The Universal Image of Our Age

This, I submit, is the singular, unifying image of our age.

At its core is a possession wanted by all; evidently affordable to most. It is ubiquity defined. Its promotion bankrolls shop signs, football team jerseys and the coliseums of the 21th century. From the Maluti mountains in Lesotho to the markets of Mysore, I have seen this image repeated thousands of times. I have borne its witness in the sacred mosques of Istanbul and on the lonely, rugged coast of Wales. There are few boundaries to its presence and, with each year, fewer barriers to its use. As a totem to today's younger generation, it is what wearing blue jeans was to mine - the defining symbol of a time. It is the ultimate global flattener - aspired to by all, a unifying icon that erases distance and the borders of nations. It flaunts the barricades of culture - a seemingly unstoppable force defying the constraints of religion and governments.

In some places, I have seen it used as an entertainment. Young couples on the lawns of the Taj Mahal and the majestic parks of Windsor - lying together on the grass, gazing into its all-consuming face. As it always present, its developers have extended its scope and shape well beyond original purpose. It is a personal servant that can buy Bollywood tickets in Delhi and play your current favourite tune over and over and over again on the dusty roads of Zanzibar. It can capture your image wherever and whenever, dispatching it for display in an instant. Its holding, coddling and protection has spawned whole new product lines for purse makers in Turkey and the craft weavers of Nepal. Beyond anything else, it is the the single thing that no respectable teenager can be without wherever they might live - a symbol of arrival chic and modern, the price of admission to a continually connected global tribe. As I travel the world, I see this image at every turn, in every place stationary or moving.

What I see is truly universal. What I see is young people in communion with their cellphones.

A Thought for the Day on Travelling

"The frontiers of a country should never be the frontiers of a person's world. Those unwilling to learn from languages, cultures and traditions beyond the boundaries of their own country are in prison, even if they may not notice the bars"

Michael Ignatieff, True Patriot Love

Enthusiastically agreed!

Unpacked but still unpacking

Greetings all - on Wednesday evening we arrived at our latest destination on the "If not now, when" tour de monde ... home! We pictured this event many times and in many places over the past year and on Wednesday evening it unfurled just as we had planned as we rolled up the driveway in our own car and dragged our bags across the entry threshold one last time. How strange the feeling, yet how wonderful for we world-weary two. And how nice to be back in the embrace of a community of good friends with, perhaps, a good story or two to tell. And as for this place, our province's "tag line" motto is "The Best Place on Earth". I have seen no place in my travels this year that might upset BC as at least a very strong contender for this moniker

Just to catch up on the travel part, we left Toronto in the last week of August and added one last time to our immense airborne-induced carbon footprint by flying to Winnipeg. There we were reacquainted with our darling daughter Elisabeth Grace and her boyfriend Jesse and Mad Max our trusty Nissan Maxima. Instead of bolting west for home like most reasonable folks would do on the home stretch, we chose a 5800 km meander through the Dakotas, Wyoming, Montana and then northward up into Kananaskis country in Alberta for a camping weekend with Bruce, Sharon, Jessica and Mark (where we safely returned our fearless global navigator Spunky the Monkey to his family). Only then we pointed Mad Max westward ho! and headed for the coast.

Still peering at the world through the lenses of my traveller's eye, two observations about the our trip through the north-central USA registered deeply with me.

First of all, I found myself aghast and asking myself : How did these people get so huge? A nation of giants - upwards and outwards. The obesity pandemic was most painfully evident throughout our week in the USA - and perhaps amplified after seeing legions of rail-thin people in Africa and India. An estimated 30% of Americans have inflated themselves into the "clinical obesity" category - so it s not a minor phenomenon.How disgusting; how enormously self-indulgent and costly to an already expensive health care system.

On a more positive note, I was much impressed by the way that Americans publicly portray and celebrate their history. I fulfilled a lifelong wish of seeing Mount Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Mt. Rushmore is a stunning display of patriotism told in a very stirring fashion - set in the middle of nowhere (Indeed, its origin stems back to a South Dakota Senator who proposed a sculpture in order to attract tourists to this remote, but beautiful, part of the state). The sculptures are impressive indeed. If George Washington's granite hewn head were mounted on a scaled body , he would be 40 stories tall! More impressive, however, was the stories told in the interpretation centre about the four presidents depicted on the mountain and how they had created a country that changed the world and still serves as a beacon of idealism in these oh-so-practical times. I found myself thinking What would Canada's Mt. Rushmore look like? First of all, it would not likely get off the drawing hoard as it would be seen as too extravagant and expensive - "a dollar spent on commemorating our prime ministers is a dollar too much". Secondly, I suspect we would not dare proposing to celebrate a group of politicians who, as a profession, many Canadians seem to consider petty thieves and swindlers, crazy men or general ne'er-do-wells on the take. With this attitude firmly entrenched, we can be sure to get the governments we deserve for a long time in the future. While I am on this historical theme, we also followed sections of the Lewis and Clark trail (while reading Stephen Ambrose's excellent account of the expedition - "Undaunted Courage"). We passed dozens of historical sites and trail markers and could have gone to at least 4 interpretation centres in the states we visited. We spend three hours in the interpretation centre in Great Falls, Montana - a marvellous museum full of multi-media presentations and even real park ranger-type historians presenting lectures about many aspects of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Crossing the border into Canada, into the vast country that David Thompson charted at the same time covering as much, if not more, territory than Lewis and Clark - we found nothing in our trip through Alberta and BC's Columbia watershed in BC to mark his immense role in defining our country. No museums, no historical plaques - though I'm sure one or two of these must exist somewhere. Most of the Lewis and Clark commemorations were built in 2005-06 to mark the 200th anniversary of their expedition. David Thompson's bicentennial was 2008 - and what did we do? I know there were proposals for recreating his voyage down the Columbia but did anything happen? If we do not as a nation nurture our history, we condemn ourselves to a rudderless drift through time. With so many other countries we have visted doing a much better job than Canada of telling their story (the National Trust in the UK springs to mind), how do we expect new immigrants to Canada to attach themselves to a meaningful understanding of their new home. Instead of tackling this question head-on, we spend our time wondering why these folks cloister and comfort themselves in the traditions and cultures that they supposedly "left behind". Something, as usual, to ponder in more detail in the future.

While we have unpacked our bags, we expect it will take much longer to unpack our journey. We have felt very fortunate to do the things we have done and see the places and people we have seen. To be part of the world or a part from it? - that is the question. There were many times I wish I could make what I was seeing in Africa and India go away. And many more times I was deeply moved by what I was experiencing. If I've lost anything on this journey, it is any capacity to deny that there is real and profound hardship in many parts of the world. I have also lost my ability to insulate myself from this suffering as something I need never see or think about as we lead our charmed lives in "the Best Place on Earth". Whatever remained of this particular bubble is forever broken. While I may have some more unpacking left to be done, I rather doubt I will find these capacities again. Though I will not deny that sometimes I will miss them.

Adjusting Again

Greetings faithful blogistas. We find ourselves adjusting to yet another country on the "If not now, when" tour de monde and this time it is our own. Still viewing the world through a traveller's eye, Canada immediately conjures up some unforgettable images for these weary wanderers.

Our first real re-entry to Canada began a week before we left when I found myself unexpectedly in the Canadian embassy in Rome one business day before we were due to leave for Toronto from Paris. This particular rendez-vous with representatives of my home and native land was occasioned by an incident the day before in Pisa when I was relieved of my passport courtesy some crafty pickpockets at the Pisa airport. Having your passport stolen along with various bank cards, traveller's cheques and cash is not something I would wish on anyone - especially if you are on the verge of leaving for home. However, I must say that the process for a replacement passport, although a multi-Euro blowout, was commendably smooth and efficient. Our consular staff abroad has been taking some heat recently - particularly in the highly bizarre case of Suaad Mohamud in Kenya. However, the experience of this Canadian was entirely different. I filled out my first forms at 9:30 in the morning and had a temporary passport in my hands by 3:00 that afternoon.

After adding yet again to our carbon footprint by flying from Rome to Paris, we spent a delightful day in the city of light and magic - mostly flaked out like many others in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The next day we flew to Toronto.

Some of the differences I observed on returning to Canada were evident immediately. Unlike many airports in the world where the corridors streaming out towards the international arrivals hall are decked with dramatic photos and assorted tourist eye candy, none of this is on display in the grey and sterile halls snaking through the new international terminal at Toronto's Pearson airport. Indeed - godstruth!!! - we actually saw a Tim Horton's outlet before we saw the "Welcome to Canada" sign as we approached the customs and immigration hall. Being the famously egalitarian nation that we are, all aspiring entrants to Canada are herded in common towards the immigration booths. In most other countries we have entered, special lines are reserved for the country's nationals.

Once we got out and about the following day, one of the first things we observed was the enormous number of chain stores that present themselves in even the smallest of strip malls. Welcome to Maltropolitan Toronto. We effortlessly hit three of them within the first half-hour of a small shopping expedition to restock our supplies. With the exception of the UK (which, for the record, is not half as bad as Canada in this respect), we had spent all of our trip shopping in small stores and boutiques in countries which appear to have successfully kept the invasion of the chains at bay.
A more sobering observation was run-down state of large swaths of the Toronto area with its cracking road infrastructure and a plethora of "For Lease"-posted and weeded-up warehouses and industrial plants - visible evidence of the economic downturn in Canada's rust-belt surrounding Toronto. This does not, however, appear to stop the steady march of new, ticky-tacky suburbs leap-frogging over suburbs and swarming the land. A five day sojourn in Ottawa took us through some wonderful open spaces and landscapes that were a balm for the eye after many months of enduring crowded, garbage-strewn places where nature is ravaged. Yet among this splendid scenery we saw several beat up, rusted-out trailers and work sheds scattered around the roadsides as if they had been tossed there by a super-human litterbug. The vastness of the space can, I suppose, accommodate the odd blight. And in the midst of this vastness I was happily reminded that there is really nothing in the world more refreshing and restorative than a summer dip in a fresh Canadian shield lake.

This week we start our homeward journey - with a first stop in Winnipeg where we will be reunited with our wonderful daughter as well as Mad Max, our trusty Nissan Maxima. Mad Max will be our steed for our road journey westward which will hopefully present more observations to harvest. Westward ho!!!

The Moveable Feast Returns to the beginning

Greetings all - the Moveable Feast has returned to from whence it began - Paris. For those who dont know, "The Moveable Feast" is the title of Ernest Hemingway's memoir of life in Paris in the 1920s which I consider to be his best book. It is a captivating piece of travel writing that well captures both time and place for those of us - like me - who wish we had been there alongside Papa H and his exotic menagerie of friends. It seemed to me a good title for this blog for a trip where we have feasted on the scents, sites and sounds of many parts of the world that I would have scarely imagined I would visit even a few years ago. I am not signing off yet as we still have a North American part of this adventure ahead and I look forward to compiling my often acerbic and twisted reportage on the trail back home.

My one resounding piece of advice to all - if you can take a year off to travel or do whatever you want for that matter, do it! - and do it while you are still lucky enough to have the good health and energy to make the best of it. Patty and I are indeed fortunqte to be in this coveted state and to have had this opportunity - no matter how often we were reminded that we were no longer backpackers in our early 20s.

Naturally, we are a wee bit travel weary at this point (some 85 beds into the trip) and are looking forward to our return to Canadian soil. During our last few weeks in Croatia and Italy, we have been hit by the dual sledgehammers of a heat wave and a full-frontal tourist blitz throughout the sites and cafes of these places. The latter has been worse in many respects but we have enjoyed soem of its sideline benefits - for example, overhearing the most remarkable conversations between distinctly unworldly tourists and, in internet and telephone cafes, their colourful phone calls back to their Moms trying to extract extra cash because their hostel is a mess. We can just hear their Moms thinking that it could not possibly be worse than the state of thir bedrooms at home.

After travelling gracefully incident-free for ten months, our luck finally ran out this week at the Pisa airport where I was relieved of my passport and other valuables by a pick pocket. All of a sudden we were not lazing around Pisa enjoying its famously tilting sites, we were bulleting to Rome to get to the Canadian embassy on the last business day before a long weeken to get an emergency passport. The Embassy was able to perform magnificently under the circumstances in a multi-multi Euro transaction. The consular staff also let me know that it has one of the highest incident rates in the world for stolen passports confirming that Italian operators are not only deft with their hands in carving marble and painting ceilings.

I am spending today researching the big differences between Paris and Rome - two frontline contenders for the classiest cities in Europe. Early observations in Paris suggest far fewer sunglasses deployed and far more smlall dogs relieving themselves on the streets. Nor have we seen any police women in high heels yet. In Italy, unlike at home, I noted that the highway authorities do not dare tell Italians to take off their sunglasses when entering tunnels. Anyone who has driven in Italy will recall how prodigous are the Italians in tunnel building. Rather than asking that sunglasses be removed, they simply light up these immense tunnels so vision through Raybans is comfortable.

Au revoir

Negotiating B&B and "V" Tuscan style

Buongiorno from the rolling hills of Tuscany, where Patty and I have beat a retreat to escape from sweltering temperatures the likes of which have haunted us often during our trip. My meager attempts to read an Italian newspaper the other day suggested to me that substantial parts if Italy are on fire - or were those fireman in the photo hosing down another of Sr Berlusciloni's hot house parties. Perhaps both. Nevertheless, we have found ourselves the temporary and only occupants of the agriturismo Poderuccio, a guesthouse housed in a small wine and olive oil farrm perched atop a panoramic ridge just outside of Montalcino, south of Sienna. The world economic implosion has certainly dampened tourism throughout those parts of the world we have visited on this trip. We have had no difficulty getting rooms anywhere and usually in the places we want to stay. My sharply honed haggling skills built in mouth-to-yell commercial combat in the markets of India, Africa and Turkey has enabled me to enjoy a significant advantage in negotiating room rates. I usually ask for the best rate for one night, try and bargain this down and then ask for the rate for 3 or 4 nights while wrenching a confession from the landlord that his establishment is empty or, at best, not very busy. This has usually worked to shave precious rupees, forints, lira, rand, kuna, pounds sterling and euros off of rates, allowing us reinvest premiums into the beverage budget while staying within our target day expenditures. But here, dear blogistas, in the verdant slopes if Tuscany, I appear to have met my match.

Our landlady at the Poderuccio is a small and energetic contadina who has managed to reach her mid-40's without acquiring a single word of English. Now I would not want my Italian to be put to the same test, but then again, I am not in the hospitality industry in one of the most attractive locations in Europe. We arrived here on Thursday and pulled our car into an empty parking lot - a good sign. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, we got down to business. Her first salvo, based on one night accommodation was pitched at €50 a night for B+B. Despite my pointing to the empty parking lot, no yielding was forthcoming beyond saying (as far as I could tell) that this was already a discounted rate - the "Italian move", a favourite opening gambit in these parts. I countered with a request for her best rate for 3 nights. She turned over a fresh piece of paper in my notebook and after thoughtful calculation offered us 3 nights for €150. I began to feign profound contempt accompanied by a lot of arm waving and a rattling of car keys signalling our imminent departure, when she paused and asked us to follow her out of her makeshift reception office to a room at the back of the farm. She opened the door and led us into the wine cellar. Reaching for two wine glasses, she poured us some fresh Orcia Rosso from a cask - a fine if junior vintage from her own vineyards deep in the heart of Italy's premiere Brunello wine country. The wine delivered an effective and salubrious staunching of my next line of attack. Detecting a brief moment of weakness, she pounced again leaving little to be lost in translation with her next scribblings - "Stay 4 nights at €50 a night and I will throw in a couple of bottles of this - 2005's no less, considered to be a very good year around here". As I paused to muster my thoughts and launch my next move, I mysteruously found my voice overtaking this effort with a new found independence of its own - "SOLD" ... Ooops the deal was done, the rate unchanged. Negotiating B&B and V(ino) Tuscan style

Over the next few days, the pains of defeat where generously salved with fresh eggs and the occasional glass of vino bianco fresco from the cask. And I find that with each cork I liberate from the Orcia Rosso, I am beginning to feel better about my routing.

Late breaking news: After the bill was settled this evening and we were enjoying dinner on the panoramic view balcony, she came to our table and asked to take away out empty wine bottle. The best we could make our of her rapid-fire Italian was that she wanted the empty vessel for this year's production. Instead, much to our delight, she returned with our bottle filled from the cask and a sing-song "arrivederci" to bid us farewell. It was enough to restore one's faith in humanity.

On other fronts, we have been happily diverting ourselves here by chasing the summer concert circuit on offer in the open-aired paizzas, parks and even ancient Roman ampitheatres throughout Tuscany. Last Saturday we saw ex-Talking Heads lead David Byrne in the 2500 seat Roman ampitheatre in Fiesole, 10 km uphill from Firenze. A fantastic 10 out of 10 show with wonderful musicians, dancers and coreography. Really, how often do you get to see a dancer leapfrog over the head of the featured musician in mid-guitar solo? (Blogistas will recall my confessed love of Talking Heads late last century). On Wednesday, in the Fortezza Medicea in Arezzo, we saw the American folk-rock singer Tracy Chapman perform before a 5000 person audience in a more conventional North American- style festival setting. A good show but only a 6 out of 10 here - marred by little communucation with the audience and a distinct bossiness towards her three piece backup band. What was most surprising to me was to hear her squeaky, scratchy conversational voice - a stark contrast to her robust alto singing voice.

Off to other parts of Tuscany tomorrow in advance of our return to the city of light and magic (Paris not Langford!) on Friday.

Ciao for now!

Firenze Frenzy

Buono Sera blogistas - and a warm greetings from one of the world's great cities - Firenze (or as we choose to "dumb down" its name in English, Florence). Patty and I have been here for a few days and are finding that a city that initially appeared to be muggy and crowded has easily set its hooks into us in no time at all. If one is a true art lover (which I must confess I am not), I can well imagine intending to stay here for a few days and then extending for a month.

Firenze, at the height of the Renaissance in the 15th century found itself in one of these rare times and places in history where a convergence of human energy and spirit unleashed an unparralled explosion of art and culture. Some of the true giants of Western civilization were at work here in this city over at the same time - including Michelangelo, da Vinci, Galileo, Machiavelli and Bottecelli. As you walk around these streets with art on virtually every corner, one wonders what must have flowed in the air and water of this place to give birth to the intellectual floweriung that Firenze cultivated during the Rennaisance. One can imagine the jousting of these major players, bouncing ideas off of each other and rising to the challenges of their competitors' work to bash boundaries and push fornteirs. It helped, for sure, that there were major benefactors in place, such as the Medicis, as well as lesser lights who sought to define their status in society by commissioning a pianting here, a sculpture there or a chapel in their church. I often wonder if the people who lived here at the time knew they were in the middle of one of these rare global epicentres. Have we seen the likes of 15th century Firenze since? Paris in the Enlightenment of the 18th century perhaps. And one wonders if we will we see its likes again in our contemporary XBox culture?

That's enough for all of these weighty questions. As the "If not now, when?" tour de monde enters its last few weeks overseas, Patty has re-christened it the "It is only money" tour. We are doing a commendable job burning Euros in Firenze's lether and clothing markets while drowning our cah flow sorrows with some fine Chianti. We have also added a new twist to the Tuscan cultural tour and have decided to rent a car and chase all and sundry pop and jazz acts as they converge on Tuscany's delightful festivals in various piazzas and Roman ampitheatres over the month of July. It is time for some true confessions here - one of my favourite acts of the "new wave" era was the Talking Heads. Last night, in a 2500 seat, 2000 year old Roman ampithetre in Fiesole "uphill" from Firenze, we saw a fantastic concert by Talking heads-lead David Byrne accompanied by some very talented musicians and dancers. On Wednesday, we are heading to Arrezo to see Tracy Chapman in conecert (for all of 15 Euros a ticket). Four days later, in Lucca's main square, we hope to see John Fogerty, leader of what Rolling Stone magazine called the "greatest garage band in the world" - Creedence Clearwater Revival. And this is just a selection of what is on offer in these parts over the next month with acts including Stevie Winwood, James Taylor, Chick Corea, Keith Jarret and Joe Jackson - all of whom are playing at ticket prices considerably below North American concert fees. I am sure we will enjoy these shows - again, with great apologies to our children who might have been expecting some sort of inheritance.

Ciao Bella