When I went to Indonesia in 1996, I remember seeing an ornate “window” in a hostel, which was essentially a nicely-shaped hole right in the concrete wall, with no glass or screen. I saw this and had the thought, “but what do they do in wint-? oh… right”. It’s those little things that make you realize that a lot of what we take for granted are really special features of Canada.

I was in Scotland over the holidays and I made a lot of fun of the country for being paralyzed by so little snow. Snow that grass poked through created enough havoc to cancel some of the family’s holiday festivities, including a dinner. But although it was a wuss of a winter (-8C at worst I saw there), it was definitely harder to live with than here. I remember feeling and hearing drafts in every pub and house I entered, and in most places the heating couldn’t cope well enough to warm the interior completely. Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been appreciating the simple fact of being able to actually be toasty when inside, or walk confidently on the sidewalk (on which abrasives are used). If Britain is so unused to what little winter I saw there, I’m not shocked that the prolonged frost they’ve been getting is screwing them up completely, and I feel for them.

My friend Charles, on a sabbatical in New Zealand, has noticed that the doors there are often left wide open, leading to birds often being seen in cafés. He adds, “nobody seems to consider this a public health hazard”. That fear that beasties, including domestic ones, are unsanitary, seems typically North American. Everywhere I’ve gone (including Europe), I’ve seen owners bring well-behaved dogs to restaurants, and on trains. There were at least 5 dogs (leashed, not caged) in our one crowded compartment on the train to Glasgow. In Indonesia I dined in a restaurant where I could see a rat walking on the awning of the bar. My hotel in Venezuela, the same one where the UN Secretary General had recently stayed, had cockroaches. Sure, I wouldn’t like to eat next to rats and dead birds, but I think we’re a little overcareful when it comes to dogs, cats, birds, squirrels, geckos, and the like. People aren’t that afraid everywhere. They really are especially afraid here.

I was recently talking to my friend Thierry, who moved to L.A. last year, about the American healthcare reform. He felt that a key difference between American and Canadian attitudes with respect to this was that in America, it’s accepted as common sense that a public figure or richer person should get better and faster treatment than the rest of the population, in all things. Conversely in Canada, according to my friend, we expect all to be equal, for better or worse. This is definitely supported by the indignation we saw when Claude Dubois jumped the H1N1 vaccination line this fall, and last week when Halle Berry skipped the queue at Trudeau airport. One commenter said that the outrage over this is strictly Canadian, as in most places people expect stars to get VIP treatment everywhere, including at security checks.

This is how travelling makes you know your own country better. Some things others may soon have to learn from us, while for some other things… I wish we’d learn from them.

Got to St. Peter’s in the early morning, and without waiting, made it into the grandest church in Italy. It was spectacular simply by virtue of its the sheer size. I’ve seen big churches with little chapels off to the side, this had big churches off to the side. After exploring the tombs of countless saints and popes, I got the guidebook out to see if there wasn’t some famous art somewhere in here. Oh yeah! Michaelangelo’s Pietà. Paused for a second in the spot where Charlemagne was crowned, then moved on back into the sunlight.

Stood in line 55 minutes to get into the Vatican museums, whose sole feature of interest to me was the Sistine Chapel. Going through the museum to the chapel, even by the most direct route, is an exercise in human herding, sweat and anticipation. The multicultural crowd jostles cattle-like through majestic corridor upon majestic corridor, each time thinking the Chapel is next, barely noticing the world-class works all around. Only exception to this for me: Raphael’s rooms, where I was excited to see one of my favorite paintings of all time, the huge School of Athens, in which all the great minds of Antiquity are reunited: Plato, Aristotle, Euclid…

At long last the human wave emerged into the Sistine Chapel. Although the sweat-march and its preceding 55-minute wait in the sun had ensured everyone was properly subdued and exhausted, I conjured some awe at the ceiling and at Judgment Day. The latter is a huge fresco wherein the dead are torn from their graves to face the maker, intended to scare you into obedience. I’m sure I would have been humbled if not surrounded by German tours.

Upon emerging I admit I rejoiced at the thought that my to-see list was now completed. I could spend the rest of my Roman stay sitting in the shade nursing my blistered feet.

I’d been warned that the Vatican would make me “vomit in my mouth” a little considering the difference between its opulence and Jesus’ life. I have to say, though, that every time I’ve seen a ridiculous, over-the-top site, be it Versailles, Borobudur, Hagia Sofia or even the Vegas strip, part of me has been happy that someone had the nerve, the vanity, the impracticality, the recklessness (and yeah, sometimes the faith) to build it. I’m glad extreme places like these exist, though yes, I’m glad they’re rare.

Today was marble day. The house of Octavian (emperor Augustus), the Senate, the Vestal virgin houses, the Colosseum (frankly overhyped), and countless arches and temples. The Romans had lots of gods, and Octavian had an impressive hippodrome adjoining his house (but no Wi-Fi).

Lunched at a trattoria, apprehensively watching a ray of sun the width of the alley slowly creeping towards me. Right before it reached me, I was getting ready to move on but the waiter brought me a glass of cold white wine on the house. I can make an exception today and let myself roast a little, I thought. My new friend kept refilling my glass, and I kept reading and writing well beyond the point when the sun had come and gone, several hours.

In my sunblasted euphoria, my mood seemed to have ranged from the metaphysical to the stupid, judging from my notes.

“Old man smoking pipe on Vespa hilarious!

Older religions think everything always starts all over again. Christians see time going in a direction.

I hate that my left brain never shuts up. I love that the manhole covers in Rome still say SPQR.

Everywhere you go in the world outside n america the coffee’s great and there’s soccer on TV

After 3 days I still don’t know if I go in the Signore or the Signori. Neither seem to have urinals.

Tomorrow, the Vatican. Be nice if God talked to me.”

Great price to quality ratio, those hours. I even got a tan in the bargain.

Spent the day canvassing the “historical district” (as opposed to what?) on foot, and baking in the heat. I find it interesting that historical accounts of Rome tell the story of Romulus and Remus with as much seriousness as they do of the Emperors and Popes that came afterwards. The twins, descendants of Gods and supposed founders of Rome, were abandoned to their own fate as babies but were found and suckled by a she-wolf. This is recounted as normally as the Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon. I did find one account that suggested they may have been found by a hooker nicknamed “she-wolf”, but I guess it lacks the panache befitting Rome.

I read last year that each city can be described by one word and that the word for Rome is Sex. I don’t find that really accurate. Sure, there are ridiculously muscular, tanned and gelled studs on every corner, some of them priests. Maybe the pigeons seem to court their mates a little more insistently than in Montreal. And yes, gift shops sell close-ups of the choicest parts of nude statues with captions like “WOW!!!” on them, but if anything that’s cartoon sex to me.

If I had to choose a word for Rome it would be Sun. Ever powerful, ubiquitous sun. I can’t remember ever being so conscious of it, as in trying desperately to get out of it (and I’ve been in the Sahara). The Roman sun bakes you as soon as it hits; it washes the city in its crazy bright light, and it blasts away all the colors in any picture I take.

Others might describe Rome as Food, too, but the heat makes it impossible to think of pasta. Or of fucking, for that matter.

A direct flight has its advantages, but it really doesn’t make you feel like you’ve travelled at all. Slept deeply through the night flight then was in my hotel, seemingly in minutes. My mind knew this was Rome but I didn’t feel the journey in my bones. It felt more like I’d taken a bus to Québec City, if that.

Did, however, find myself unable to breathe upon seeing the Colosseum this afternoon. It wasn’t so much the poor Christian bastards who met their end there, nor the Gladiators whose blood I probably would have smelled from where I stood, just a connection to everything that’s happened before my little life and everything that comes after it. That feeling is always short and fleeting, but immensely comforting.

Finished the day the way you imagine a typical moment in Rome. Panacotta and espresso at a trattoria on a square, a fedora’ed quartet playing songs that make everyone sway from side to side, a group of perfectly dressed older Italian men at another table clapping along.

Will head back now, planning to fall asleep in front of bad Italian TV.

The Duchess True-story period drama that actually managed to change my level of appreciation of Keira Knightley from white-hot hatred to tolerance bordering on admiration.
Eagle Eye Brain-turned-off action flick where poor bastard Shia Labeouf has to follow instructions from mysterious female voice on phone or everyone dies. Great bullshit computer interfaces throughout. Very stupid, but does the job it sets out to do. I still white-hot hate Shia Labeouf.
Body of Lies A surprisingly weak and unsatisfying Ridley Scott Iraq-war thing starring Leo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe. Starts off good enough but gratuitous romance sub-plot totally fucks up the pacing.
Nights in Rodanthe End-of-flight bottom-of-the-barrel scrape where Diane Lane and Richard Gere play damaged middle-agers who find a second chance at life through their sickly-sweet romance. An assault on intelligence, and even more on consciousness.

The people of Greenland pass a referendum regarding greater autonomy from Denmark.

Here’s a crappy picture I took of Greenland on the way back from Scotland last September.

There’s people there?

Two weeks ago, upon arriving in Stockholm, I went for a walk, and within a very short time smelled something I hadn’t in a long time… The smell of Lepage, the glue our teachers insisted we use in primary school. It brought back memories, not of grade school, but of waiting for the bus in Sweden, when I lived there nine years ago.

Immediately, I remembered that in Sweden, you always smell the bus coming. Quickly, I turned around and sure enough, there was one of Stockholm’s fine, environment-friendly etanolbuss. I thought to myself, why is it that even small towns like Lund (where I lived) had these nine years ago, and we’re just talking about it?

Then, walking to work today, I smelled Lepage glue. Could it be? I asked, right before I saw written on a Montreal bus across the street, “Cet autobus roule au biodiesel”. How cool is that.

So, Montrealers, next time you think you smell Lepage glue, look out for the bus.

You know that upcoming trip to Scotland I was talking about in my last post? It was with Zoom, the airline that went bankrupt yesterday.

What I didn’t say in my last post, is that we also have tickets (with another airline), going from Scotland to Sweden, paid and non-refundable. Accommodation and train passes in Sweden, paid and non-refundable. So not only do we lose our tickets to Scotland, but unless we buy another pair of tickets to Scotland at this late (and therefore expensive) hour, we lose the rest of the trip as well.

It’s okay, I said, I have a free ticket with Air Canada, I said. A quick call to Air Canada allowed me to find out that my free ticket would cost me over 600$ in of fuel surcharges and other fees. Jonathan, who had fewer points, would have to pay 1100$ for his reward ticket.

Zoom executives said they were “desperately sorry” for the inconvenience.

Last night I tossed and turned, desperately sorry that Jonathan was going to miss his best friend’s wedding, and miss seeing the family he hasn’t seen in a year, while he wrote our miserable apologies to his parents and the fiancés. It was a miserable night and morning as we scrambled and racked our brains for a way we could afford a new pair of tickets, but kept finding we just couldn’t.

This morning, however, I found out that American Express will be refunding all card members who booked Zoom tickets and now cannot use them, even if they aren’t stranded, even if they don’t have the AmEx travel insurance, even if AmEx never recoups the expense from Zoom in their turn. I called and spoke to several CSRs, including managers, to ask over and over again if they were SURE we would be refunded, and had it spelled out to me in 14 different ways that we would be.

AmEx, je t’aime.

And so it looks like I have to finish my dress after all.

I’m pleasantly surprised.

When I left for Turkey two weeks ago, there had never been a time in my life when I needed a vacation more. I knew that if I hadn’t gone then, something else would have given, and I just cannot afford to unravel right now. So I planned the type of vacation I needed: the kind with lots of intellectual stimulation, so that I couldn’t possibly think about work, and physical activity, to shake my body out of its ageing rut. Travelling is always an emotional refresher, a bit of a degausser of everyday life. But to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure this was going to happen this time, I doubted that two weeks would be enough to replenish the energy that’s been so recently elusive. I was wrong, and found myself last Friday in Istanbul pleasantly satisfied, looking forward to coming home, and to going back to work.

But crossing a few things off the life to-do list (getting a scrubdown at a 600-year-old Hamam, visiting Troy, scootering through Cappadocia) has that effect. Who knew?