It's the Journey, not the Destination

[NOTE if you’re reading this on Facebook: it’s an imported snippet from my blog, which you can find here http://www.carolswords.blogspot.com/. Or click the link at the bottom of the Facebook note.]

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, it’s both: the journey and the destination are both an important part of the experience. I had that recently, when I hopped aboard “The Canadian”, the Toronto-Vancouver train that covers four time zones and about three thousand miles.

This is the luxury of my year off: how long it takes me to get anywhere doesn’t have to be a consideration. (At least not until November or December, when I start to realize that my time is almost up!) So when I went out west at the end of December to visit my sister in Vancouver, I could indulge myself and travel the way I most love to go: the train.

Getting back on the train in Hornepayne, Ontario

There is no better way to travel, really. How else will you get to see the trees and lakes and rocks of northern Ontario wilderness slide into the vast horizon and stark clear light of the Prairies, which in turn give way to the gentle swell of foothills in western Alberta and then the jagged peaks of the Rockies, doused in snow and ice? How else do you get to meet an odd assembly of Canucks from all corners of the country and all walks of life, as well as a scattering of foreigners? How else are you going to eat and drink and be merry for four days straight, while uniformed employees scurry around to fulfill your every whim?

It beats the heck out of flying. Who wants to be squashed uncomfortably into a metal canister that hurtles through the sky, when you can glide over the countryside with a gentle rocking motion that lulls you into a state of utter relaxation? And train food (the Via Rail variety at least) delivers decadence in spades, when you travel Sleeper class out west – I think I ingested approximately 5,000,000 calories between Toronto and Vancouver, and enjoyed every single one. A plastic-wrapped sandwich in economy class on a plane, on the other hand, doesn’t even pretend to be real food.

The first (and only other) time I took the train across Canada, it wasn’t quite the same. Oh, I still enjoyed it, but travelling economy (the euphemistically-named “Comfort” class) doesn’t deliver the same sense of indulgence, or the nostalgia of feeling like you’re stepping back in time to the Golden Age of rail travel. Economy class means a seat, not a cozy little cabin, and food either purchased on the fly at random train stations along the way or from the limited selection in the little café on board. And it means getting very up close and personal with all your fellow travelers for the entire time (no doors to shut for solitude), and those fellow travelers may or may not have bothered to line up for the shower each day.

Travelling sleeper class, on the other hand, is a delight from start to finish. I stepped on the train on a Tuesday night after Christmas, with a very deferential porter taking my bags to my cabin and another attendant meeting me in the lounge car with a complementary glass of champagne. And it only got better from there.

I have already mentioned the food, but it's worth noting again – the four-course dinner on New Year’s Eve (which I spent on the train) was particularly pleasing. The exclusively Canadian wines served on board were equally delightful. The round-the-clock coffee, cookies and snacks laid out in the lounge car were entirely too tempting every time I walked by.

My cabin was a single, just for me; you can also opt for double or triple (presuming you’re travelling with other people), or a berth which is a seat by day and folds down into a bed by night, with a curtain for privacy. Showers are plentiful, so the company of Sleeper class patrons is still bearable up close by day 4 in a way that Economy class passengers aren’t.

The single cabin (picture to the left) was a marvel – everything you could require in a living space, in very compact form. It was just about the size of the bunk when it was pulled down at night (which I found in surprise by pulling on a lever and wondering, “Well, now, what does this do?”), and a comfortable couch to lounge on during the day. I brought along James Joyce’s Ulysses (which I bought in the Irish Writers’ Museum in Dublin in 1994) with the intention of finally finishing it, but found myself more often just gazing out the window and daydreaming.

My little cabin on the train

It’s hard to beat train life. You wake up in the morning, whenever you please, and meander down to the dining car for breakfast at any time in the generous period allotted to it. By the time you get back to your cabin, the bed has magically disappeared and your toiletries and towels have been refreshed by an unseen hand. You can while away the hours staring out the window at an ever-changing landscape, or wander down to the lounge car to chat to your fellow passengers, join in an enthusiastic game of cards or a cut-throat game of Monopoly. And you can always have a glass of wine, whenever you like.

You arrange with a pleasant attendant in the dining car which seating you’d like for lunch and dinner, and share each meal with a variety of companions. It could be the kind you’d expect on the train (affluent retired couples with the money and time to travel in style), or it might be a filmmaker from Winnipeg (who does construction on the side) on his way back from a screening of his documentary in Halifax. It might be a Montreal couple about your age, who’ve never been west of Toronto before, or a young Irish woman on a year-long adventure in North America. Whoever it is, you’ll all be fed well and as much as you like – it’s all included in your ticket, so why not?

By the time you’ve had dinner (real china and flatware, hearty portions of food exquisitely presented, and always, always a decadent dessert) and made your way back to your cabin for the night, more unseen hands have turned down your bed and made it afresh with crisp new sheets. You may choose to go back to the lounge car for a while, and imagine that you’re in an old Hollywood film with a Sinatra soundtrack, as you sip your martini. Or you may go to your cabin and read desultorily for a while, or watch the stars or the Northern Lights, but eventually your eyelids droop and you let the train lull you to sleep as it clickety-clacks onward through the night.

And when you wake up again (maybe even in time to see the sun rise), you realize anew the great benefit of sleeping on a train: you get to wake up to a new view every morning. The first morning, I woke up in the frozen north of Ontario, and was knee-deep in snow when I stepped off the train at our first break. The second morning, I woke to a larger-than-life Prairie sunrise and the clear cold of a Winnipeg morning. (And I do mean cold … -42C with the wind chill. Needless to say, my Toronto winter gloves were not up to the task. Nor had I thought to put on longjohns before stepping off the train.)

Morning three brought the portals of doom: Refinery Row in Edmonton in the half-light just before sunrise is a chilling and sinister place. Morning four, of course , brought Vancouver – ahead of schedule! Vancouver was the destination, and I love every chance I get to visit my sister and brother-in-law. But the journey that got me there was one I’d make again, and again.

I'm Baaaacccckkkkk ....!

Yes, I know. You don't have to say it. I haven't been here for a while.

Well, I was away (gallivanting around Western Canada and U.S.), then I had pneumonia for a few weeks, and then (last week) I started a massive Clean Sweep of my apartment. Totally satisfying to get rid of all that unwanted clutter; some stuff I'd kept "just in case" and some because I'd spent money on it but hadn't ever actually use it. I now have a new rule: if I haven't worn it, used it, read it, watched it or whatever in a year, it's gone. You'd be amazed how many things go out the door when you try this!

I’ve also been playing handy-woman and channeling my inner Mike Holmes-on-Homes (who, by the way, I have a secret crush on – big affable guy who knows his way around power tools, how can you go wrong?). Pictures to hang? Done, and impeccably straight. Holes in the bathroom wall to fix? Poly-filla’d like a pro. Wobbly shelves? Solid as a rock now.

There's a reason for the purge and the Ms Fix-It mania. This year isn't just about travel; it's also about figuring out how and where I want to live and what I want to do with my life beyond January 2011. So part of that is getting my home into the kind of shape that I really want it to be -- realizing that it is my "home" and not just somewhere I'm laying my head for a while, and that I'd like it to be somewhere I can gather friends without frantically stuffing all the clutter temporarily into the closet or under the bed. And somewhere I can come home and relax, instead of looking around and thinking about all the stuff I haven't done.

So that long, long list of things to fix or sort or find a home for or get rid of entirely, is getting done in what has been a remarkably productive week. I am very disciplined at work, but rarely so at home; maybe now that I don't have to go to an office, I am more able to channel that energy and productivity into my personal life. Whatever the reason, it feels good to check things off my 'to do' list that have been languishing there for years!

Non-home errands also done -- doctor, dentist, optometrist, banking, all the glamour stuff -- and I have new glasses for the first time in about 10 years. I have done well at staying away from designer shoes, but I indulged a little bit with the frames (thank you, Prada). Aren't they fabulous?

I’ve also got most of the travel prep done – getting the shots, replacing some gear, figuring out what clothes to pack – and I’m definitely heading south first. I'm still mulling over the exact itinerary, so I'll keep you posted. I am going SOMEWHERE south by the end of the month, I am just trying to decide if I can afford to go to Antarctica at the start of my South America trip. I like the idea of hitting every continent this year, so if the budget can swing it, I think I'll do it.

I'll also blog again soon to catch you up on the adventures out west -- stay tuned!

To go or not to go (to Timbuktu, that is)

Ever since I started doing research for my upcoming year's adventure, I have been fascinated with the idea of going to Timbuktu. Some of the appeal, I admit, is just for the bragging rights -- how many people can say they've been to Timbuktu? -- but mostly it's the mystique of Timbuktu itself.

It's not much to look at now, I gather, as it's a small dusty town surrounded by lots and lots of nothingness. But it has an incredible history: it used to be the pre-eminent city in Africa, in the 12th century or so, as it sat at the crossroads of important trading routes through the desert. It even reached a population of 100,000 people, which surely would have made it one of the largest urban centres of the day.

It's still there, in the middle of the desert, with the harsh Saharan sun beating down on its mud mosques and gritty sand blowing down the unpaved streets. And I really want to go.

Trouble is, there have been a spate of kidnappings in this part of the world, and numbers are on the rise. Canada, Britain, and the U.S. (among other Western nations) have all issued travel advisories about that part of Mali, with very strong suggestions that travellers stay away unless it's essential. AQIM (the acronym for Al Qaeda here) operates in northern Mali, and uses the area as a location to hold hostages. There is also, apparently, very real risks of violence from drug traffickers and from Tuareg dissidents.

Hmmm. Getting kidnapped by al-Qaeda and held for ransom in the middle of the desert, or caught in the crossfire of drug wars, would really put a damper on my year off.

I might have to go back to the drawing board for the first part of the year ... planned West Africa jaunt might now become a more traditional African safari in the south. I'll keep you posted.

It's 5 o'clock somewhere in the world

So I was just having a margarita, even though it's 3:00 in the afternoon. Because I'm on vacation, and the usual rules do not apply. And I was sitting in Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville bar in Key West, so the margarita seemed appropriate.

I think I'll move here, actually. (I don't mean Margaritaville, I mean Key West.) You know how you just "click" with some places? (kind of like with some people) Key West is one of those places for me. with its tolerant and laidback and eco-friendly attitude ... a perfect place for expat wanna-be hippies. At least those that have half a million or so (US) to spend on a cute wee 700 square foot cottage.

Not sure what I'd do for a living, in order to afford the above-mentioned cute wee cottage. I think I'd like to be one of those people playing cheesy show tunes and easy listening tunes in a dark bar somewhere, except that I'm not sure that would pay for the cottage. Oh, well.

Maybe I'll table that plan for now. In the meantime, I am spending my days wandering the town, as it's absolutely gorgeous, or lazing in a hammock in the hot and humid weather. I have even tried to read Hemingway again, since I went to his house yesterday -- can't say I'm a fan yet (it wouldn't have killed him to use the odd adjective or two), but I'm liking the current read (A Moveable Feast) better than some I've tried.

Trip started off well, with me getting bumped up to business class for the Toronto-Miami leg of the journey. I even liked the cold snowy walk to the subway at 5:30 a.m. on my way to the airport. Everything is more enjoyable in the context of travel -- flying isn't quite as exciting now as my very first trip, but I still feel compelled to jump around in anticipation the night before. (First plane trip ever, FYI, was the one that took me to London, England, for a new life after graduation from university -- it's hard to top that!)

And it was utter bliss walking down the steps off the little plane that took me to Key West, into the clear Florida light and laziness-inducing warmth. And while I started out with an agenda of all the things I must see and do while here, that seems to be melting away in the heat and humidity; I am perfectly content to sit and watch the world go by, as I sip my margarita.

I'm not completely de-programmed from work mode yet, but I think I am well on my way. So the "must see" list will just have to wait, as this trip was all about letting go of stress and schedules and deadlines, and all those other things that made my work life too much some days.

Oh, I'm not going to spend all of the rest of my time here in a hammock, or sipping margaritas, tempting as that may be. It's too fascinating a town for that. I heard stories of Key West in the '70's from some of colleagues who visited a lot in their decadent youths; even though I think it's changed a lot, it still has an edge. One of my colleagues complained that KW used to be fun "before the straight people moved in and ruined it" ... but I like to think, instead, that we just bring another element of diversity to the place. :)

Ok, Hemingway calls. And my hammock. So I must sign off now.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh...

How do you define yourself?

I just started -- about 8 hours or so ago -- a one-year sabbatical from my oh-so-safe-and-secure government job. I used to love it, and maybe in some respects i still do, but ... really, I'm burned out. I need a break. I need to re-group and figure out how to define myself in ways that DON'T relate to my job.

The trouble is this: how the hell do I do that?? As a Type-A, over-achieving, first-born child, I am very used to the idea of defining myself by my academic or work accomplishments (both of which I have lots of). Problem is, I'm not going to be living that life for a year.

I'm going on sabbatical. I won't be showing up at my office until January 3rd, 2011.

That's a reaaaaalllllyyyy long time. (I have been hyper-ventilating for about the last four hours; however, tequila and singing karaoke appear to have helped calm my panic somewhat.) It's an even longer time when you define yourself primarily in terms of your job (as I have done for the last few years) and forget how to define yourself in personal, inter-personal, emotional terms. When you forget how to keep yourself open to new experiences and just go with the flow -- as I used to be pretty good at doing, but have forgotten how, somewhat, over the last few years.

I'm sure I'll figure it out. I have a lot of time to do so.

But it ain't gonna be easy. And in the meantime I may have a few panic attacks or minor meltdowns .. so bear with me. And remind me, occasionally, that I'm worth something outside of my job.

Love
Carol

December 6th, 1989

This has nothing to do with travel, really, but it's on my mind. And this is MY blog, so I get to write about whatever I choose to: that's the rule.

Some of you reading this may be too young to remember that date (hey, some of my Facebook friends were only born in the 1980's), and some of you have never lived in Canada so may never have heard of anything significant happening on that day.

But anyone who was, like me, a university student in 1989 (yes, my first year was 20 years ago) will remember this day. 14 women were killed by Marc Lepine at the Universite de Montreal's Ecole polytechnique on December 6, 1989. 14 women who could have been my sisters, or my dorm mates, or my friends ... or me.

I remember this day vividly. I can't believe it was 20 years ago.

It was the first time, I think, that I ever realized that evil in the world wasn't "out there" at some safe distance that could never touch me or the people I love. It's up close and personal, and if you are a woman, you are, sadly, more vulnerable to violence in the world, whatever culture or country in which you live.

Oh, Canada at least is probably a better place to be a female victim of violence that it was 20 years ago. The shocking events of December 6th at least woke people up to the reality of violence against women. Before then, a woman who was beaten was more likely to suffer in silence, and a woman who was raped was more likely to be belittled because she "asked for it". A woman who was harassed at work was someone who just couldn't take a joke: she was the one with the problem. You might stand a chance of being taken seriously now ... just maybe.

But it's not "fixed", not by a long shot, not even in Canada. And if you look around the world, the situation is much more grim in many parts. I shudder in horror when I read any news articles that suggest that a return to Taliban rule in Afghanistan might not be so bad, or that as many as 140 million women and girls around the world have been genitally mutilated; I shudder even harder when I hear the latter described as "circumcision" (as if it is as relatively benign as male circumcision), and a "cultural tradition" about which we have no right to get angry.

So be aware. If you know or suspect that this is happening to a woman you know, don't dismiss it as a personal matter, or a misunderstanding. When you read about the women and girls in distant countries who are raped as a strategy of war, or treated no better than chattel simply because they are female, don't be silent.

Get involved. Voice your outrage. It doesn't have to be this way. And the Montreal massacre never has to happen again.

Wanted: Personal Assistant

Working for a living really cuts down on my free time.

It probably doesn't help, of course, that I am a perfectionist workaholic who doesn't know enough to go home at a reasonable hour. It's compounded by the fact that I have 6 (yes, count'em, 6!) working days left and am frantically trying to wrap up a to-do list several metres long. I have a great replacement -- one of the senior analysts on my team is taking over, and I know she will do a bang-up job (probably better than me, and they won't want me back). But I'd like to leave things in as good a shape as possible so she can start fresh.

It definitely doesn't help that I am also trying to deal with recent personal losses. I have decreed to the universe that henceforth, every person and animal that I care about must stay well and healthy until they reach a grand old age along with me. Dying at something too close to my own current age is NOT ON, not for anyone, not anymore. Listening, universe? I'm not kidding.

In the meantime, I'm supposed to be planning for my year off. I have no time or energy by the time I get home from work ... or this week, home from about four parties of the kind that will last till the wee small hours (one of which is all about me ... $5 martinis, anyone?). So I'm still not much further along than I was two months ago.

Which brings me to my title: anyone willing to volunteer as a personal assistant? You'd have to take care of travel plans, keep my fridge stocked with food and clean the house from top to bottom. I won't offer to pay you since, well, I'm not going to have an income next year. But surely there are nurturing people out there who would jump at the chance to make my life just that little bit easier?

I could let you tag along with me to the corner of the world of your choice, in compensation. I promise I'm pretty easy to travel with (note to sisters: you are banned from commenting upon this statement).

And then I'd have time to actually decide how I want to spend the next year. Which I haven't had much of yet.

I realized recently, though, that I do NOT want to attempt West African travel entirely on my own, so I've been looking into tour options -- the low-key kind that basically just get you from place to place, make sure you're safe and otherwise leave you to your own devices. There are some good options out there, I was happy to see, even allowing for the somewhat last-minute nature of my planning.

The difficulty is finding time to get visas ahead of time, as I need one for just about every country I might want to visit in Africa. And I'm out of the country for two separate periods between now and the end of January, which means my passport must be in my hands, not tied up in some bureaucratic office somewhere awaiting the magic stamps.

So I thought maybe I'd need to start the African leg a little later. Then I thought of great ideas to spend the rest of January and part of February: dogsledding in Algonquin Park, going to see the northern lights in the Yukon and/or volunteering at a climate change research study in Churchill at the end of January.

All excellent ideas ... but if I just keep adding new things to my list for next year, without actually arranging any of the things I'd already decided upon, I will never get off the ground.

Which brings me back to that personal assistant. So send those resumes ASAP: I promise to give them my undivided attention from my hammock in Key West in a week and a half ... and if you're the lucky candidate, maybe you can even come join me. Hey, SOMEONE's got to make the margaritas.