Big Wheel, Keep on Turnin'

View from Cindy and Jim's penthouse condo

My final leg of the massaging insole journey was the Volusia County Fair in Deland, Florida.  After having spent the past month in trailer parks, sleeping in a tent, on the fairgrounds usually far outside of the nearby towns along the highway, and close to the livestock, it was a very welcome change to be staying with my Dad and Lorraine's friends in a two bedroom condo, directly on the beach in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. 

NSB sunset

We arrived in Deland at the fair on November 3rd, after a hurried two days at home in Leesburg.  After we set up at the fair, we landed at the condo in New Smyrna Beach to the sound of waves crashing and the smell of ocean in the air.  That's basically all I needed to feel immediately relaxed after a long day of errands, travel, and set-up.  That evening we all relaxed, knowing it was the final stretch before we went home for the rest of the year.  I sat on the balcony, staring at the faint outline of the white tips of the breaking surf, sipping on a hot chocolate.

The next ten days were a far cry from the past 30.  New Smyrna is basically Daytona for seniors - you can drive on the beach, there are lots of little beach-side bars and attractions, and the people are happy and generally in great shape, only everyone (for the most part)  is 50-plus.  

Surfers

Honestly, as much as I was aching to have someone my age to hang out with, the age-gap between myself and the residents of New Smyrna didn't bother me at all.  Our first full-day in NSB was spent getting settled and grocery shopping.  To give you an idea of the personalities I consistently came across in NSB, I'll tell you a nice little anecdotal tale.

So, we're getting groceries.  As per usual, my hair is air-dried, I'm not wearing makeup, and I'm wearing shorts and a tank-top.  Now, as we're casually strolling down one of the aisles, I hear an elderly woman yelling (yes, yelling), "Excuse me, miss! Miss! Excuse me! Miss!!".  Knowing full-well that I know no one in town, having never been here before, and also knowing that all of my belongings were securely located in my purse, so they hadn't fallen or been dropped, I assumed that this "miss" who was being called after surely couldn't be me.  I was wrong.  Finally, at the end of the aisle, after running after me, this kind little 70-something old lady caught up with me and tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me, miss," she said once more, "but you've got my body from 40 years ago, and I'd like you to give it back!" I, of course, laughed hysterically, blushed approximately 10 shades of red, and agreed kindly with her that I did indeed miss out on poodle skirts and saddle shoes (although the latter is making a comeback!).

This interaction boded well for the rest of my time spend in NSB: cheeky, fun, relaxed and well-aged (or aged well perhaps).  

Most days in NSB began with a run down the beach where I was greeted happily by residents, walking, running, or biking past.  This was one of my favorite times of day to be on the beach.  The pre-nine-in-the-morning folks reminded me of the all-day-folks in Nova Scotia.  So happy.  So friendly.  So unafraid of seeming like they're enjoying life - because they are.  I would usually get a comment or two from older couples passing by, from "well, you sure do make that look easy!" or, "whatever you're doing, it's working!"  Starting the day with a run in NSB was definitely one of the highlights.

The condo where we stayed also had two pools, one heated and one unheated.  I went for the odd swim, but spent most of my time near the pools, laying on a lounger, soaking up the sun.  It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

The remainder of my time, for the most part, was spent in one of my new-found favorite places: on the back of my Dad's Honda Goldwing motorcycle, the travel bike, of travel bikes.  We cruised to Daytona Beach, stopped at the Last Resort Bar (from the movie "Monster" where Aileen Wuornos seduces her victims), got harassed (half-jokingly) by Harley owners whom we parked next to near the beach,  walked the boardwalk, grabbed some pizza and Greek salad at Stavros (for which they're famous), chatted about this and that, then headed back to NSB for the night.  

On the Ormond Loop

Another day we drove the scenic Ormond Loop (or, as known by the biker community, just "the Loop") where we drove past lots of nature, drove through canopies of trees, palms, and Spanish moss, and stopped in Flagler beach for some beach-front snacks (I had the homemade crab dip, if you're wondering).  

On the last ride we took in the area we went to the Merrit Island Nature Reserve, got as close as we could to NASA's Kennedy Space Center, and went to Dixie Crossroads in Titusville where we proceeded to eat four dozen rock shrimp, french fries, and chicken flavored rice.  It's a good thing I went on those runs, let me tell you that much.

Outside Dixie Crossroads in Titusville

Part way through the week, Dad and Lorraine's friends, Cindy and Jim came and stayed at the condo, too.  They're a very hip couple of 50-somethings that are the perfect example of NSB: they're both fit, Cindy is a "sun bunny" and Jim is a surfer, they have a Harley and great spunky senses of humor.  They also brought with them their two malteses!  Simba is eight years old and is the larger of the two fluffy little white guys.  Rocky is the older boy, he is eleven, still a runt, and has a solid 3/4 inch fat roll around his mid-section and his tongue is always hanging out of his mouth.  Needless to say, I kind of liked Rocky the best.  They were great company and Rocky's little face brought me a great number of smiles and laughs.

Rocky <3

Although most of the "action" in NSB took place, for us, during the day, one night stands out in my mind.  I decided one evening to take advantage of the warm breeze, and heated pool.  I changed into my bathing suit, put on my gym clothes on top, grabbed my yoga mat and towel and headed for the pool deck.  

After completing 12 sun salutations and twisting every which way in the hopes of releasing any built-up toxins held in my spine, I peeled down to my swimsuit and hopped into the pool.  I splashed around for a while, breast-stroking and back-stroking my way around the pool. Then, I heard a noise.  I looked around, then up, to see a couple standing on their penthouse balcony, about 5 doors down from the condo where we were staying.  They were both waving frantically and yelling, though over the sound of the waves I couldn't make out a word that was said.  

Their franticness made me nervous.

Immediately I thought there was a viscous axe-murderer nearby, patiently waiting for the right moment to slash me up and turn the pool red with my blood.  

I believe I mentioned before that my imagination sometimes carries me away.

After surveying the area and confirming that there indeed was not a murderer nearby I considered the thought that they feared I had drowned, since just previous to acknowledging their cries I was floating on my back, relaxed as can be, entertaining myself with my change in buoyancy by breathing extra deeply and exhaling fully.

The woman eventually went scuttering inside, while the man continued to mind my business.  Eventually I was so troubled by the whole ordeal that I cut my swim short and headed upstairs for another hot chocolate on the balcony.  

I still can't figure out what they wanted my attention for.

On Remembrance Day (Veteran's Day), I got up, went for a run as usual, and headed up to the condo.  I was waiting until late afternoon to call my Grandmother to thank her for her service in WWII and for being a generally stand-up and awesome human being and passed the time by laying on a lounger next to the pool.  I had my phone with me, as I almost always do, and took it out from under my towel randomly to check for messages even though I had it on vibrate.  There was a message on Facebook from my mom.  My grandmother had a stroke and was on her way to the hospital by ambulance.  It's times like this that often remind us how fleeting life is and force us to possibly regret decisions we've made (usually about not having done something).  I thought, "I shouldn't have waited to call Nanny. I should have called before the ceremonies instead of after."  These situations, whether you're close by or far away, make you feel helpless.  Thankfully, after several hours of waiting for an update, I found out Nanny was doing well, eating when she could, and carrying on with family.  Phew!

That Sunday we put in our last Sunday at the booth in Deland, packed up (mostly), and headed back to the condo for our last sleep in NSB.  The next day, we got up bright and early, helped Jim and Cindy clean the condo, then headed to Deland to pick up the rest of the stuff.  I drove back to Leesburg on the bike with Dad, blaring the 70's and 80's station and singing along to my hearts' content, hoping I didn't catch a bug in my mouth on a long note.

So now we're back in Leesburg for possibly the rest of the year. The house has been brought up to speed, the laundry is done and the Suburban is unpacked.  We're still catching up, mostly Dad and Lorraine, with errands, mail, appointments, check-ups, and bookkeeping.  We should be into a normal routine by the weekend.

On Sunday I get to cash in on my foreign acquisition.  CHA-CHING!  (For those of you who know what I'm referring to).

Up next, more state-wide travels including, but not limited to: Disney World, Orlando Metro Area, Fort Lauderdale and the Keys!  Details to come.

Reluctance/fear

It's easy to tell happy stories.  It's easy to make jokes and laugh and talk about the good times.  It feels good to share and motivate and inspire.

I consider myself to be a optimistic, confident, happy, strong-minded individual - but everyone falls every now and then.  Sometimes we don't know right away what's caused our recent low.  Other times it's just one thing.  More often than not, it's a build-up of things.

1. A different country (with a surprisingly different culture). 
2. New living conditions (mainly living beside a trailer in a tent, with parents I'm only just getting to know as an adult). 
3. A wrench in my plans (I guess I don't qualify for dual-citizenship after all). 
4. Putting my "No Plans" Plan on hold long enough to figure out some options or next moves (I can only stay in the US without papers for 180 days).
5. Not having any way to blow off steam with people my age (I haven't seen a friend in four weeks and we've been too far out of town for me to experience any nightlife).
6. Too much time to think (or maybe just enough).

I guess that's enough to drive a sane young woman a little bonkers.  So, I had a little melt-down?  So what.  It's understandable.  And just because you realize maybe you have a few issues with yourself that you didn't know were there, or maybe you're a little lonelier than let on (even to yourself), or maybe things might not be going exactly the way you had hoped... that doesn't mean that you're weak, or worthless, or that things can't still go your way.

That does, however, mean that a call to Mom might be a good idea.

One by one, talking my way through, I came to pinpoint each of my feelings and where they were coming from: insecurity, unworthiness, frustration, powerlessness, sadness.

Based on what I hear from friends, most people wouldn't associate these words with me.  But they are all spawns of fear.  Fear of so many things.  Fear of being hurt (again).  Fear of trust (if I trust, I let down the wall and open myself up to hurt).  Fear of inadequacy (when the only person I'm competing with is myself).  Fear of the unknown (what is next?).  Fear of rejection (it's not as easy to make friends now as it was in the sandbox).  Fear of being deported (ha! just kidding - I can't be entirely serious about this).

All joking aside, fear can ruin our lives - if we let it.  It can freeze us in our tracks, keep us from meeting amazing people, stop us from allowing a relationship to reach its potential, it can force us to settle for "known mediocrity" rather than "unknown anything" (we have no way of knowing how good or bad the unknown can be), and it can drive us damn near crazy!

I consider myself to be a pretty self-aware individual.  I guess that's why I was so overwhelmed when I started having these feelings.  I mean, I am only 24.  I guess I might not know myself as well and I thought.  And there it is again: fear. 

I'm reluctant to admit that I can't always be taken at face value.  I am who I am and anyone who knows me will vouch for that.  But I can put up a great front for all the right reasons - for family who worry, for friends who I think need me more than I think I need myself, for people who I don't want to get to know the "vulnerable me" quite yet.

Sometimes the realization can be just as overwhelming as the things that made you come to your realization in the first place.  It brings us back to fear.  Fear of admitting we don't have it all figured out - not even when it comes to ourselves.  Fear of shedding a few tears - because we fear that it makes us weak.  Even fear of overcoming our fears.

But, it's revelations like these that allow us to get to know ourselves better at a deeper level.  It's these moments of so-called "weakness" that make us strong.

So, I've decided I'm not going to call them "moments of weakness," but rather, "momentary lapses in judgement."  Strength is strength, and just because once in a while we crack under pressure, melt-down, breakdown, cry, sob or scream, that doesn't mean we are not still strong.  In fact, we're strong enough to realize when we should take issue with our situation, with ourselves, with others.  Tears are just our souls way of speaking to us, telling us that things aren't OK (or on the other end of the spectrum, that things are way better than OK - they're remarkably perfect). 

A quote comes to mind:

"There is a sacredness in tears.  They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.  They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.  They are messengers of overwhelming grief... and unspeakable love."

- Washington Irving

So cry, scream, call your mom or dad or bestfriend.  Take a walk, meditate, write.  Do what ever it is that's going to help you understand yourself and your situation better.

It's true what they say in the 12-step program - that admitting you have a problem is the first step in overcoming it.  We all fall down.  It's your choice, however, to lay there paralyzed, or get up, brush yourself off and make your next move.

So, what'll it be?

Complexities of consciousness

Life is complex. Decisions are complex. The truth is complex. Relationships are complex. Laws are complex.

It seems to me that the people and things of life don't fit neatly into little boxes, even though we try to make them. Nature has no prejudice. Nature inherently allows for mutation, for change, for adaptation, and for variety. In the natural world, everything is at a level playing field - trying to survive. Humans create categories. Categorization creates prejudice. 

We are all part of life on Earth. Isn't that all that really matters? 

So, do well. Be kind. Prioritize equality. Practice respect. Think Green. Ask questions. Never compromise.

Columbsgiving Day

Happy belated Thanksgiving to all my Canucks and a happy Columbus Day to all my Yankee doodles! (I should note I started writing this before October 11^th, but it took me so long that I only just finished today.)

Firstly, since my nationality is Canadian, I'd like to address my turkey gobblers to the north. I'd also like to address the holiday of Thanksgiving first because the art of appreciation has become such a major influence in my life over the past several months, and I'm just thankful to be able to recognize the things I can be grateful for.

Warning: due to the lack of time/Internet I'm catching up on all my blogging. This is a long-ass entry! Proceed with caution.

Over the past month (to the day), between flying and driving, I've travelled an odd 14,000 kilometers (yes, that's not a typo, fourteen thousand). From west to east to central to east again and then finally south. To say it's been an adventure is an understatement. The impact the travels have had on me I'm sure aren't even fully realized. In the spirit of discovery, I reflect and cherish the memories I've made. In the spirit of Thanksgiving and gratitude, I appreciate each moment, and each person who so generously gave to me their time, their company, their conversation and their hospitality. Nevermore have I become aware of the goodness of people than I have since I've become transient.

I've successfully managed to couch-surf in 4 provinces, and 4 states in the past 4 months. Huh. That's gotta mean something. Anyway, the point I was trying to reach was that people, some complete strangers, are still open-hearted, still there to help, still are generous enough to share their time and their home with me, sometimes a complete stranger. I hope they feel as enriched through their generosity as I do. Special thanks to all those who hosted my sometimes not-so-familiar self and sometimes my not-so-familiar accompanist. Without the futons and beds and meals and assistance in transportation and suggestions for eating and drinking and listening to music the trip couldn't have been everything that it was.

My time in Nova Scotia was filled with the familiar - something I needed badly. It had been 15 months since I had last been home to see my family, friends and acquaintances, and seeing everyone, both intentionally and not, felt good for that squishy intangible thing we like to refer to as a soul. Seeing friends whom I haven't seen in years was refreshing and comforting, knowing that we can still carry on like we just saw each other yesterday, even when it's been years since our last encounter. Seeing my bestie was just as it always is: as comforting as whatever-simile-you-find-most-comforting. And seeing my family was, as usual, a calamity of emotions, all positive of course, and usually involving some variations of insanity (I'm looking at you, Mom, brother and Uncle!). I'm so thankful for my friends and family in Nova Scotia. I'm thankful for those who made an effort to get together (even if in the end it was a failed attempt), and for those who hosted me by either meal or shelter, and for those who I shared a story (or several), a laugh (or many), or a hug (or two) with.

What amazes me most, is that this trend of good-doing, of sharing, and of overall pleasantry didn't stop in Nova Scotia; it continued to New York where my mostly online friend (since graduation anyway) Lisa, came to meet me and a bunch of strangers at a folk show at an art museum in Manhattan. Thank goodness for those good-bye champagnes during work hours because she was already revved up for a night of socializing with complete strangers. God bless! And what a night it was. In the nick of time, the show was a success, the post-show Irish pub and pub food were delicious, Lisa was a hit, and the crown goes wild! And we never spoke of poutine the same.

After a brief stint to the Big Apple and an overnight in New Jersey I was on the road again to the Great White North. Five-thirty am (EST) came too soon - especially since my phone was set to Atlantic time so my alarm woke me up an hour too soon. But sixty more minutes of sleep wasn't nearly enough. Regardless, we hit the pavement on time and woke up somewhere in New Hampshire. After a quick stop for some caffeinated beverages, we were back on the road, with the pedal to the metal (but, not speeding if any cops or parents are reading this). A few roadside stops later and we were in northern Maine, with nothing but the trees and mountains to either side. The views were spectacular. But, we had a deadline: we needed to get to Halifax by the evening so we could go out on the town (without doing this, surely, something horrible would be of consequence). Going through border security, the customs agent asks of my pilot, "This is your first time to Canada? And you're how old?". We've got no time for this nonsense so we both laugh and carry on our merry way (what we didn't know was that this was the beginning of a trend that would follow us all the way back to the US). After a double-double and a gas-up we were ready for the home-stretch. We reached Halifax at 9:45 pm (AST) - fourteen hours after we first hit the pavement out of New Jersey and two hours earlier than Google maps had predicted. Game: blouses.

Halifax started off with a bang, as I expected, after getting ourselves together at my aunts place, on 3 hours of sleep, and after 14 hours of driving, we headed straight to Spring Garden and then Barrington for a little 86 reunion with my tiniest of 86ers: Miss Berringer and Miss Kelly. We all, of course, cordially met up and the night transpired to many a watering hole, and I ran into folks, and I missed out on folks, but the everyone was where they were supposed to be and the night ended with a walk on the waterfront and a trip to pizza corner, which will be the bumpin'-est spot in Halifax until the Earth gives up on us and all there is left are cockroaches, and even then it'll be the hippest spot for the 'roaches because who doesn't love 6 month old donair meat and sauces when you're a grubby little bug like that. The weekend continued to be filled with brews of all kinds and friends of all shapes and sizes and foods that clog the arteries and make you feel like absolute garbage and make you afraid to break wind, including an “East Coast Thanksgiving” that included donairs, a Hero pizza, poutine, donair poutine, and mozza sticks, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Thanks, Halifax (especially Hero Pizza, John's Lunch and Cora's).

Next on the agenda was sweet home Pictou County, where my bedroom was turned into a scrap booking room (it's OK, Mom - I'm not home often enough to complain, but just often enough to joke!). Thankfully, out of the kindness and dedication of my Ma's sweet, endlessly loving heart, she cleared out enough of her paper and stamps and glue sticks and doo-daddies to fit a double bed mattress and some floor space was still available too! Praise Ja! New Glasgow was, again filled with massive amounts of eats, some embarrassing stories, and some adventures, too.

My soon-to-be-Canadianized American came with me to where my Dad's childhood home once stood in Boat Harbour before they were expropriated by the government due to the pollution (and that's an understatement) that was dumped recklessly there by a corporation once called Scott Paper (Kimberley Clark, Neenah Paper.. who cares?). There's nothing wrong with the land. It's got apple trees and oak trees and grape vines and all sorts of other foliage that decorate the landscape, and a path that leads right to the harbour, where you'll find a nice cobble stone beach and waters that wash up like coffee and smell something like rotting sausage McMuffins mixed with manure. Sounds nice, doesn't it? That was over 30 years ago that Scott Paper decided to use the Earth as their waste can (like we all do I guess, but  dumping toxic waste from a pulp mill into the waters where people are swimming and growing up and eating and playing is a little different than neatly tying your clear garbage bag for pick-up by your weekly waste management employee). Anyway, I digress. The area is still beautiful and one day, once the big-wigs in this world decide to give a damn, the water will get cleaned up and people will be able to swim and grow and eat and play there again. Hopefully. After being accosted by some police who were concerned that we were from New Jersey (we said we both were just for fun) we decided to head back, take one more look for the foundation of the home where my Dad spent his early adolescence among the grasses as tall as me (I know I'm not that tall, but give me a break here), and head back into town for what I view as proof of the existence of a higher power: Acropole Pizza. Sweet, delicious, spicy, triangular, calorie-filled heaven. If that isn't nice, then I don't know what is. A delicious meal was then carefully crafted by one of my favourite chefs (and newly favourite apprentice) Emma and Dan. And it was muchly enjoyed by all parties involved. We then finished off the night with a hearty gathering of meaningful folks at a pub across town which followed me home. I wouldn't want it any other way.

The next morning, after considerably more sleep than our first departure, but considerably less than we probably should have gotten, we hit the road once again for Montréal - my second-favourite city in Canada. We decided to take the scenic Sunrise Trail as far as Oxford, because we wanted to go see the giant blueberry, and then continued to Moncton where we stopped for Cora's once more before leaving the Maritime provinces, and enjoyed Matt being embarrassed by the waitress for one reason or another. Taking the logging trails through northern New Brunswick may not have been the most logical choice, considering our recent sleeping habits and the presence of only one driver, but the drive was beautiful and solitudous (I don't think that's a word, but that's how it feel and it's 1:26 am).

(Written The Next Day)

We arrived in St-Lambert, across the river from Montréal, around 10 pm (EST),which was considerably good timing considering our stop at Cora’s in Moncton and our travels through the logging roads. After catching up with a sick Nikki and meeting her wonderful and hospitable other-half, Mark, we headed out for some grub. Unfortunately, we were both disappointed with our meals, but we were so ready for bed we didn’t really care. This is sad for me because food is one of my passions, along with music. Thankfully, our musical expeditions later in the weekend would compensate.

Friday, we spent the day at the Museum of Fine Arts in downtown Montréal, which was beautiful, and in the spirit of le Français, we stopped for a café and chocolate croissant on a terrace on de Maisonneuve. We went to an Irish pub on Crescent for some ribs and a beer, then headed off to the Bell Centre for a great pre-season game of the Habs v. the Sens! It’s the first period and already there have been two fights, which deems the game a success in my opinion. Two periods later and the score is 4-2 for the Habs. Habs win! We then moseyed on over the Brewsters (one of my favourite spots on Crescent for it’s variety of micro-brews) where we met up with fellow NGer, Julien, and listened to a cute little band whose name escapes me and whose lead guitarist annoyed the hell out of me with his stupid little stage antics. The music was good enough, but I don’t expect them to be making an appearance at the Grammy’s any time soon. The presence of the Beatles began this night with the bar seemingly playing their albums for 90 minutes between the bands 30 minute sets, then finally with the band actually covering a song in their final set. The Beatles would stalk us for the rest of the road trip, almost to the point of frustration. We waited and waited for the band to come on for one last 30 minute set, but got fed up and left.

Saturday was spent cruising around Old Port, waiting too long for lunch, hitting up a museum for an Easter Island exhibit (the museum clearly did not pay attention to their maximum capacity, as the space was shoulder-to-shoulder the whole time), the piece de resistance of the evening was the Tallest Man on Earth show at Le Nationale. Prior to the show, we went with Julien to the best smoked meat shop in Montréal: Schwartz’s, where the line runs out the door, and you’re seated with strangers because the restaurant is at capacity constantly. After mentioning that I wanted the “regular” cut of meat to my health-conscious companion, the waiter leans close to me, looks right into my eyes, and almost threateningly says, “Don’t order the lean cut”. Pardon me, but I am a lover of food, as I mentioned before, and would never consider skimping on the full-flavor of smoked meat by asking for the “lean” cut. Food profiling – whodathunkit. We then went to see his sister, Gabrielle Papillon, perform at Burritoville’s 2-year anniversary. The spot was cozy and perfect for the folksy stylings of the performers.

We met back up with Nikki in the “gaybourhood” for a pre-show double-double and then headed into Le Nationale for the gig. Needless to say, the show was incredible and even more than I expected. The not-so-tall, Tallest Man entered stage right, surrounded by smoke and dim-backlighting that was reminiscent of some sort of extraterrestrial abduction, then slowly grabbed his guitar and stepped into the spotlight to reveal himself as a charming, handsome, young gentleman, with such accurate throw-backs to James Dean that most straight guys probably got a little hot and heavy. He played all every song I wanted to hear, except The Drying of the Lawns, and finished off with a four-song encore. That’s what I call a performer. Not surprisingly, I left the venue feeling happy, fulfilled, and with way more respect for this one-man-band than I entered with. We made an attempt at going to a bar in Old Port after the show, but the top-40s mash-ups and ratio of dudes and chicks with too much cologne and too many spray tans was about 10:1, so we left Nikki with her friends whom she was meeting up with and headed back to the car to enjoy some peanutbutter on banana bread and head home.

Sunday was slow to get going, but was all-in-all a large success on both the Montréal and Ottawa fronts. We began the day by grabbing our last café and chocolate croissant from our favorite spot, then walked downtown and grabbed some Thai food, before swinging by Papineau to pick up Julien and heading to Ottawa. We made it in near record time, but of course, didn’t speed. My complete lack of directional sense made itself apparent at various times throughout the trip, but was nevermore clear than it was when I attempted to direct us to my friend Ashley’s place where everyone was waiting for me. I walked us in the wrong direction, not once, but twice, causing us to take twice as long to get there as it should have. Thank goodness for people with patience and understanding for my apparent disability. Everyone figured I had gotten lost. Some things never change. Once we finally arrived at Ashley’s I was psyched to see all of my favorite flavors there to spend some time together. It was so amazing that everyone was able to get together at the same time since my time in Ottawa was so brief. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a long time, than I did on Sunday and Monday nights with the NG crew. And not just because of the “performers” at karaoke night.

Monday began with a trip to Tim’s, of course, where I realized a great divide: those who like mayonnaise, and those who don’t. I’m not going to go into detail, but this preference makes sharing a sandwich utterly impossible. Then we picked up Ashley and headed to the Museum of Civilization to get the American all educated on his Canadian history. After a few hours seeing everything from the history of horse domestication, to a really cool recreation of Canadian settler towns and industries, to the postal museum, to the pre-history of Canada, we were spent. We settled for a café and biscotti at a nice little fair trade café where we attempted to recreate the terrace in Montréal with little success. I’m not going to go into detail, but I saw a bums’ bum. You’d never see that in Montréal because even the homeless in Montréal still know style (one complimented me on my tights!). The night came to a close with most of the crew re-uniting for some Mexican food, then Julien, Natalie, Thaddeus and us hitting up a pub for some live “music” in the Market. When we saw the singer come out I immediately said, “He looks like he’s going to sound like Meatloaf.” And he did. A couple of pitchers later and it didn’t matter anymore. Prior to leaving for Toronto, we stopped at a diner for some breakfast, where Matt was again criticized by the serving staff, then carried on to our second-to-last Canadian destination: Toronto.

We arrived in Toronto to the always wonderful, Emma (not the same Emma as in New Glasgow), who greeted us at the door and immediately offered us wine (gotta love French households). After we caught up for a while, the rest of the family got home and we got to enjoy a delicious meal of homemade vegetarian lasagna. Despite filling up on lasagna and garlic bread and salad, we still decided to order the most epic nachos I’ve ever seen when we went out in downtown Toronto later in the evening. We saw it go by our table and had to have it. It was like a fortress of tortilla and nacho-ey goodness. I would consider wearing it as a crown. And all the food-lovers would bow down to me. Okay, maybe not, but if everyone was as passionate about food as I am, that wouldn’t be such a stretch.

On the agenda for Wednesday was a trip to the Hockey Hall of Fame (for the boys), Kensington Market, our first encounter with Ethiopian food (amazing!), 6 out of 9 innings of a Jays game, and a show at Lee’s Palace (made famous by the Scott Pilgrim graphic novels). The HHoF was a lot more fun than I anticipated, including goalie, slap-shot, and announcer simulators. Kensington Market was just as I remembered it: the chillest place in Toronto with op-shops and smokeshops galore. Although we waited longer than we would have liked for get the Ethiopian food, the wait was definitely worth it and it has now become one of my favorite foods! We got a variety vegetarian and variety meats plate for four and essentially devoured as much as we could. The ambience was spot-on and the owner and chef (an adorable husband and wife team) were unbelievably hospitable, finishing off our meal with traditional Ethiopian coffee and a free, specially made desert, free of charge. Next time I’m in Toronto, there’s no way I’m missing out on some more of that. The night was concluded with a pretty decent game of America’s favorite pastime, despite the most annoying fans on the face of the planet, and a Liars show at Lee’s Palace. Liars were a band I hadn’t really listened to, but was interested in checking out live, and I was glad I did, because their sound really only comes across fully and completely at a live venue and just doesn’t have the same sound and feel through a set of computer, car, or stereo speakers. All-in-all, we were satisfied with our time in Toronto and were ready to depart the next morning for our border-stop, Niagara Falls.

I’ll begin by saying Niagara Falls is a beautiful place with a lot of attractions for tourists, like tours, shopping, gambling, and restaurants like the Hard Rock Café. I’ll finish by saying I would not want to spend more than an afternoon in Niagara Falls. We did a Maid of the Mist tour of the falls, tossed our complimentary souvenir garbage bag ponchos, and headed for the Canada-USA border, and eventually Syracuse, NY, where we got some great Mediterranean food, and caught another great one-man-band whose last name escapes me, but whose first name was Joe and he did a ton of looping and it was pretty stellar. He did a lot of hip hop and that kind of thing, which was kind of funny, because he performed in an Irish pub. Anyway, Syracuse was another success, despite not knowing anyone there, and the next day we left for Burlington after going to a sketchy little diner that was absolutely delicious, and where Matt was again accosted by the serving staff. Like I said, it was a theme that followed us from the border and back again.

Along the way to Burlinton, we stopped in Lake George in Upstate New York, which was beautiful and scenic and is the epitome of why rich people like Upstate New York. The leaves were mid-color-change and the entire drive was stunning and breath-taking and made me feel alive inside where my little voice lives.

We arrived in Burlington, Vermont in just enough time to drop our stuff, find a parking spot (an almost impossible task because it was “parents’ weekend”), and walk downtown for some of the best “fast food” burrito’s on the face of the planet from a little place called Boloco. And let me tell you, I’m loco for Boloco. Anyway, after we filled our bellies having realized we hadn’t eaten since our brunch in Syracuse, we hit up Nectar’s for a little live music. Turned out the band that was playing, Cats Under the Stars, covered all Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia songs, so we were pleased to say the least. We headed back to Matt’s friend Alex’s for a solid nights’ sleep, due to an impending hike the next day. And what a hike it was. Originally, way back in the 17- or 1800s, the hiking trail was a horse-and-carriage path, leading to a hotel on top of the mountain. How amazing would that have been? Since then, the hotel has bee torn down, but the trail, and the foundation of the hotel still remain. I would consider it a beginner trail, but the payoff is like you should have hiked an advanced trail. The look-off, where the hotel used to be, was one of the most majestic and awe-inspiring views I’ve ever seen. The mountains in Vermont and those in Upstate New York, the Adirondacks (from which the chair takes its name), have an aura that is different from those of their younger siblings to the West, the Rockies. It’s as if they have some hidden wisdom, secrets, mystery. Even though the Rockies are considerably larger, the mountains on Vermont have a way of making you feel small and insignificant, yet wonderful. I’ve gotta go back.

That day, since two of the eight room mates at the place we were staying were having birthdays, we joined for a celebratory potluck, even though we had already filled up on the most phenomenal sandwich ever created: the Red Onion sandwich by the sandwich shop by the same name. Roasted red pepper mayonnaise, apple slices, smoked turkey, bacon, lettuce, and I can’t even remember what else because I think I blacked out due to the heavenly enjoyment I experienced. Anyway. After a few glasses of wine, we headed back to Nectars for this funk band, whose name I of course forget right now. The night started off decent enough, but after enough drunk university students piled in, the quality ratio took a nosedive. The night ended with me getting a glass dropped on my foot from about 9 feet above the ground, and with some weird dude talking to us about how these Mexicans were going to jump him. Sure. We decided to cut our losses and head back to the house and just go to sleep. Sunday was sure to be better since we had some big plans!

And it was! We started of the day with a breakfast at Magnolia, which was delicious, then drove about 45 minutes out of town to the Ben and Jerry’s Factory!! I wasn’t at all excited. The tour was cute, we got to sample some of their mint chocolate chip ice cream, then we went out into the courtyard where you can order your own ice cream (I chose Bonnaroo Buzz, obviously, but I really wanted Americone Dream – Stephen Colbert’s flavour). There was lots of cute cow stuff there and even though I couldn’t finish my ice cream, I was fully satisfied and ready for our next adventure. We went straight from the Ben and Jerry’s tour to the Magic Hat Brewery tour, which I don’t recommend for the tour itself, but mostly for the free samples you get in the main lobby area. Even though the beer wasn’t that good, it was free, and free is good. So, if A+B=C… well, you get the idea. After that, we headed for a stroll on Lake Champlain and went for one last round of Boloco before meeting up with our friend Sammy for the Built to Spill show at the Higher Ground. The show was incredible. Built to Spill was even better than I remembered, then after the show we stuck around to chat and when I reminded them about the Stone Pony show we were at they at least pretended to remember me! So nice of them. I can’t blame them if they were pretending (which I guess I’ll never know), because they meet so many fans and they’ve been touring pretty much consistently since then. Anyway, we went back to another friends’ place in town afterward to see another Bonnaroo alumnus, Hobbit, before heading back to Alex’s and going to sleep one last time in Burlington. I've gotta say, the folks I met there were some of the most ground, chill, respectful, generous folks I've had the pleasure of meeting and I'll consider myself really lucky if I get to go back again.

Monday morning rolled around and we waited for Alex and then went to Magnolia again for a little breakfast before hitting the road for Paramus, New Jersey to see my great uncle and aunt, Tom and Carol Ann. We got a bit of a late start, and coupling that with taking a wrong road, getting stuck behind a school bus dropping off children, and periodic downpours, we, needless to say, arrived later than we expected. When we did arrive at Tom and Carol Ann’s, there was a feast of all feasts awaiting us. Early Thanksgiving, they said, because they were so thankful we came to visit. Tom and Carol have been together for 40 years and give me hope in romance, relationships, and humanity. They’re still giving each other that eye, still going out of their way for each other, and still want to encourage youthfulness, and growth, and kindness, and everything good that we all should be and do. Thanksgiving, indeed. After a hearty meal, coffee, and desserts, we all retired. Upon waking, we were greeted with more coffee, orange juice, heart-shaped eggs, toast and crumpets. We chatted a while longer, shared our thanks again, and said our “see ya laters” and off we went to get ready for a day in New York City, and another night with Built to Spill. After scouring Chinatown for a cell phone case, finding some delicious Ethiopian food (even though it didn’t compare to the experience in Toronto), and driving to Williamsburg, we wandered the streets, got a gyro so we could use the customer bathrooms, only to find out they were out of order, grabbed a coffee, checked out the venue, walked some more, then finally went in to check out another night of Built to Spill. After playing all the usual suspects, including a cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Ripple,” and a two or three song encore, we left, without checking out Doug Martsch’s DJ set, to head back to New Jersey for one last sleep before I fly south for winter.

Then, the unspeakable happened. I missed my flight. The first flight out of umpteen flights that I’ve taken in my life. I missed it. I couldn’t believe it. I never do this! And of course, because I booked through Expedia, I had to rectify the situation with not one, but TWO different airlines. After two hours of lugging my expedition pack from one counter to another trying to get on a new flight without paying $600 extra, I managed to work out a later departure, with a 30 minute connection in Dallas, arriving in Arkansas at 9:45 pm. If I can make this work, anything is possible! Luckily for me, Matt was understanding and kind (as usual) and generously agreed to come back to the airport and take me for lunch at our favorite diner, Tops. A bowl of motzaball soup, a tuna melt, some sweet potato fries, and some chocolate mousse cake later, and we were back to the airport for my departure, take two. I ended up having to excuse myself ahead in the line-up for security because apparently being late for my flight once wasn’t enough, and successfully made it to my gate for departure to Charlotte, North Carolina. I’ve never seen an airport that needed an upgrade, until I’d been to Charlotte. I’m fairly certain they hadn’t changed the décor in at least 20 years, and a power outlet was about as rare as a pink elephant. In the hour I had between flights I had enough time to update my iPod, check in on Facebook, and chat for a bit, then it was on to Dallas. We landed in Dallas at 7:45 pm (CST). I got off the plane at 8:07 pm (CST). My flight was boarding at 8:05 pm, at the complete opposite terminal than I was at, which was two walks and a sky train away, and was departing at 8:30 pm (CST).  Needless to say, I ran from the Gate E27 to the sky train between Gate E32 and E34, rode the sky train until Terminal B and then ran to Gate B8. I made it, just in time. And off I went to Little Rock, Arkansas. Also known as, Bizarro World. But, that’s a whole other blog entry.

Home again, home again jiggedy jig!

As the old saying goes: "some things never change."

My flight from Edmonton to Halifax was scheduled to land at 9:40 am. The change-over in Toronto was delayed by 20 minutes so I landed at 10:00 am, almost on the dot. My brother had so graciously dedicated himself to picking me up after I told him I booked my flight. I hopped off the plane, as energetically as I could after flying all night and getting minimal amounts of quality sleep. I headed down the escalator, anxiously scanning the area for my brothers face. Nothing. I took a stroll to the baggage carousel. Nothing. Walked around the arrivals area. Nothing. Waited for my bags. Got my bags. Still didn't find my brother. Not exactly the reception I was hoping for. How anticlimactic.

Since I am currently sans cell phone, I lugged my 40 pound expedition pack, 45 pound suitcase, carry-on bag and purse to the nearest pay phone and made a collect call. The robotic voice said, "Would you be willing to accept a collect call from (insert my voice here) 'Allie'? For yes press one, for no press two, or say 'yes' or 'no'." Thankfully, the answer was yes.

I then learned that, as I suspected from the late-night Facebook post my brother left on my wall, he had been drinking the night before and he had left "not too long ago". What time did he leave? 9:30 am. Ten minutes before my scheduled arrival time. Great. All I can say is, thank God for wireless internet because without a cell phone I had nothing to occupy my time for the next hour and fifteen minutes otherwise. Also, luckily for me, my trusty friend Lisa in NYC was on chat, who I can always depend on for a solid, hilarity-filled chat sesh. Her cynicism confirmed my suspicions that my brother was indeed a jerk and her and dry humour helped to lift my spirits. Three cheers for Lisa! Finally, 11:15 am rolled around and so did my brother. "I'm sorry, I'm a jerk." Yes, yes you are. You are also a jerk who is buying me Tim Hortons. Count it!

I arrived in New Glasgow to my mom waiting on the back step, just as I predicted: postured to pounce on me like a jungle cat on its prey. Admittedly, hugs and cuddles followed - after I made my necessary "I'm safe" phone calls to a couple of concerned citizens.

My time has essentially been super hectic and fun-filled since. I hung out with my mom, laid down for a bit, got a slice of pepperoni Acropole pizza (THE BEST!), spent the night in my university town for a friends' birthday party, went adventuring with my brother and brother from another mother, took my mom to the Farmer's Market and for groceries, and went for tea with my dear friend Emma. It's great catching up with friends and knowing that no matter how long it's been since you last spoke, your friendship is strong enough that the minute you're back together it's like you've never been apart (aside from the excessive amounts of detail-sharing!). I expect a lot more of that to come with several more engagements arranged for this week.

For now, I have a very important engagement with my bed. Still jet-jagged. Still haven't taken the nap I had planned on 36 hours ago... and then again 6 hours ago.

Adventures in the back country with the bros = having a time!

The Beginning of the End...

... or is it the beginning of the beginning? Or, am I in the middle of some strange, nowhere-going continuum? I guess I’m going to have to get back to you on that one; but in the meantime, let me set the mood for you.

It’s spring of 2008. An emotionally and psychologically drained twenty-something has finally completed her goal of achieving academic stature after four long years, countless classes, innumerable study sessions, papers, exams, mental breakdowns, and a daunting 63-page paper, lovingly referred to as a “thesis”. That’s right, I dominated academia. No big deal.

Next challenge: make best attempt at being an adult.

Step 1: Move across the country with boyfriend of one year and get a place together.

Step 2: Find a big girl job that pays decently and has some sort of comprehensive benefits package.

Step 3: Accumulate some things to fill said apartment.

Step 4: Have enough money after bills, rent, student loans and groceries to lead some sort of meagre existence.

Mission: accomplished… and then some! Huzzah!

Or is it? I've never been one to be satisfied by what society views as accomplishments. In both my personal and professional life I begin to hear that little voice inside saying, "this isn't okay". I know that it's right. I know that since I can remember, I've always listened to that little voice and I've always done what it told me. It's always guided me in the right direction, toward happiness; but this time, the voice was really quiet - on its deathbed, perhaps. My passion was being suffocated by the things I had allowed into my life, things that didn't satisfy me at that deeper level, but that were just there to show the world how well I was doing "according to them". Sure, I had a long-term boyfriend, a nice apartment, dogs, a flat screen TV, I travelled, I had nice clothes, I worked my way up in my organization, and I received accolades from my peers for these said "accomplishments". But, deep down, I was totally unchallenged, unfulfilled, unimpressed, and unhappy. As M. Scott Peck once said, however, "The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers."

So now, it's time to hit rock bottom. Time to take a long hard look at my life. Time to pick myself up, brush myself off and tell myself to get a grip! There’s no way in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that I’m going to live my life in misery, accepting defeat, accepting mediocrity. Momma didn’t raise no fool.

I needed to be re-inspired. I needed to get out my spiritual defibrillator and bring my passion back to life. But how? I need to find some like-minded people to get me excited about my life again and, although I didn't know it at the time, I would find them at one of the best places in the world: the "Disney World" for music-loving adults, Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival. I can't even express in words the experience I had at Bonnaroo, all I can tell you is that I felt re-born. That little voice inside was no longer whispering to me on its deathbed, but it was the lead singer of a death metal band and it was screaming its directions to me on how I should move forward with life to find my happiness again. I was hearing it loud and clear and I was ready to make a move.

Flash-forward: it’s August 26th, 2010 at approximately 3:28pm. I have a lump in my throat the size of Pluto (don’t hate on Pluto just because it’s not a planet anymore). I am perspiring from places I didn’t think perspired. And I’m standing outside the doorway to my Director’s office with a letter of resignation in my hand. Now, I know you’re asking yourself, “Why would this successful twenty-something with a new lease on life be throwing away a profession that she’s worked her way up to, from the bottom, in just two years. She makes good money, especially for someone her age. She gets to work on interesting projects. She can actually afford her student loan payments and she still has enough money left over for all her other bills, clothes and travel. Man, this girl is crazy.”

That, my friends, is where you’re dead wrong.

A mentor once said to me, "You work to live, Allie. You don't live to work." She's absolutely right. Why should I keep doing something that doesn't make me happy when I know there is so much more out there? So you might be wondering, "What is this young gal going to do since she's giving up everything that she worked so hard to accomplish?"

Step 1: Go home to Nova Scotia to see family and friends.

Step 2: Go on a cross-Canada/US road trip to see places, family, friends, musicians and sporting events.

Step 3: Meet up with Dad in the US and travel the countryside.

Step 4: ???????

Step 5: Profit!

Just kidding about Step 5, I probably won't be making any money, but I'll be travelling for free (in return for my cooking / cleaning / set-up services), seeing the US, meeting lots of new people, and getting to know my Dad and Step-mom, Lorraine, better.

The way I see it, I can only get away with being a non-contributing member of society for so long before people start thinking I'm just lazy and lacking motivation. So, here goes nothing!