley filled the trees with delicious apples. I would go out with my Grandma and stand on my tippy toes to reach the highest apple that my tiny eight-year-old arms could grab.

I learned that the Gala apple was developed in New Zealand in the 1920s by orchardist, J.H. Kidd, and is a cross between a Golden Delicious and Kidd's Orange Red.

Like finding that perfect love. I'll probably never taste anything better, I thought to myself, as I crunched my way through this mouth-watering apple.

Canadians and their flag

My mother sent me an email after my last post. Nice to know that at least my mom reads my musings. This was her message:

Ken I have a Canadian flag on my backpack left over from Guiding days and I got comments on it when we were in England and the Netherlands. I do not really think it weird to be proud of where we are from. Although a nice leather one would be preferable to my 70's bright blue one. But you know I might put a flag on that too. Love Mum


While this wasn’t my mother’s motivation, let’s be clear, many Canadians (Americans too, apparently) put Canadian flags on their backpacks and bags, not because they are proud, but rather so they aren’t mistaken for an American when travelling abroad. It’s embarrassing to think that Canadians would use our flag in such a way. I have travelled all over the world, and not once did I feel it necessary to “prove” that I wasn’t an American. When my wife and her friend were travelling throughout Australia some years ago, her friend was so ridiculed for having a Canadian flag on her backpack that she ended up taking it off.

Back though to my mother’s comments about flags and pride. We agree on one thing, that it is indeed not weird to be proud of where we are from. For me, there is nothing more moving than to see Dutch school children placing candles at the gravestones of Canadian soldiers who died fighting for the freedom of those children’s parents and grandparents. Or watching a Canadian athlete excel at an international sporting event. Or listening to the international business community laud Canada for its stable banking system, while banks around the world were collapsing. Or knowing that the zipper was invented by a Canadian.

Where we differ maybe is that I believe we don’t have to wear that pride on our sleeve, or in this case on our backpack, when we travel. Attending an international sporting event? Go ahead and wave the red maple leaf, but not just because you are visiting another country.

When I was travelling throughout Europe some sixteen years ago, the only flags I saw on bags were Canadian, and one fellow with a Finnish flag on his bag. Indeed of all my travels around the world, the only flag I usually see stitched to a bag is the Canadian flag, which says a lot. In fact, I saw some guy on the bus yesterday with one.

If pride is about wearing a flag on a bag, then I should see a lot of Scottish or Welsh flags on my travels. Are Icelanders or Germans, or Brits any less proud of their country? I think not, and yet I don’t see people of those countries slapping their country’s flag on their bag before travelling.

For many Canadians, the notion of a flag on a backpack has been so ingrained that people stop to think about the message their sending. Some may ask, what does it matter? It matters because humility is a nice trait, and this, look at me, look at me, I’m Canadian attitude is embarrassing. Canada is indeed a great nation, and well regarded around the world, so be humble about that.

To further illustrate my point, the other day, my wife was watching her “Monday night show”, The Bachelorette, featuring Gillian Harris, who is trying to find love on television. Being her “hometown”, this particular episode was being filmed in Vancouver. I was intrigued by the sights they were showing. The city looked great, and even better with the use of a blue filter on the camera lens for some of the harbour scenes. What struck me most though, was when Harris and her gaggle of suitors went curling (how Canadian). Inside the curling rink, numerous Canadian flags had been placed around the walls. It seemed so glaring. So obvious. So out of place. I looked to my wife, and said, “I bet those flags aren’t on the wall all the time.” It reminded me how insecure we are as a nation that we have to wave our flag around, in this case, for the benefit of a largely American TV audience. Look at us! Look at us!

People have told me that putting a Canadian flag on a bag generates conversation. It surely did for my wife’s friend in Australia, though not in the way she probably expected. Surprising to some maybe, but conversation can still be generated without a flag. At least they can start the conversation by asking, “Where are you from?”

Girls Rule!!

The other day I saw a woman on the train wearing a bright pink lanyard, and on it were the words, Girls Rule!! Presumably the exclamation points were there to ensure we got the point. Got it. Girls rule. I’m a little confused, though. While some men will say that their wives do indeed rule the house, I’m not really sure what that statement means.

It’s a manifestation, I guess, of the Girl Power phenomenon which supposedly was a term of empowerment, popularized in the 1990s by the British band, The Spice Girls.

Even the Oxford English Dictionary added the term in 2001 and defined it as:

Power exercised by girls; spec. a self-reliant attitude among girls and young women manifested in ambition, assertiveness and individualism…

I'm all for female ambition, assertiveness and indiviudalism, but humility is also a worthy trait. If girls rule, then apparently they also kick ass. At least that’s the conclusion one could draw from the t-shirts emblazoned with that particular slogan. I’ve seen others that say Canadian Girls Kick Ass. Nice. And what’s the message?

This all reminds me of the schoolyard in grade school when some whiny girl, who probably had trouble making friends, would call out in an annoying voice, “girls are better than boys, girls are better than boys!”

“Right you are, now can you scram, so we can continue flicking hockey cards against the school wall.”

Like people who put Canadian flags on their backpacks, where does this insecurity come from? Maybe I’m wrong, but surely all women don’t associate with the Girls Rule mantra. Seems to me that if you need to wear t-shirts and accessories telling people how great you are—you’re probably not.

Someone sneezes...so what?

This morning I was waiting at a very busy bus stop, and someone sneezed. "Bless you...whoever sneezed," a woman schlepping newspapers, and some distance from the sneeezer, called out. I found it all very strange. In fact, I've never really understood the whole blessing someone after they sneeze. One of my colleagues, who is a devout non-believer in anything religious (despite being educated by the Catholic Sisters), is always blessing people around the office when they sneeze.

Someone sneezes...so what...carry on. We don't bless people when they cough or burp or fart, so why when someone sneezes, and how did this all begin?

As could be expected from a habit that dates back nearly two thousands, a definitive answer is hard to come by. Theories abound. And I bet you're itchin' to know, so here is some research I performed on your behalf.

Some believe that the sneeze itself is the expulsion of a demon or evil spirit, which had taken up residence in a person (I'm not sure what this says about my aforementioned colleague who always sneezes in threes), and the Bless You is meant to ward off the re-entry of an evil spirit.

Others believed that the heart momentarily stops during a sneeze. Apparently, it doesn't, but it was thought that to Bless someone was meant as a prayer for life to return or as a congratulations upon its restart.

And others still claim the practice was associated with calamitous diseases, such as the plague. It was said that an infected person's sneeze was sure sign that death was imminent and the Bless You was commending the sneezer's soul to the care of God.

Some believe that a sneeze is lucky and foretells good fortune, thus the "Bless You!" is a recognition of forthcoming good luck, and even an attempt on the blesser's part to attract a bit of the good luck themselves.

Finally, some see the acknowledgement of a sneeze simply as good manners. Though, I'm not so sure. I think people pretend this to be the case. A more probable explanation is that we have been so programed to acknowledge a sneeze that we don't even think about it.

Whatever the reason, I still find it a little odd. So, if I don't acknowledge your sneeze don't think any less of me.

Lost in translation

The other day I went to my Peruvian neighbours to borrow an egg. The Grandmother answered and when I asked for an egg, she told me she didn't speak English. I didn't know the Spanish word for egg, so I held my thumb and index finger up as if holding one. What was I thinking? Of course she didn't know what I was trying to do. Who would? Instead, I started acting like a chicken, in hopes that she would know I wanted an egg.

She looked at me with a puzzled look. I ran to my house, turned on the computer, and looked up how to say egg in Spanish. I dashed back outside, and just then the mother arrived. I told her that I wanted to borrow an egg, but didn't know how in Spanish. "Heuvo," she said, and with that the Grandmother went into the kitchen and brought an egg.

Gracias, thank you, I said, after having expanded my Spanish vocabulary.

The following day I was riding the bus with my neighbour. I told him that I was trying to borrow an egg from his mother-in-law. "I know," he said laughing. "She thought you wanted a chicken."

Now, if you find yourself looking for an egg in Spain or Latin America, or parts of Los Angeles, you'll know. Consider it my gift to you.

This reminded me of the first day Carrie and I were in Korea. We met up with two other teachers and found one of the many small restaurants that dotted downtown Seoul's alleyways. The menu, in Korean of course, was hung on the wall, and unlike many restaurants there were no photographs of the gastronomic offerings. A husband and wife team toiled in this modest restaurant. She in the kitchen, and he out front.

We were seated at a table, and given some green tea. We asked for a menu, and the man pointed to the wall. We were not able to speak or read Korean, and he was unable to speak English. The four of us sat looking at one another, wondering if the only dinner we were going to get would be the hot tea. We looked over at other tables trying to find something that looked good.

The man came back to take our order, and we all looked at each other. The only thing that came from our mouths was an insecure laugh. After what seemed like hours, the standoff ended, when we pointed to a few other dishes that other patrons were devouring, and told him to bring whatever he wanted.

I don't remember what we ate that night, but for the most part it was delicious. But from then on, we made sure to find restaurants that had pictures on their menu.

I thought memoirs were for people with important things to say

Apologies for my blog sabbatical. Whitemanwalking hasn't done much walking, but he has done a lot of thinking and writing elsewhere recently.

So, I read in the paper that vice-presidential candidate, Sarah Palin, is going to be writing a memoir. Aren't memoirs for people with important things to say? An account of something noteworthy, that's how the dictionary defines a memoir. I imagine a memoir to be a thick tome about one's life...full of adventure and thought, like Michael J. Fox's recent work, Always Looking Up: The Adventures of an Incurable Optimist.

Maybe Palin has led an interesting life, but what importance can someone with 66 days of fame really share? Her professional accomplishments include two three-year terms as the Mayor of Wasilla, Alaska. Maybe she did a great job, but we're not talking big city Mayor challenges. Wasilla's population is less than 10,000. In 2006, she became the Governor of Alaska. Now Alaska may be the largest US state, but its population ranks 47th, only surpassing the equally powerful states of Vermont, North Dakota, and Wyoming. Alaska has two things going for it - Oil, and a nice place for a cruise. Oh, and the highest mountain in North America. But most people in the U.S. (and Canada) wouldn't know that, so does it really matter?

I think the following sums up why you should save your money and forgo the Palin memoir.

"All of 'em, any of 'em that have been in front of me over all these years." --Sarah Palin, unable to name a single newspaper or magazine she reads, interview with Katie Couric, CBS News, Oct. 1, 2008

Happy Birthday Rome

My mother, or father, or maybe some other wise sage used to tell me that Rome wasn't built in a day. Patience, Ken, patience. Maybe so, but did you know the Eternal City, as it is known, came into being on this day 2,762 years ago? Hard to imagine really that in 44 BC, the city's population had swollen to more than one million.

The birth of Rome reminded me of my own trip to the Italian capital 16 years ago. I was travelling through Europe with a friend, and as our travels drew us nearer to Rome, we kept hearing horrific tales from other travellers about their experience of being pick pocketed and robbed in the city. It seemed as if everyone we met was fleeing Rome, much as the populous would have in the year 64 when Rome burned.

Undaunted, we were determined to see this historical city, and we weren't about to let a pack of lowlife, thieving miscreants ruin our visit. As our train neared Rome's Termini Station, we decided to carry only one large backpack each, instead of the extra day pack that we usually carried. With a sense of excitement and some anxiety, we stepped onto the station platform, and were prepared for the roving gangs.

We spent a couple of days in Rome, dazzled by the incredible sights--the Colisseum, the Forum, the Pantheon, and Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, and the Fountain of the Four Rivers--yet not once did we feel threatened. The only unnerving thing was walking past the machine gun toting Carabiniere, which occupy most street corners in the city.

Maybe we were lucky not to have had our pockets picked, or maybe because we were prepared, the thieves were lured to easier targets. Whatever the case, Rome still stands as one of the magnificent cities I have visited.

Buon Compleanno, Roma

Don't mess with Hinakuluiau

So, the other day I was taking the bus to the airport in Vancouver (actually I had to take three buses, but I'll save discussion of that for another time), and a young couple sat next to me, each carrying a large pack. I imagined a trek to Asia or Europe. Instead they were headed for a camping trip in Hawaii, the "Big Island" to be precise. I told them I was going to Maui.

It was a beautiful spring day, and the young guy was chatting to a traveller from Germany, when he announced that he hoped it would start raining in Vancouver. The sentiment being that he'd basking in the sun, while Vancouverites would be dripping in the rain.

"I tell him it's a very spiteful attitude," his girlfriend said, turning to me.

"And you never know it could be raining in Hawaii," I replied.

In fact, the wettest place on earth is located on the Hawaiian island of Kaui. It is here, on Mt. Wai'ale'ale, where more than 486 inches of rain falls each year. Let me do the math for you--that's 40 feet of rain.

I think Hinakuluiau, the Hawaiian goddess of rain, was listening in on that conversation on the way to the airport, and she is one scorned woman. In the past three days we have only seen the sun for a fleeting moment before the trade winds blew in the clouds. It has rained for much of the day.

If I knew how to reach Hinakuluiau, I would repent and tell her that except for the ravaged farmers of central Australia, where water hasn't fallen from the sky for several years, I will never wish rain on anyone again.

As I hear the rain dripping from the palms and hibiscus, I wonder how that young couple is doing in their tent. I imagine her cursing, and blaming her boyfriend's spiteful attitude for unleashing the wrath of Hinakuluiau.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find out how I can reach the Hawaiian sun god!

The sacrifices we make

"Do you offer upgrades to passengers when it's their birthday," I casually asked the Air Canada check-in agent, yesterday.

The agent asked my four-year old son if it was his birthday. "No, it's Daddy's birthday!"

Right son, and your hardworking Daddy deserves to be sitting up front.



"Oh, I wish I could do that...but," was all the agent could offer up.

As we unloaded the 16 pack mules that we had brought to the airport to carry our bags, the agent looked at me and exclaimed, "you're the transplant guy!"

Transplant Guy? Hmmm...I think there must be some super hero potential there. "Have no fear...Transplant Guy is here!"

I didn't tell her that what I really wanted was for me and my brood to be transplanted from economy to business class.

While it would probably make for a better story if I told you that random people always called me Transplant Guy, turns out the agent had a kidney transplant about 15 years ago, and knows me from my work.

"As for that question you asked me at the beginning, I'll see what I can do," she said, as she finished tagging our bags and handed our boarding passes back to us.

As he always does, Jack wanted to stop at the children's play area before heading to our gate. He soon latched on to a girl, about a year or two older than him. After chasing her around the play set, he ran over to me and said he had a girlfriend to play with. We told him that he should ask for her name, but he kept calling her, girlfriend. Even when he went to the bathroom, he announced to everyone with ears in the US departures area, "I'll be back girlfriend, I'm just going to the bathroom!"

We strolled over to the gate around the time boarding was to supposed to commence, but we found out that most of the passengers were already on board. "Mr. Don-a-ho," the gate agent said. "We had a call about an upgrade, and we have one seat available in business class for you."

Oh no, not one seat, I thought to myself. Here was an opportunity for an upgrade and my family was cramping my style. But really, how could I sit (or should I say lie) up front in a nice, comfortable lie flat seat, when Carrie and the kids were slumming it in the back.

I could hear these words in mind: Mr. Donohue, would you like some champagne? What about some brandy after dessert?

In the end, I proffered a kind thank you, declined the offer, and followed my family to row 29, where they keep the cattle. Next to us was a petulant toddler screaming his face off for reasons unknown to everyone, including his poor mother who tried to hold this writhing kid.

Ah, the sacrifices I make for family harmony, I thought, as the devil kid next to us stared at me between his temper tantrums.

Taking transit makes me feel like a loser!

Whenever I take transit I feel like a loser. It’s not actually taking the bus or train that makes me feel like a deadbeat, but rather the advertising inside. Large companies go to great lengths and expense in the pursuit of market research, so I sense they must have done their homework when targeting transit riders like myself.

There are no ads thanking me for taking transit or hailing me an environmental hero. Instead, there are ads suggesting what pathetic little lives we transit users have. How else to explain when Money Mart and other payday loan sharks, the Credit Counseling Society, the Rental Assistance Program, and the Pardon Service are all advertising to such a captivated audience? There are ads for employment centres, and several ads for various career colleges. One school even has the slogan, swim with the new fish. How nice. What they really mean is that you have to take transit because you’re a flunkee and your only hope of redeeming your pitiful life is to take one of their courses.

I even noticed one ad today from the Centre of Disease Control, with a man staring out to the stinkin’ masses with a bar of soap in his hand, and the simple message, “start by using plain soap”. I noticed others on the train checking to see if they too applied deodorant.

Even the cell phones ads are geared to losers. Instead of showing off the latest features of the phones, the messaging is all about the lowest rates. They might as well say, “Yes, even smelly you, with bad credit, no job, a lousy education, and a criminal record can still have a cell phone at low rates.”

As the train rolled into my stop, I looked up and saw one ad that asked, “Need an Education Plan.” Maybe what it should have said is “Need a Life Plan?”

Daddy...where does the water come from?

"Where does the water come from?" my son asked me while his bath was filling.

I told him that our water source was probably found in a reservoir in Coquitlam.

"Is that the place where our poop goes, by the Alex Fraser Bridge," he asked

"No Jack, that's the sewage treatment plant...it's a different place, where the water is fresh and clean."

I told him that the water travels in underground pipes, and then like magic pours from our taps when we want it. With the bath full, I took this opportunity to remind Jack that he was a lucky boy, because many people in the world didn't have the luxury of just turning on the tap and getting fresh water. Some people have to walk miles in search of clean water.

"Is that because they don't have any money," he inquired?

I was then reminded of a passage I had been reading earlier that day in Rick Antonson's book, To Timbuktu for a Haircut:

"You do not drink in Dogon [Mali] just because you are thirsty. Water must last the journey. You do not whistle, do not make idle chatter, because it dries the throat--a discovery I would take home with me. From the water bottle , you at best get a wilting quench. I learned the difference between warm water and WARM water--my standards shifted like the sands. Water was always a serious issue in Dogon; little of it fell to the ground without further use. Where I encountered people at wells, I passed my hat to them as they pumped and cupped it back over my head in a spill they approved of, but only once. More was too much."

Many of us give little thought when we turn on the tap and water flows endlessly, but a billion people on this planet don't have access to clean, drinking water. Let me put that into some perspective. Think of six of your friends. Now imagine that one of them has no access to clean water. Depending on how good a friend they are, maybe it doesn't matter. But for those struggling to survive in a place with an unreliable water source, it surely matters. And isn't it really just luck that some of us are able turn on a tap in our homes and get water.

Water issues aren't solely the plight of those with "no money", as Jack put it. Serious water issues can be found on every continent. If you're interested in learning more, click here to see a map outlining some of our water challenges.

You might be interested to know that March 22 is World Water Day

The Questions Kids Ask

There are some questions that my four-year old son asks that are easy to deal with. Like the time he asked how he got in mommy's tummy.

"Go ask your mommy," I said!

See how easy that was.

Then there are questions that are a little trickier to answer. Like yesterday when he asked, "what is light?" Why do kids have to be so curious? I didn't know what to say. Somehow my usual response to these types of questions...it's magic, son...just didn't seem appropriate. So I did what any self respecting parent would do. I changed the subject.

Doesn't my son know that his Dad is scientifically deficient. The last science class I took was in Grade 11, and it was Earth Science, which was really a remedial class for losers who had no aptitude for the "real" sciences. Most students dissected pigs and frogs, or amputated their classmates' limbs. Some got high learning the chemistry period table, while others debated frictional and centripetal forces. We learned about rocks. I digress.

Why didn't he ask what the capital of Burkina Faso is? Or the deepest part of the world's oceans? Or the currency used in Panama? (In case you'd like to impress someone at your next cocktail party, it's...Ouagadougou, Mariana Trench, and the U.S. Dollar.)

Later, and wanting to feel enlightened, I did a Google search on light. I'm more confused now than I was when I was ignorant about these types of things.

Light waves are a little more complicated (no kidding), and they do not need a medium to travel through. They can travel through a vacuum. A light wave consists of energy in the form of electric and magnetic fields. The fields vibrate at right angles to the direction of movement of the wave, and at right angles to each other. Because light has both electric and magnetic fields, it is also referred to as electromagnetic radiation.

Light not only vibrates at different frequencies, it also travels at different speeds. Light waves move through a vacuum at their maximum speed, 300,000 kilometers per second or 186,000 miles per second, which makes light the fastest phenomenon in the universe. Light waves slow down when they travel inside substances, such as air, water, glass or a diamond. The way different substances affect the speed at which light travels is key to understanding the bending of light, or refraction.

Sure...now how am I supposed to explain that to my son?

"Better go ask your mommy!"

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.