Beginning Again with Green Parakeets

Troops of tropical parrots live in the Vondelpark. Parakeets, actually. They’re green. I have heard it said that they are out of place here, but I am in doubt; Amsterdam isn’t exactly tropical, and yet they have survived and multiplied.

The few versions I have heard about how they came to live in the park all involve escape. Basically, an original Adam- and Eve-like couple broke free from either the zoo or a private home, flew to the park, and nested in the abundance of trees there. You might marvel at their ability to survive the winters in this chilly northern climate, and to proliferate into flocks that for generations now, only know Amsterdam as their home.

I live across the street from the park and so I occasionally see these birds sitting on the branches outside my windows. They tweet and twitter and sometimes wake me up. On this very wintery morning, I am watching them from my kitchen window as I draft and design my return to this blog.

What feels like a long time ago now, I wrote this blog regularly. I was off work for a year, I was traveling in my Jamboree around North America; when I wasn’t driving somewhere I was camping out in my friend’s basement and spending my afternoons leisurely trying out new recipes for whoever would come to eat with me.

Now that “real” life has returned, imposing daily routines and morning wake up times that ought to be illegal, I find myself leaning on that old excuse “Oh, gosh I’m just so busy!” for not writing my blog anymore. That, and I have been preoccupied with finding a new “theme” for the blog. Surely if I write and post regularly, it should all be about something. Right?

I have actually been writing regularly, though. I’ve enrolled in writing classes and attended workshops. Someone smarter than I suggested that I stop fretting about a theme and simply post whatever I happen to be writing, most of which are beginnings. Someone out there might read one or two of these bits; someone out there might comment; and someone out there might even give me interesting feedback.

So, stories, some much more fictional than others, from inside my head, from Amsterdam, from when and where I travel. Please resist a tendency to read everything I post as true. I invited Embellishment and Imagination to this party, too.

At the moment Amsterdam is blanketed in thick snow, as if it has temporarily swapped identities with a more typically wintery city. Trams are slow, bike paths are tricky, and roads are slushy. But despite the inconvenience, it’s beautiful. While I walked through the park to take pictures of the winter wonderland, there were the kids building snowmen, the adults throwing snowballs at each other, and those green parakeets fluttering and singing about it all from above.

Tough little guys, really. If I were one of them, I’d like to think that I’d orchestrate a new escape for the generation. Organize the birds into a goose formation, imitating the flight south for the winter. But maybe parakeets are actually meant to live in the cold. Who knows? Adaptation is a marvelous thing.

The history in my own backyard

I tend to travel far and wide in order to see something interesting. I have been known to clap my hands as an expression of my appreciation for some of the things this world has to offer. I clapped when I first saw the Taj Mahal, and the Pyramids in Egypt. I let out an exclamation of surprised joy to accompany the clap when I first saw the Daibutsu (Big Buddha) in Kamakura, Japan. I even do it from time to time in more familiar territory, like upon re-encountering our Rockies in all their glory as I drive from Calgary to Banff.

All of these things are magnificent, and deserve applause. But recently I found myself clapping in appreciation of two other, perhaps lesser known but no less interesting for me, local destinations.

The first was for an impressive collection of old bones and the story they told about our way distant past. Those of you from this part of the world will recognize right away that I'm talking about the Royal Tyrell Museum in Drumheller. http://www.tyrrellmuseum.com

My mom was born in Drumheller, not her particular claim to fame but, being only an hour east of Calgary, we decided to take a family road trip to the badlands and visit the museum on her birthday. It had been easily 15 years since I'd last been there, and I was impressed to see how many new finds the museum has been involved in, and how they've developed their displays to reflect them.

The museum deals in dinosaur bones. Besides being a great place to fuel the imaginations of kids and storytellers, it helped me, an Albertan, gain a better understanding and appreciation for the old stories from this otherwise very “new” world.

At one point this year I was asked what it was like growing up in a “prairie city”, and I had to twist my head around the idea that Calgary was classified this way. I'd spent most of my time looking westwards towards the mountains, focused on the hills in between them and the edge of the city, and considering it a “foothills city”. But, looking east is where the prairies start – or end, depending on which way you look at it – so I had to concede that this was true, but that I didn't really know what it was like as a “prairie city”. It just didn't feel like one to me.

But driving east out of Calgary, undeniably were we on the prairies. Undulating wheat fields and slowly cranking oil rigs for as far as the eye can see. Until we got to the edge of the badlands where the landscape changes dramatically. It dips down from the flat prairie into a world of clay and desert, small shrubs and sage bushes, hills and hoodoos. It was, in ancient times, a tropical inland sea, and here is where the dinos roamed. Their bones have been well preserved in the special clay and mud concoction, and I wish I had been there with a geologist to help me interpret the layers of exposed ground going back those thousands of years.

A week or so after our visit, like a cherry on top, this news article hit the press, detailing what is being called the “largest dinosaur graveyard ever documented”: http://www.cbc.ca/canada/calgary/story/2010/06/17/dinosaur-graveyard.html

Dinosaurs are alive today in the forms of reptiles and birds. We don't get a lot of the former up here in western Canada – not like the alligators down south. A few little rattlesnakes dot the badlands and prairies, but most ground animals around here tend to be of the fuzzier nature. We do get a lot of birds though. Which brings me to my second little local outing: the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary along the Bow River in Calgary.

Not enormous like the Rockies nor world-renowned in its field like the Tyrell Museum of Dinosaurs, this sanctuary is simply a little walk through a park in the middle of the city. It offers, though, a glimpse into the history of the city, as the community of Inglewood was one of the original parts of the city distinguished by Colonel Walker, one of the city's founders.

Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm starting to take more of an interest in being able to identify things like birds and trees; I'm good with robins and magpies, birch and pine trees. I looked through the binoculars at two Cedar Waxwings, cute little yellowish birds with a funky black spiky stripe on its head. And that soft fluffy white stuff floating through the air, clogging up our eyes and noses and lining the walkways strangely like snow, comes from the Poplar tree.

A few science lessons scattered in here.

These little stories - dinosaur bones, layers of mud, old communities telling how Calgary grew up - put the thought into my head that no matter whether I travel far or very close to home, its all about learning about what came before. Its like I take myself on both big and little field trips in the history (and science) lessons that the world has to offer.

Thanks to Sabine for the photos from Inglewood. I'll take credit for the Drumheller shots.

Drumheller & Inglewood

How It All Ended

My dad has been teasing me to get back to my blog: “You know, there are 500 people out there anxiously wondering where you are.” I toyed with the idea of leaving the journey open-ended, to let you fill in the blanks as to whether or not I actually made it back to Canada, and how the journey in the Jamboree concluded. However, it only seems fair that, since it did end, and since you have been reading all along up until now (and even though I'd love knowing I was writing to an audience of 500, I'm aware that that's a bit of an exaggeration) and if for no other reason than it feels good to wrap things up, I'll finally let those of you who are still out there in on how.

I left Seattle and crossed the border back into British Columbia. I continued to visit friends and family in the west coast area. In White Rock, spitting distance from the US; on the ferry back to Victoria to spend another week on the island, back to that city where the Jamboree and I started out last June. Full circle. Ta-da!

As satisfying as this was, I was ready to get back to Calgary where I planned to idle out the remainder of my year off, living on the goodwill of my parents and Tara, in whose house I'm residing in exchange for cleaning and cooking and cat-caring, and to spend time with the people I like around there.

So, I turned the Jamboree's nose westwards once more to return to Vancouver for another few days with Carolynn. While spring was in full bloom on the west coast, I was forced to stay a few extra days longer in Vancouver than planned because of snow falling in the mountains, making the roads somewhat treacherous. It was early April, still plenty of time for winter to linger, and when I finally was able to leave the Pacific behind and make my way across the mountains, a two-day journey, over two mountain passes, I revelled in the newly fallen white stuff.

Yes, revelled. I celebrated. I cheered when I saw the accumulation of fresh snow blanketed thickly along the highway, and that I wasn't driving in it while it was coming down. I, after all, hadn't spent the entirety of the winter in it. I spent my last night in an empty campground in Revelstoke, BC, and that evening as I sat at the kitchen table in the Jamboree eating dinner, I watched more snow as it started to fall, at first slowly, then voluminously, in big, soft, fat flakes outside. It stuck, and the next morning I had my own private winter wonderland to carouse in, high up in the mountains, the sun shining through frosty branches and sparkling off the ground.

But I do understand how most Canadians would have disagreed with me in the use of words such as “revelled” and “celebrated” and “caroused”. By April, we northern folk are generally sick of winter, tired of cold, longing for the simplicity of slipping into sandals and a light jacket before leaving the house, but still forced into the time-consuming routine of lacing up boots, gearing up in heavy jackets and mitts and hats, letting the car run for a minute to warm up before driving anywhere.

I get that, but that next, last, day was the drive all the way into Calgary, with the sun reflecting off the snow in the part of the mountains I know so well, and I thought it was a lovely ending.

West Coast April 2010

The Wheedle Returns

As a kid, one of my favourite stories was “The Wheedle on the Needle”. If you don't know it, you ought to get yourself out to the nearest kiddie bookstore or library. Basically, the Wheedle is a furry orange guy with a red nose that glows from his perch at the top of the Seattle space needle, and he hates noises that keep him awake. His nose blinks and glows, much like Rudolf's, while the workers below whistle and work. Of course, as there is with any decent story, there's a wee conflict to solve.

My dad lived in Vancouver for a while (for work) when I was around ten years old, and the rest of us stayed in Calgary. My first ever flight alone was when I went to visit him for spring break. Mom dropped me off at the Calgary airport, he picked me up in Vancouver, and I travelled sans adult chaperone, a “UM = Unaccompanied Minor” identification tag pinned to my t-shirt, surrounded by a swarm of well-meaning, helpful grownups, escorting me safely from the arms of one parent to the other. I stayed for a week, which I thought was brilliant both at the time and now in reflection, and at some stage during that week we drove down to Seattle, a mere 3 hours away. I remember sitting across from the Needle with dad, sitting on a park bench to calm his stomach after a particularly jerky rollercoaster ride, licking an ice cream and searching for the Wheedle. To this day I swear I saw his nose blinking away up there in the clouds.

This trip to Seattle also found me searching for the Wheedle's nose atop the Needle with every glance I got. And again, I swear I saw it every time, blinking away up there between the rain and clouds. In my wanderings through the city, though, I realized that it wasn't ONLY on top of the Needle that I saw the Wheedle. I had seen him elsewhere. Recently. More than once! It was as if after over 30 years of hanging out on top of the Seattle Needle, he wanted to stretch his legs a bit. Get some of the kinks out. Check out what the rest of the Pacific Northwest region had to offer.

As I walked around Seattle's famous Pike Place market, I am sure that I saw that red and orange combination flash behind the counter of the original Starbucks location; throwing fish to a monger at the seafood market; and jumping onto the monorail just moments before the door closed on me, preventing me from getting on myself.

He was all over Seattle.

My friend, Greta, who lives in Seattle with her “village” of housemates, tried her best to help me figure out when I'd last seen the Wheedle since that ten-year-old visit to Seattle. I racked my brains. I retraced my movements from Northern California to Seattle to try to recall any new, lingering images of him.

I had arrived in Seattle in the Jamboree direct from St. Helens, on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, where I had been visiting another friend's parents for a couple of days. They had taken me on tour all over Portland, from their house in St. Helens where a certain contemporary, cool teenage Vampire series was reputedly filmed, to the hip spots of the hip city like Rose's for cake and Trader Joe's for cool food products, and to Powell's bookstore for, of course...

...that's it! The furry, orange Seattlite was in Portland at the exact same time that I was in Portland!

I remember now. He ran between the bookshelves, up stairs and around corners, only to disappear after just a glance in Portland's famous Powell's bookstore! I noticed him among the other shoppers by his telltale blinking red nose and the orange fuzz flashing and disappearing between the books out of the corner of my eye. Moving so fast that I didn't even register it when I was there. I kept thinking it was a bug or a hair in my eye, but in retrospect I realize that it could only have been him. The Wheedle. And he was in Portland!

Then I realized something else. In both Powell's in Portland and Pike Place in Seattle, he was fast. Agile. He turned on a dime. I wondered: How did a fuzzy, seemingly slow-moving orange monster who had spent the better part of 30 years lounging around on top of the space Needle end up in Portland and become so swift?

Ah-ha!

I remembered the one last hint of a Wheedle encounter of the week was at The Nike Employee Store in Portland, where I considered myself lucky to visit and shop. His orange fuzz stuck out from behind the changing room doors as I squeezed myself into bargain priced, high quality exercise gear. Too focused on the deals I was getting at the time, only now do I remember what he was trying on.

In every place I'd seen him this week, the Wheedle had been sporting a brand new pair of Nike running shoes. Grey. Full of support. Cool. Orange trim, even, to match his fur.

Oh the injustice of it all! I had bought a brand new pair of Nike running shoes when I was in Calgary a few months ago. I had had no premonition that I would soon visit the Nike Employee store in Portland, which would offer me a 50 % savings. This store is a legend among Nike fans and ISA community members. It was bad enough when I saw the shoes that I had previously purchased, mine with yellow trim, for half the cost in Portland. But then my beloved Wheedle had to run through Powell's and Pike Place and the Nike Employee Store flaunting his new pair, exactly like mine but the monster version. You might imagine my mixed feelings of dismay and pride.

At least I can say that the Wheedle and I have the same taste: in cities, bookstores, markets, and shoes.

Portland

Seattle

Sleeping with the Giants

The sequoia, or redwood trees, are apparently the biggest trees on earth. In fact, they are the largest living organisim on land anywhere. The only place they live is in Northern California along the coast. According to wikipedia (and State Park brochures agree), the redwood tree “is an evergreen, long-lived, living for up to 2,200 years, and this species includes the tallest trees on Earth, reaching up to 115.5 m (379.1 ft) in height and 8m (26ft) diameter at breast height. It is native to coastal California.”

I've seen the BBC Planet Earth programme on these trees and kept them in mind as I pointed the Jamboree's nose north through California. I wondered along the drive when I would spot the first one, and if it really would be as obviously enormous as I've heard.

I found them. They weren't hard to find. And I'm happy to report that they really are obviously enormous.

I drove into the Humbolt Redwoods State Park very slowly, mouth hanging open in awe at the size of the trees along the side of the road. I found the state park campsite, and parked the Jamboree under one of the giant trees. I got out my camera and walked through the forest. I sat way down there on the ground under the trees as the sun set, sipping a glass of newly acquired Napa Valley wine. Later, I slept with the giants. I woke in the morning, the sun hinting at its existence out there beyond the top tips of the trees, way, way up there. I got Betty out and we cycled 25 early morning miles along the Avenue of the Giants.

I was impressed. Awed. Humbled. Happy. And rejuvenated. Sleeping in this park might have been the most spectacular spot I've parked the Jamboree. It absolutely beats WalMart parking lots and RV parks crammed with bus-homes. I love the quiet of the forest, the moist, cool mornings with sun peering through the tree tops, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and, often, a fire crackling in the distance somewhere. The smell of fresh dew, green and wet on wood and leaves and dirt. These redwoods took the forest to a new level for me, literally and experientially, and inspired a nod of respect and appreciation for their age and beauty and grace. Anything I try to write might sound cliché and so I apologize for that, but if you have ever slept with these stunning giants, witnesses to the ages, silently and proudly watching over their little corner of the world, you'll understand why I say: Wow.

Northern California Redwood Forest

The Romantic California Coastal Drive

We love to drive. There's a whole romantic ethos to hitting the open road. There's a dedication to one's vehicle, trusty carrier from point A to B. And sometimes its interrupted by drama, fist waving, and venting frustrations out on the idiot ahead of you.

“Driving” can mean so many different things. There's the long, drawn out cruise through the unending desert. There's the stop and start truncated frustration of big city traffic. There's the slow Sunday drive, admiring the gorgeous scenery pass by your window. There's the gas guzzling mountain drive, up and up and around and further up, until the final, satisfactory sail downhill, what goes up must go down, I always say. There's the “I gotta find it!” GPS guided drive. The drive on icy roads, making you suck in your breath and ease off both gas and brakes. There's the lonely drive, turning up the tunes or the radio documentary. There's the drive that makes you forget you are driving, surrounded by chatter and engaged in conversation.

And then there's the California coastal drive.

I started in Long Beach with the big city traffic kind. Slow and typically frustrating. Carolynn in the passenger seat beside me gave conversation and functioned as a pretty good DJ. On the outskirts of the city the traffic took a while to thin out. When it finally did, the highway met the ocean and promised to meander a breathtaking path along the coast, a stunning route we'd been hoping for. The road carved precariously at some points along the cliffs that dove nearly straight down into the ocean. We climbed, curved, and oohed and aaahhed at the unbelievable scenery we were driving along. The hills reminded us of Switzerland and Italy and Ireland. Soft green carpeted hills, well manicured, misty and lush with the warm, moist coastal air. Every 20 miles or so, cars parked along the side of the road and surfers gathered in the ocean waves. Some parts along the drive were so remote, our cell phones lost service for the first time in the US.

This drive was definitely of the romantic kind, Carolynn and I agreed, and laughed that while we enjoyed it together, it might otherwise have been the perfect setting to experience with a lover. The camping under redwoods in state parks along the way was basic and added to the romantic feeling of the journey. We stopped in charming Santa Barbara, where we sipped California bubbly and glimpsed lounging seals, seemingly lovers themselves, on a sunset sail boat cruise. Coffee and breakfast in Carmel, California's answer to the east coast's Martha's Vineyard, where the swanky moneyed Californians go for a weekend or a month away from the hustle and bustle of bigger city life. Walking around the gorgeous San Francisco. Tasting wine in Napa Valley (I recommend my newest discovery, the Freemark Abbey winery).

My rose-coloured windshield was disturbed today by an incident of the fist-waving kind. I realize the Jamboree is big and bulky and slow and since I am rarely in a hurry, I do my best to be considerate. On highways with two or more lanes, I stay over in the right hand side so everyone else can easily pass. On single lane roads, I pull over into roadside pullouts whenever I can when I notice a few cars trailing behind me. I wouldn't want to be stuck behind me either, if I were in one of those fast little cars. This morning, as I wove my way slowly in the early morning across a quiet Napa Valley road, I was faced with a driver of the idiot kind. An irritating, impatient know-it-all. He made a big deal of passing me when there was a long enough stretch of road to do so, obviously impressed with his own daring and skill behind the wheel. Right after this amazing display of driving ability, a roadside pullout appeared, into which I was about to pull, as per my general habit. Since he is ahead of me now, though, and presumably much smarter and experienced a driver than I, he found it necessary to slow down, stick his hand out the window and point at the pull out for me. Good grief, how thankful I was that he was there to teach me what to do! I mean, really, I'm surprised he managed to squeeze both himself and his ego into that tiny little car. I flipped him the bird through the Jamboree's window and pulled over for the cars who were still travelling behind me. Interestingly, none of them thanked me, and along the entire coastal drive, I only got one wave despite pulling over for hundreds of cars. Waves and toots and light flashes to indicate thanks apparently only happen on Canadian roads.

LA-Napa

A trip into Mexico

My friend, Carolynn, didn't have to ask me twice to join her at her family's house in Mexico at some point during this year of rediscovery of North America. Really, a year and a trip like this wouldn't be complete without a foray into the third country in the Americas that still belongs to the North, just before it becomes Central. We agreed on mid-March, and that I would not attempt to drive the Jamboree down but instead hop in an overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, about 9 hours directly south. I wrote as I went, and what follows is your Mexico blog installment. It goes nowhere except on a bus and back, very briefly and succinctly, and says very little, but it may be fun, light reading material for you anyway.

Here's what I was thinking as I travelled on the overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, Mexico:

I really should learn to speak Spanish. I seem to travel in Spanish-speaking countries with relative frequency, and after a few hours of exposure I find that I can make out basic statements and questions, and the few words of Spanish that I do know I find in the recesses of my brain and can suddenly use again. Like finding a poem that you read a while back and then remember the nuance or the image that struck you in that earlier encounter.

I am on a bus into Mexico from the states. We just crossed the border, and the border experience rates among one of the more interesting ones I've experienced; and not unpleasant. In fact, the three immigration guards who came out to stamp my visa, and mine alone, as everyone else on the bus was Mexican, were down right jolly. Chatty. All smiles. As the bus ride wore on, I remembered more of my Spanish words and used one or two of them as my travelling companions became braver and spoke to me at rest stops, the only Gringa on board. The drive has rolled at a snail's pace, taking hours at the border, stopping prettty much everywhere to pick more people up and rearrange luggage below.

At the border there was a group customs talk. It went like this. A few men with official looking jackets offloaded all the luggage from below. At one point someone got on board and said something, and then everyone started to file off, collect their bags and then go into a room to listen to instructions from what I assume was a customs officer. I grabbed my bag and, completely linguistically oblivious, used the time to send a couple of text messages.

There's something to be said for oblivion, though. For being the clueless foreigner in the group. Smile, follow the others, and they end up helping. This most recent Mexican adventure reminds me of a bus trip I took in Egypt a few years ago from Cairo to the Red Sea coast. Also overnight, and I was also the only foreigner on board. The bus stopped periodically for checks by the authorities to ensure all passengers had the appropriate papers. I think they radioed ahead to each stop that a foreign girl was on this particular bus, because as the stops became more and more frequent, it became obvious that the officals headed straight to my seat in the back. By this point, sign language and smiles had awarded me with protecting friends among my fellow travellers, who offered me bread and oranges and finally called out in exasperation what I can only assume was something like “she's FINE, her passport and visa are valid, can we carry on please??”. Thankfully, they didn't hold the guards' curiosity against me personally.


While in Alamos, Mexico:

I DID learn a bit of spanish!

But first: when I arrived at the Casa de Chocolate, early in the morning, squinting from the bus ride and the bright sun, I was greeted by Elia, the staff at the casa who rescued me with coffee and put me in my room. I thought I was staying in a hotel when I first wandered the grounds of the Casa, until Carolynn arrived to inform me that, yes, it does sometimes function as a hotel of sorts, but that it is her family's through her father's work. We rattled around in this “casa”, aka “palacita” or, better, “Hacienda” for an entire week, not doing very much. It felt wonderful (except for the one day my stomache revolted. All a part of the Mexican experience, I suppose.)

Alamos is known as the town of “portales”, and the casa is one its best loved because it has the most portales of any other casa in its entranceway. It is called the Casa de Chocolate, however, because among its previous owners were the Mars family, as in Mars Bars. Mars bars, were, of course, not available in Mexico, so as a final twist the locals know it as the Hershey Casa.

Carolynn arranged morning Spanish lessons. She was quite a bit further advanced than I, but patiently allowed me to figure out how to conjugate Estar and how to ask for kitchen utensils. I think I learned the equivalent of about 4 months of basic Spanish in 3 morning sessions, and I'm left now with a pile of pages of Spanish words and phrases in my backpack and a few more swimming around in my head. Revision will definitely be required. I doubt its enough yet to engage in conversation on the bus ride back.

And on the return bus back to the States:

Sitting at the US-Mexican border again, a week later, this time in the sunny mid-March morning, and this time in a very long and slow moving line into the states. If the crossing into Mexico was a procedure, it kept up a certain pace at least. With everything that has been happening around this border, understandably the American entry point is a bit longer of a wait while those responsible take their very careful inspections. I've been in my seat on the bus reading for about an hour and a half already, the bus inching its painfully slow way towards the crossing up ahead, so I thought I'd take my computer out and write a play-by-play of the wait we are making to get into the US (this is the reason for the sudden switch to the present tense).

Thank goodness for a good book and a clean toilet at the back of the bus. I sit and read and watch through the window the Mexican salesmen and women walking among the cars and trucks and buses waiting for their turn to get into America, plying everything from cheap, last-minute Mexican souvenirs such as sombreros and glittery jewellery, to snacks and drinks, to newspapers.

The girl behind me throws up in a bag her mother holds for her as we sit here. Strange, I think. Most people do that while the bus is moving. Sleeping on the bus through the night was intermittent, frequently disrupted by stops in towns along the way, the bus driver deciding to turn up the volume on what is apparently one of his favourite songs, and a security check of all bags and possessions about an hour or so away from the border to ensure there were no sneaky packages on board. I can see the US border guards walking around with their drug-sniffing dogs up ahead for yet another, last precaution.

One of the sales people just walked on the bus to relieve hunger pains during what's turning into a wait of several hours, carrying a tray of peanuts and brittle candy. A truck and camper with Alberta license plates are waiting in the lane next to me. As much fun as I'm having, I'm looking forward to getting into the Jamboree (which implies, naturally, that I'm looking forward to first getting into the United States. Answering questions that I last entered the US in Austin, left my Canadian-registered RV in Tucson which I now plan to drive back to Canada, that I'm a Canadian citizen, resident of the Netherlands, a teacher on a sort of sabbatical, always raises the eyebrows of the immigration officer doing the asking. Its a fun rigamarole, I recommend it to anyone who's only ever tried a simple story.)

I think I'm about half an hour away now. 9 cars in front of our bus. Our bus driver has his papers ready, and I can see the dogs up ahead, waiting patiently in the sun.

Why take such a long bus journey, anyway? Well, despite the obvious 800 dollar savings between the bus and flight options between the same two points, think of all the adventure and stories and sleep I'd have missed if it weren't for the bus trip?

Alamos, Mexico

Driving across the Desert

The Drive

I-10 West. Austin, Texas to Tucson, Arizona. 17 hours of watching the desert go by. Never more glad for my iPod, and that I have developed such a good relationship with the Jamboree that I didn't feel ridiculous at all talking into the steering wheel. In one afternoon, along one small section of the enormous Texas, I listened to an entire 200+ page audiobook. And still the desert stretched on in front of me, all around me on each side, way way behind me. The afternoon sun in my eyes and burning my arms through the windshield. The occasional mountain. Sometimes a few clumped together, as if for companionship along the lonely stretch of dust.

At first it was beautiful. But after so many hours with only gradual changes to the landscape, I suddenly understood why those aliens chose this part of the world to crash into back in the '50s. I didn't make it to Roswell, but I'm sure it looked a lot like what I saw from the highway. A lot of wide open space.

Like oases, El Paso TX and Las Cruces NM, only 45 minutes from one another, offered the welcome reminder of civilzation beyond rusty towns and squeaky villages. I continued through the first city, determined to sleep in a different state that night. And once I reached a campsite in New Mexico and found a spot to park for the night, I couldn't even finish either my dinner or my beer before my eyes were drooping and my body was pulling me mindlessly to bed. Safe to say, I slept like a baby (which isn't unusual in the Jamboree anyway).

Seriously, folks. Do not attempt this drive alone, all in one day, or without stopping to see and do something other than drive in order to maintain your sanity. It comes with a bright, bold, neon warning sign of boring you to tears otherwise.

Encounters with desert wildlife

Just when I was getting lulled into the 8th hour or so, I noticed up on a ridge next to the road a small herd of what looked like deer but with darker brown fur and fat, curly horns on their heads. A cross between an antelope, a deer and a mountain goat. Admiring them, and describing them in excited detail to the Jamboree's dashboard, I realized they were standing there as if waiting. Hmm what could they be waiting for...? I looked quickly to the other side of the road just in time to see the last two of the herd decide it was a good time to join the party. They leaped out onto the road in front of me and, at the sound of the Jamboree wailing along at interstate highway speeds, kicked into a full out run. Right across the jamboree's path. I jammed the brakes, but the Jamboree doesn't exactly stop on a dime. Like slow motion, I watched them gallop across the road, getting closer and closer while feeling the pressure of my feet on the brakes. In reality we slowed down quite quickly, all the while me yelling urgent encouragment for those animals to get their dum asses off the road and away from the front of the Jamboree. Faster, faster! Go go go! Stop Jamboree, stop! Whew. The last animal's bum and hind legs leaped off the road to the safety of the desert about a metre and a half from the Jamboree's nose.

I do not want to hit any animals. Big or small, but especially big as they could make a mess, not only of themselves but of the Jamboree and I as well. That near miss did, however, liven things up a bit. My heart raced for the next few miles and I was certainly on the alert, watching into the corners of the desert, for the rest of the drive that day. Terrified while braking, when I realized I'd missed them, the relief made me laugh.

Another day, as I was leaving Las Cruces, NM, I noticed one of those tacky/wacky oddities that pass for attractions to bored drivers in need of something new or interesting to see. Remember in National Lampoon's Vacation, Chevy Chase was determined to find the world's largest ball of twine? On the hill, proudly overlooking the city, stands a giant roadrunner made of recyled trash. I wasn't quick enough to get a photo of it, sorry. But the sight of it, beyond making me cringe a little bit, reminded me of all those joyous hours spent as a child watching Wily Coyote try, using any means possible, to capture the Roadrunner. I had always figured that a roadrunner was a fictional animal, like a wookie or snuffalupagus. I mean, really, who had ever actually seen a roadrunner in real life?

The next step my brain took was to remember the setting for those Coyote/Roadrunner cartoon scenes. It was desert. Red rock and dust. Small bushes and cactuses. Cliffs and a few mountains. Turns out, it resembles the desert I'd been driving through here in Texas and New Mexico!

The next game I played with the Jamboree was to be on the lookout for a roadrunner. That first day, no luck. Nothing. But the second day, as I was sipping my coffee on a quiet stretch of road, I suddenly noticed a much smaller animal leap out onto the pavement in front of me. It sort of ran and hopped and even almost flew, quite quickly, to the other side of the road. It was fast, so fast that I didn't need to touch the brakes this time. It leaned its head far forward into the run; there was a sharp little beak at the end of its head, the first point to cross the finish line if it had one, and two long scrawny legs twittering underneath it. Feathers and wings, definitely bird-like, but running. Across the road. A real, genuine roadrunner! A-ha! That made my morning that day.

“Meep Meep!”

The third animal I encountered was when I was slowly winding my way down a road in the Chiricahua National Monument and, coming around a bend, I was stopped by a policeman standing on the road ahead, holding a gun. His car was parked behind a minivan, both heading in the opposite direction from where I was going, lights flashing.

He wasn't a policeman, actually, but a park ranger, and hiding underneath the minivan was a fox. I watched, fascinated, wondering why the fox was hanging out under what must have been a moving car, and why the ranger was standing on the road beside the van, his gun out and somewhat poised. After a few minutes, the fox spooked out from under the car and ran up the side of the cliff next to the road. It didn't go very far, though; it didn't run away like I would expect any other wild animal that encounters humans and cars and guns would do. It almost seemed ready to leap back out onto the road again. The ranger, continuing to motion to me and the driver of the minivan to stay put, walked up towards the cliff wall and shot his gun. Actually shot it at the fox. He missed, and I saw the fox scurry up over the top of the cliff.

I couldn't believe it. Nor could I figure it out. Aren't rangers supposed to protect wildlife? Seemed to me shooting it just because it got stuck in a roadside misunderstanding was a bit drastic. He motioned for me to carry on driving, so I edged my way slowly forward to where the ranger was beginning to climb the cliff wall in pursuit. He turned to look at me as I inched by so I asked out my window what that was all about.

“Rabid fox”, he said. Ok, then. Keep driving.

And finally, the fun I found to break up the drive and keep me sane

In Texas... Upon landing at Austin airport, I picked up the Jamboree and headed straight back to where I was 5 weeks earlier. Fredericksburg, Texas, my cycling heaven. I woke up feeling healthy and strong, the weather was sunny and calm, and Betty was aching to get out for a spin. We did a 50 mile route, which took 55 miles including getting to the campsite and back again, which, according to my calculations, is about 89 kms.

My legs felt good. The countryside was hilly and Texan-pretty. Lots of ranches, cows, goats and Texas gates as obstacles and scenery. Several really fun parts, undulating hills that Betty and I sailed over. Speed was good and I just wanted to keep on going. All up until about mile 39. That's where my wall hit, slowing me down, making my legs work for it, suddenly head into a slight wind, a-ha, that must be it. I stopped, ate a snack, rested for a few minutes by the side of the road. For the next 5 miles or so, I had to force my body to listen to my head and get going. It listened grudgingly, not overly responsively, but by the time I got to mile 44 or so, the snack had kicked in and I regained enough power to sail the rest of the way home. I finished as I started, albeit bit more tired, but that good tired that you feel after a tough, great ride. Lekker.

No pictures of the ride this time, if you want the visuals click on the album I posted in January.

In New Mexico... I had heard about the Organ mountains, and could see them from my campsite in the morning. Slightly east of the city, so backtracking somewhat, I was debating between mountain biking or hiking. In consultation with the rangers at the Dripping Springs park and the ladies behind the campsite office counter, I was convinced to do the hike.

As it turned out, the hike was short, easy and ok. The springs really were just dripping, and apparently I was lucky to have seen that as I happened to be there during the short period when the snow that dusts the tops of the mountains started to melt. Not overly challenging but enough to get out and stretch my legs a bit before climbing back in behind the Jamboree's wheel. One of the things that makes travelling interesting is the people I meet along the way... if you happen to check out the album below, you'll have to take notice of the couple I met along his hike and chatted with for a while. Classic California hippie. He even offered me a joint.

In Arizona... Now THAT was a hike! And spectacular scenery, very welcome at the almost end of this long stretch of the journey. I'll let the pictures do a lot of the talking for me for this one, I've blathered on long enough in this blog. But briefly I'll say I climbed the mountain and looped around the Chiricahua natural geological wondersite, hiked for about 4 hours, got the heart rate pumping, the muscles working, the sweat seeping. The rocks were formed by a volcanic eruption a very long time ago, and hiking through them confirms for me that Arizona really is a place of cool rock formations.

New Mexico-Arizona

A little theoretical tangent

Since January I have been “home” in Canada. While there, I have been part of a few significant happenings, and I wondered how I would connect them here in this blog. My original thinking was to start with something like “I chose the right year to be here in North America”, which got me pondering the choice of the word “right” and all the connotations of this statement. So, through the writing of this post, I've reworded that idea and have spewed a little bit of theory according to me to support that rewording, for your reading pleasure. The result is the following.

Fate and destiny are popular themes in literature. I talk about them sometimes in the classes I teach. Macbeth believing in the fate prophesied to him by the witches and then doing everything in his power to make sure it all comes true; unfortunate Oedipus who finally plucked his own eyes out for his attempts to avoid his fate and, thus, fulfilling it. And we all know what happened to those poor “star-crossed lovers”. While these are rather tragic examples, the message that one shouldn't attempt to control one's own fate is clear, and worth discussing within the context of art. Even more popular modern stories love to play with the idea of fate: Harry Potter's famous scar and his fate to be the young hero of the magic world and defeat his enemy, Voldemort, is just one relatively recent example. But what about believing in destiny for real?

I can see why it is such a tempting idea, one that in a way alieviates one from a certain level of responsibility. It was meant to be. There was a reason that it happened this way. It was fate. There was a sign. And, even worse, its all a part of the grand plan. But it seems to me that real life works a little differently than the imagined world of literature and entertainment.

My favourite word to throw into this mix is “coincidence”. Or, if you like, “chance”, or “toeval”. The idea that one event can lead to another and then cause another one. A chain reaction. Like atoms bumping off of one another, sending each other into another direction to bump off of whatever is there.

I won't use the word “random”, though, don't worry. I'm not that callous. But the idea that things happen for a reason, and that reason is because they were meant to happen, they were pre-determined by some unknown force, is a concept I'll save for theoretical discussion in the classroom.

I figured that as a result of my decision to be here this year instead of working in Amsterdam, I would “bump into” some interesting people and events. I won't say my coming home this year was “meant to be”, but its definitely been full of interesting and handy coincidental events; so as chance would have it, I can say that its definitely been a “good” year to do it. I've got a few examples why.

I've met some people along the way that I'd like to keep in touch with. One or two who I do keep in touch with and one that I'm getting to know quite well. All thanks to a coincidental “being in the right place at the right time.”

Being home in Calgary has allowed me to support my parents through various situations as they continue to transition between working life and retired life. I was there the past week to help my friend get through the death of her mother. I was there, in the same week, to travel to Victoria and witness my brother's marriage.

Add the element of destiny, and the fact that I was around for all of this could make these stories classic. Art. But as real life, its been luck, coincidence, good timing. That, and intelligent decision making and action by getting plane tickets and making arrangements to physically be where I needed/wanted to be. I am absolutely glad the way this year has been working out. Whether any of it was “meant to be”, though, I doubt.

The same friend's father died a few years ago and there was no way for me to get there to help her. My mother was hit by a car while I was living in Norway and it took a week until I was able to be with her. My father had heart surgery, and since that operation took place during summer holiday, I was able to be there; I did have to leave sooner than we would have liked, though, to return to my life. Was it “meant to be” that I was away for these things? Or a coincidental result of my circumstances living so far away?

Stories that contain fate and destiny have a beginning and an end. Real life rolls along in its time and space. In the end, the snow was good in the mountains this winter, and I was able to watch Canada win gold at home and feel the pride honking and shouting its exuberant way down the streets last Sunday afternoon. Chance, or fate? :)

Park and Play

I've slowed down the journey over the past month; the result is, conversely, that I've found speed, speed of the exhilarating kind.

Towards the end of January, the Jamboree and I made our way into Texas, two days of full-on driving from New Orleans. Destination: Fredericksburg, the third corner of a triangle between San Antonio and Austin. In this small town in the Texas Hill country, I parked for a week and hauled Betty down from her rest in the bed above the driver's cab in the Jamboree. It was time for some speed on two wheels rather than six.

The hill country has over 20 cycling routes well laid out online www.cycletexas.com. The routes roam up and down and around gently rolling hills, past cattle ranches boasting Texas longhorns and Texas gates. And wineries! This region produces the second largest output of wine (and good wine, to my delight!) next to Napa in the US.

More than cycle-friendly, this is the first really cycling-enthusiastic place I've discovered in North America. It's a mecca, drawing hundreds of cyclists every year for individual pleasure and training, or for various events held by the local bike shop. The residents who pass by in their cars and, more commonly since we're in Texas, trucks, not only watch out for cyclists on the road, but actually smile and wave!

Why is there so much cycling in the region? Um, might have a wee bit to do with the fact that Lance has a ranch just down the road. When I stopped into the bike shop to pick up a few bobs and bits before trying out my first route, the guy at the shop mentioned that Lance sometimes shows up for the Tuesday or Thursday night group cycles, carries everyone for a while, and then drops off when he's done. As much as I'd love to be on one of those group rides, he'd leave me so far in the dust that I'd probably just end up out there alone and lost.

Not that I didn't discover some decent speed for my own cycling record! I sped along under normal conditions, which are not too scorchingly hot in January. A couple of days were incredibly windy, though, rendering me and Betty nearly motionless and pumping hard against the wind, but with it in our backs we sailed along at nearly 40 miles an hour! (MILES, people, not KMs!! That's fast!!)

After a week of speed on Betty's two wheels, I parked the Jamboree again, this time at the Austin airport, and flew back to my northern home. February in Calgary and Banff is prime skiing time, so I arranged to stay for a month and get some good use out of my Lake Louise ski pass www.skilouise.com.

This time, the speed was induced by steep downhills, snow, and freshly waxed skis. The beauty of the Canadian Rockies from the top of the mountain is about the only thing that could slow me down when I'm out on the hills, and I've now already spent several days barrelling my way across and down our alpine terrain.

To stop driving for a while. To park. To live in one spot for more than one or two nights. Fredericksburg, one week, Calgary-Banff, one month. To get out on my gear and play, challenge myself to go, hard, fast, feel that wind, love that speed, build that strength. Makes me wish winter would never end.

Soon, I will return to both places. And I will return to the blog about both places in more detail. Until then, here are some preliminary pictures of both for you:

Texas, Jan 2010

Skiing at Louise, Feb 2010

Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In… New Orleans!

I seem to have been having a lot of conversations recently about the apparently random variety of suffixes used in English to call people and their languages. For example, everyone knows that a person from New York is a “New Yorker”, and that, in English, both the people from Japan and their language are known as “Japanese”.

We have several endings to choose from. Here are some, a quickly-brainstormed-as-I-write list:
-er, - ian, -ese, -ean, -an, -s, -ic

The one you use is obviously based on grammatical explanations, such as whether the last letter of the word that you are adding the suffix to is a vowel or a consonant, and how many syllables are in the word. When you start wondering what people from there are called, though, it also seems to have a lot less to do with grammatical logic and a lot more to do with cultural evolution of the language. And of course any attempt at explanation does not account for the ever-expected exceptions, which ruin any attempts at applying patterns or rules; I'll use “Dutch” as an example, with no ending whatsoever, in fact an entirely different word from both “Holland” and “Netherlands”. Why do they not speak “Hollandic” or, as they do in Dutch, “Netherlands”?

Here’s another interesting example, which I recently argued against, and now concede that there’s something to it. As you are well aware, I come from Canada. I am called a “Canadian”. Why do I not come from “Canadia”? Or, why am I not a “Canadan”? People from America are called “American”. Not “Americian”.

I know what you are thinking. SHE’S an English teacher, you’d think she’d have an answer for it. True, I am, but I don’t. While I do know quite a lot about English literature and the English language, I have never claimed to know everything. And if I had to teach it or were asked about it in class, I’d head out to research an answer for whichever inquiring mind wanted to know. But I’m rather limited in the Jamboree at the moment as to research materials.

The reason for this verbose preamble is that I have a correction to make from a couple of posts ago, the one titled “Cold is a Matter of Perspective”.

It was me and Sabine’s first evening in New Orleans. We pulled into our campsite in town – yes there’s an RV lot IN New Orleans! I know, I was excited too – just in time for dinner. We wanted to hear live Jazz, of course, because that’s what one does in New Orleans, right? And, we were hungry. Luckily there was a restaurant in the French Quarter that served all the Cajun classics like Gumbo and Jambalaya AND featured a live jazz band every night. How unexpected, right?

Our campsite hooked us up with Mr. David, who became our personal driver for the remainder of our stay in New Orleans, and he kept us entertained for the whole drive into the famous old town and back and there and back again each time we needed to get around. The jazz and food that first night were both good, but there was more to it than that.

I noticed soon after we arrived an interesting, well-dressed, older man wandering around the place, talking to people, wearing an old-fashioned gentleman’s hat. If anyone had character, he had it. Sure enough, partway through our meal, he started singing with the band. And after the meal the family sitting next to us, who had already been helpful in recommending items from the menu, found the singer on Wikipedia on their handheld. Turns out, he’s quite a well-known New Orleans singer called “Uncle Lionel”. Here’s the Wikipedia link if you don’t believe me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lionel_Batiste

As coincidence would have it, this family, the Langs, also had dinner reservations at Antoine’s, the famous and expensive restaurant of the French Quarter dating back to 1840, for the next night, also at 7:30. Originally from Michigan, when we met the Langs the following night at Antoine’s, after they’d had a chance to check out my blog, they advised me that people from Michigan don’t really like to be called “Michigonians”, as I had written in my blog. A better way to call someone from Michigan is a “Michigander”.

Who knew? Who could have ever even guessed that one? (Someone from Michigan, I suppose.) I like it!

The remainder of my time in New Orleans was spent pretty much as you would expect: eating Gumbo, walking around the French Quarter taking photos, and going to as much live jazz as possible. My favourite night was my last, at the Preservation Hall.

There's so much more to New Orleans than I mentioned here. I know you are all thinking "Katrina". As it was my first visit to the city, I feel somewhat unqualified to comment. But I did see a lot of areas that are still in need of a boost. Many people I talked to said the city just still isn’t yet back to where it was. Such a shame for one of the most unique and culturally interesting stops I’ve made so far in the States. I hope that it thrives on its reputation and excellent vibe and that they are able to rebuild the areas that are still really in need.

And so I end this blog post at the place where I began: I still haven’t figured out yet what you call someone from New Orleans. A “New Orleaner”? A “New Orleanean”? Or, simply, for better or for worse, with bags on their heads or decked out head to toe in gold and black pride, a “Saint”?

New Orleans

Alligators!

Yes, alligators. Watching us cycle along the 25 km cycle path through the northern part of the Everglades park in southern Florida. Menacingly. Knowingly. Patiently.

They littered the swamp. They lolled about in the grass along the cycle path. They even sunned themselves on the very pathway we were on (probably trying to warm up).

I've been told that alligators can move forward very quickly despite their size and apparent weight. But that they aren't very good at sideways. So the ones that lay parallel to the road, I marvelled over. Those whose tails met the path perpendicularly weren't overly worrisome – unless it was the one pictured above who didn't seem in too much of a hurry to get out of the way of us cyclists and who was perched just a little too close for comfort.

The ones facing the path, though, like this fat guy pictured here, staring at you. Eyes alert, bodies unnervingly still, teeth poking out everywhere. Ai, what an animal!

I learned from some of my new friends in Alabama, whom we met up with a few nights later along our drive westwards on the I-10, that alligators are simply not very adroit when it comes to quick sideways movements. This is why, apparently, if an alligator decides to chase you, you should run away in a zigzag. If you run zigzag, the alligator gets confused, can't change direction fast enough and will lose the chase; at worst he may run on forward but will carry on right past you if you are to either side of it, running in what can only be a ridiculous horizontal zigzag path in any opposite direction away from its nose. A handy tip.

Please do check out the album at the bottom of this post for more pictures of these amazing beasts (as well as for some evidence of the “cold” Miami from a couple of posts ago). And if you don't believe me when I write that the picture above captured the only time during this cycle among the 'gators in which I look somewhat alarmed, that indeed for the rest of the bike ride I was totally excited each and every time I glimpsed one of these exotic creatures just laying there watching us go about our business, ask Sabine: she was with me and she thought I was nuts for “ooing” and “aahing” and not “holy-shitting”.

This took place during our first day on the road when we left Miami. Always good to start out again with a bit of an adrenaline boost. We then took a couple of days to relax on the picturesque beaches of Sanibel Island, just outside Fort Myers, Fl. While it looks idyllic, it was still during that cold spell, and so our afternoon on the beach was spent facing the sun but wrapped up in jeans and sweaters. Still. Can't complain.

We ventured the long drive out of Florida through Tallahassee to Alabama where we met up with Nathan, the brother of a friend. He took us first out for a dinner of local oysters, and then to an authentic Alabama house party. We woke with slightly fuzzy heads the following morning but got out on our bikes as planned anyway, to check out some of the paths and scenery of Gulf Shores, Alabama, a community also touched by Katrina.

Travelling this part of the journey with Sabine was fun and entertaining, as expected. Fun, because she was great company in the Jamboree. Entertaining because of the things she'd say and ways she'd react to whatever we encountered. My favourite example from this trip was when we entered our Alabama campsite and upon reading the sign that read “Please do not feed or aggravate the alligators” Sabine exclaimed “I did NOT just read that! Jenny, I DID NOT JUST READ THAT!”. She was quite happy using the Jamboree's toilet that night rather than venturing out in the dark to the public washrooms. And upon leaving the next day, while I was a little disappointed not to have seen just one more alligator, she was quite visibly relieved.

PS: Here is a list of some of the guesses you readers made about what inspired the look on my face in the last post. I had a good laugh reading them, and hopefully you will too. Thanks to all who wrote! Keeps me happy knowing you're all out there with me. :)

What do you think might be causing this expression?
"A chimp is stealing your pants"
"You are warning the photographer that he is about to get mauled by a grizzly bear..."
"You forgot where you parked the van"
"You're going downhill and your brakes just broke and you swallowed a big bug"
"You caught a glimpse of yourself in your matching sunglasses and fleece!"
"You are in the wilderness and a woman appears through the bush wearing the EXACT same outfit you have on"
"You just biked 25kms in the wrong direction?"
"No bike seat?"
"You couldn't get an internet connection"
"A giant elephant on the road who looked remarkably like..."
"You are finally far away from a dirty ol' city like Amsterdam but have just stepped into a pile of dog poo, with your bare feet..."

Hah!

Miami-Alabama

A little interactive game...

How would you describe the look on my face here?
And,
What do you think might be causing this expression?

(PS: If you've already talked to me and KNOW what is going on here, please be a good sport and don't spoil it for everyone else. Everyone loves a bit of anticipation, right?)

Stay tuned... :)

“Cold” is a matter of perspective

“Cold” is defined by the random dictionary programme installed on my little netbook as “having a low temperature”. So, when the weather is “cold”, it has a “low temperature”. And when you feel “cold”, you feel a “low temperature”. Does that mean, though, that when you are “cold”, your temperature IS low? Hmm.

“Cold” has other connotations. Cold shoulder. Cold reception. Cold fish. To name but a few. But here, I write only of those connotations associated with temperature, in a time which turns out to be exuding a lot of warmth.

"Cold" is what urges you to swap your sandals for slippers. To layer. To want to cozy up and experiment with the principle of body heat. To sip hot tea. Or wine. By a fire.

"Cold” is the reason I drove south for the winter. "Cold" would burst the water pipes in the Jamboree. Its the reason why I meet more Canadians, New Yorkers, Michigonians, Massachussetites, and so many other northerners, in Florida in December than true Floridians. Because where we come from, its cold. And its rumoured to be significantly less so in Florida.

“Cold” is -40c. That was the temperature in Calgary the day I arrived in Cuba, according to my parents' text. Hard to imagine (but not to remember) in Cuba, where it absolutely was not cold.

“Cold” is what is blanketing pretty much the entire Northern Hemisphere right now, judging from the reports I'm getting on all the 24-hour American weather news channels.

“Cold” was venturing outside on my bike in Amsterdam a couple of weeks ago. Cold enough to freeze the canals. Cold enough to wear scarves and toques and gloves and hoping the bubbly would warm from inside while standing outside at midnight, dodging the fireworks of 2010. While cold enough, conditions just aren't "right" enough, according to the Dutch weather reporters, for the Eleven-City-Skate-Race, “Elevde Steden Tocht”. Because of too much snow, the ice won't form properly enough to support the skaters in the much-hoped-for winter skating event that only happens maybe once each decade, or less. If we are lucky enough and its cold enough.

“Cold” was even Miami last week. Everyone was bundled up in hats, and scarves and heavy winter coats. Everyone was talking about how cold it was outside. Everyone was doing what they could to stay warm, including fixing broken heaters and dancing until 4am. When I arrived back in Miami, I didn't believe Lily, even laughed out loud, when she texted me that it was cold out and that I didn't need to pick up my “summer” clothes. Her warm Miami blood must have forgotten what it felt like to really feel cold, I thought. But upon disembarking the plane and stepping out into the fresh Miami air myself, I quickly ducked into my backpack and hauled out a warm jacket. It WAS cold in Miami! The coldest its been there since 1977, apparently. 32F overnight (0c)! So much for Miami Heat, Miami Beach, and Miami Sunshine.

So. It was “cold” in Miami this week. Which means I didn't sit on a beach. But it certainly wasn't too cold to cycle. Nor to moonlight as a dog owner and take Jacky for a long walk, first to Starbucks, then to the local dog park, each morning. Nor to think about heading back out in the Jamboree again. “Cold” for Miami, for sure. But its still just not too cold down here on the bottom tip of Florida to camp. And, apparently – according to all those weather reports – its going to warm up this week anyway.

I have to admit, though. I do like the cold. And really, some perspective: it IS January, north of the equator.