I want to be upfront about something. I love my family; I am grateful for my quality of life and the joy I get from spending my days writing. I love my husband who keeps me particularly happy and understands my humour when I call him “pony” and tell him to “make it rain” a pros pos of nothing, at least not something I could explain out of context (or in context). I love having my kids in school and I feel an extra abundance of affection for their teachers this year who educate them during the day. After Covid, maybe all parents of school-aged children are feeling this way? I’m having these fond feelings while simultaneously repeating a silent mantra in my head. One that keeps popping up. Leave, the voice whispers. Just go.

I’m completely happy in my work life. I love my Master’s program, engaging with other writers, having my work reviewed and receiving feedback and criticism and giving that gift back to others. And attending literary events. I’m mostly new to the scene of book readings, workshops and panels and it’s been such a rich experience. But I’m missing something. Something Covid has taken from me.


The freedom to connect with others in person, to gather over the holidays and, especially, to travel. I miss travelling. I miss traveling the way you miss an old friend, deep in my bones, like a visceral ache, a phantom limb. The world was there to explore, full of enjoyment and novelty, and now it’s not.

The other day, I was in the middle of an online poetry reading session, one that I was truly enjoying, when my eye caught the bottom of the Zoom screen window. The word ‘LEAVE’ stared back at me in bright letters. Leave. LEAVE. Yes! That is exactly what I want to do. That voice inside me screams louder.

I want to go away; I want to leave right now and be gone, away from here. I tell my husband, “My brain is sick of this place.” I am fine, physically, but my mind, my mind is not. I spend most of my day in the same room where I work, sleep and often eat. My mind is craving something new. An adventure. An escape. LEAVE.

I want to plan a trip, NEED to plan a trip. I pull up travel advisories and wow, that’s just a whole lot of red. The world is bleeding.

I’m in the head space where I want a vacation to look forward to, a means of escape to break up the dreary winter months ahead. I regularly feel that pull this time of year, but this time, no amount of planning is going to make any difference. Covid will decide when and if I go anywhere.

And I know, I know, this is a small loss in a sea of loses. Only a drop into the pool of our collective tears. But it’s how I’m feeling. I’m feeling the loss of experiences I would have had. I’m feeling the activities that have been taken from a chunk of my kids’ childhood. I’m feeling like my home has become a box, or so the story goes at bedtime, “The mommy lives inside a box and the walls keep getting smaller and smaller.” Penelope’s eyes grow wide. “Oh no!” she says, “what happened to the mommy inside?” It isn’t good. For one, she feels squished, which makes her want to lash out.

Space. What an interesting construct. Physical, as in measurable dimensions, but more so, mental, parameters of the mind. Having my husband work from homeis wonderful in so many respects, but before, pre-covid, he travelled extensively, and I was used to his absence, to filling that space. Now there is no space to be filled, instead there is overlap. And even when he was around before, he drove on the daily to his office. I had days without children that were to myself, when I had to cater to no one’s needs but my own and the needs of my work. Not so in the days of Covid.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m a bit sick of you too pony,” I tell him, not unlovingly. But it’s more than that. I’ve been a ‘stay-at-home’ mom for the past nine years. Finally, FINALLY, and I have been waiting a few years for this, I was getting to the place where I no longer felt like the mommy-in-a-box, caged in. I chose to be home looking after kids and then chose for that time to end. I was regaining my freedom and autonomy. I signed up for my Masters that included two weeks away, AWAY per year and I was so SO excited about that prospect. A break from my family AND the chance to hang out with writers and just write? With the bulk of my time spent at home with my family? Perfect. I was euphoric to be accepted into the program. The trip out east. The New York City getaway. Both since gone virtual. That low-residency piece was the cherry on top. Covid has eaten the cherry, and some of the cake, too.

This isn’t just about me needing time away for myself, but it is that too. I’m better for my family when my own needs are met. And I care about them receiving the best version of me, a mom and wife in a healthy head space, not the mommy-in-a-box who feels claustrophobic and desperate. At this point, I don’t even know if what I need is to go somewhere else, or if just knowing that I could go somewhere else would be enough. I suspect the latter. Call me spoiled, but I don’t do well with being told I can’t.

Over the last few years, I’ve gone on trips by myself. These might be for a conference or to visit a friend, but they are scheduled time away. That space worked its way into my life because I needed it. We all have different needs. Mine involves space and time to myself and in Covid-era, this has become impractical, unsafe and in many instances, impossible. Even going to the library has become perilous.

I am not oblivious to the rest of the world’s needs, but I am acknowledging this one small loss, because maybe, just maybe, you feel your own version of stuck-in-a-box. Covid has pushed the walls of our world smaller.

While instant gratification is nice, I do seem to have a knack for the long hall. Writing a book. Long trips. Marathon training. My marriage.

Waiting for Covid to go away is my least favourite activity, but in this case, I want to be around for the long haul and so I will hold off on the gratification piece. Other than solitary dog hikes in the forest, I’m mostly staying home. Sometimes sitting on my hands, watching my mouth, pulling at my hair. But I’m staying home to keep my family safe. I’m staying home to keep your family safe. I’m working through my personal frustrations and dissatisfactions because it’s the right thing to do. I’m pushing back against the walls closing me in created within the confines of my mind. I’m especially holding onto memories of past travel, allowing myself to dream about a near future where everyone is vaccinated, the world is safe again, where I could go somewhere if I wanted to and hoping this small grievance and annoyance is all I will have to face.

For the time being, I’m relying much more on a cheaper method of travel. Leave, just go, the voice whispers. And so I pick up a book and fall inside, and that world has never been more appealing.


Fully Submerged: sometimes you just do things

Our habits are strong, so completely ingrained in us, it’s hard to break free.  I rounded my usual corner at the library and came face-to-face with this crimpy-haired bug-eyed woman sitting at my regular table in my spot.  How ridiculous a claim, my spot; like kindergarteners fighting over a chair who need Xs on the carpet to denote their personal space.  I was carrying a heavy load and made like I was going to dump it off there on her table, my table, but I caught myself – I’m sure the bug-eyed woman noticed – and scanned for another place to set up camp.  We are creatures of habit and breaking out of the mould is difficult – the opposite of commonplace – but there lies adventure and its rewards that await.  Fortune favours the bold.

When I think about stepping outside of the everyday, travel comes to mind.  Several weeks ago, I attended a talk at our local library, by homegrown author Kate Harris, who was there to discuss her incredible and applauded book, Lands of Lost Borders.  An inspiring modern-day adventurer, who very much looks like and is a kind Canadian based in B.C., Kate described her experience of cycling across Tibet with a friend disguised as Chinese tourists.  At one point during her talk, she made an offhand remark that struck me immediately and so I did what writers do and I wrote it down.  That night on my laptop, I typed her words into a blank document, which remained untitled as Document24.  Each time I set to work on my computer, I encountered her words staring back at me and I wondered when I might need them.  That moment is now.

“Travel,” she said, “is about changing our internal maps.”  Next to her phrase, I typed: Writing is about changing our internal maps.  When I write, I travel all over the place.

Now here’s the thing.  Reading has certainly taken me all over the place.  To distant times and magical lands, and into grief and through struggles of insurmountable pain.  To the peak of human endurance; to the outstretched wing of a bird and the tip of a friendly octopus’ tentacle.  To Hollywood and surgery, fat shaming and into the shapelessness of water that shifts forms and remembers where we’ve been, strips us bare.  I have physically, with my body, travelled long distances as well.  Around-the-freakin’-world.  Twice.  I did so for the first time when I flew to India in 2014, then again recently with my family.  And I didn’t just fly the distance; we touched down and experienced the world.  We lived it.  But have I yet travelled great distances in my own writing?  I fear not.

During a one-hour stationary bike ride this morning, I finished listening to the audiobook Eat & Run, by Scott Jurek.  This isn’t just a book every athlete – ultrarunner or not – should take in, but one every human should devour.  “Sometimes, you just do things,” became Scott’s mantra for living life, a viewpoint that evolved from his father, who had said the words to him harshly, repeatedly, as a child when Scott questioned the hard labour he was forced to undertake.  Sometimes, you just do things.  Scott took those words to heart, repeated them throughout his life like a mantra. As an ultramarathoner, he ran and then ran some more past the limits the body can take you.  Nearing the book’s end, Scott realizes the answer he has been seeking out his whole life; his true purpose.  He is running to get back to simplicity.  The notion of ‘Doing without doing’, known by the Japanese as Wu Wei.

The book crescendos near the end, and there comes a moment, as Scott is racing for twenty-four hours, when everything else falls away, and he has a monumental epiphany:

“But on this snaking French course, the future didn’t matter.  The past was gone.  There was only the trail.  Only movement.  There was only now, and now was enough. It was more than enough. It was everything.  I ran.  I ran and I ran.”

Now is enough, now is everything.  That day Scott Jurek set a new American record, running 165.7 miles in twenty-four hours.  This is what you came for.  Those words came to him while he was running, but not in the context you would expect, not in the context of winning a record.  This is what you came for sounded a lot to him like, Sometimes, you just do things, the words of his father that he had come to shape as his own.  And to that beautiful rhythm, his feet continued to pound against the pavement carving their way through to the next moment.  “There is no finish line,” Scott admits.  Now would have to be enough.

His words spoke directly to my core.  Sometimes, you just do things.  I am no stranger to pain.  But being here, now, can be so difficult.  Even as I try to sit still, the questions come flying at me: which way to go?  What to do next?

How does this all pertain to my writing?  I received an email from a fellow writer with his latest piece attached – the currency of friendship and comradery amongst writers.  I was instantly drawn to how far from his other pieces of writing I had read this current piece was and I knew with certainty that I wanted that creative flexibility, to expand my own creative writing horizons.  The truth is, beyond my blog, most pieces of writing I’ve sought to publish revolve around one topic:  Down syndrome.  This isn’t a surprising piece of information; beyond being a creature of habit, I also hold fierce feelings of loyalty to the topic that lead me down this creative path.  And never disregard matters of the heart.  Down syndrome isn’t even a ‘topic’ I write about; it’s a way I advocate for people with Down syndrome.  There are human beings behind my words, and I never forget that.  And I’m not going to stop writing about Down syndrome, I can’t!  Way too much passion on the subject, YET I need to immerse myself in other waters.  I’ve dipped a toe, here and there, but painted nails do not a diversified writer make.  There is more world, more story, to explore beyond my front door.  And I’m realizing I need to step past that threshold.  I confessed this sin of single-mindedness to my friend, and he said it was cool, that he was glad I noticed I was pigeonholing myself because he was going to gently encourage me to branch out.  This is what you came for.

He wrote to me about the two key factors in making something a story: change and jeopardy and now I’m feeling inspired to take the plunge and write until I’m blue in the face.  He encouraged me to think about our family’s around-the-world trip as a source of inspiration, and a line for a story floated into my consciousness:  Mothers are supposed to play it safe.  We’ll see where that line takes me.  Right now, I’m holding onto an image of breaking waves, my toes curling downward, hiding in the sand.  My hand cupped over my eyes, shielding out the blinding sun.  A scene of dark waters and violent currents in contrast to the florescent pink bathing suits of my children being towed out to sea.

I feel like I am bursting with stories, bursting with life, the question is: which one to write first?  Where do I want to go?  What is it that I came for.

There are no easy answers.  Sometimes, you just do things.





Home: Every End is a New Beginning

We’re back!

Welcome home! Welcome back! Everyone says, not unkindly, though it feels particularly unkind to arrive and immediately get slammed by a snowstorm. It feels like some sort of cruel, sick joke.

There are certain realities of home. Reuniting with people we love and a community that cares about us. That’s nice. No, I mean it. That is nice. I’ve come to appreciate our outer circle even more. I’ve come to appreciate sending my kids to school. Space. Canada has so much wide-open space – one of the first things I noticed our first weekend back when I went out to run errands. O’ Canada! And on that note, running errands in Canada is easy; buying groceries, acquiring food in general is so easy here. After being away, this feels like a small miracle. Everything at home is simple, everything far away is hard. But hard was such an adventure, wasn’t it?

Nearing the end of our trip, I realized what made our travels so great was that I was enjoying myself. I had so much damn fun. It’s hard to come back down off that travel high. I really didn’t want to. I’ve become addicted and I’m in withdrawal. I’m still resistant to the pull of regular life. Everyday life feels a little bit like being dragged downstream by a current. There’s a roaring in my ears. I can fight it and struggle, but I’m going to get pulled down anyway. I keep getting sucked under, banged and scraped against rocks I forgot were there, bounced along the bottom, gasping for air.

“You must be happy to be home!” they say.

“Not really!” I want to snap back, but that’s snarky and sounds really really ungrateful, and I am grateful, I am, infinitely grateful for the incredible six-week round-the-world experience we had. In the span of our lives, six weeks isn’t much, but it’s that we made something of those six weeks, something really special. We made those six weeks unforgettable.

There are other hardships of coming home, besides the weather and withdrawal and having to acclimatize and act like a functioning adult. There’s my pup, Oreo. I think she’s dying. We’re all heading in that direction, but she seems to be knocking at the gates. She was going blind and deaf before we left, nobody contends that, and while before she seemed mildly confused, now she looks lost. You can see it in her eyes.

“How old is Oreo, mommy?” Ariel asks.

“She’s 14.”

“Then how can she have Indonesia?” my concerned eight-year-old wants to know.

I had explained to the girls that Oreo is periodically forgetting things, like where to go to the bathroom, and where she is in the house, and that’s called ‘amnesia’. I asked them to be particularly kind to her, help her maintain her dignity, a task they’ve taken to with heart. Oreo seems to be suffering from dementia. Her lucidity comes and goes, though she’s noticeably perked up after a few days back home.

Oreo’s condition upon our return could mean only one truth: my pup is deteriorating. It’s a sad thing watching your first baby grow old and senile, but it’s as much a fact of life as having to return from vacation. There is a natural order to things.

Before we left for our trip, Dan and I sat down together and mapped out the summer months with our tentative plans. I know, I know, this sounds nuts, but we did. Anyway, I tucked that calendar of plans away somewhere to be safely retrieved upon our return. I had faith that calendar would be waiting for me. Except, when we got back, and we cleared our stored belongings out of the basement (we had wonderful renters), then I can’t help but notice my precious calendar has gone missing. It was a few pieces of paper stapled together, where could it have gone? At first, I’m busy, we’re literally moving back into our house. There are groceries to get and laundry to fold, so the missing calendar will have to wait.

A few days goes by, and suddenly it seems imperative that I find the calendar. My past self knew things she needs to impart to my future self, which is my current self, and I have to unlock her secrets. The calendar becomes a map to my destiny, a beacon of hope for the future and the wonderful plans we’ve made. But I can’t find it. Anywhere. Now I’m leafing through piles and files and folders, I’m crouching down to check under shelving. Maybe the calendar came loose and fluttered into some crevice? This is ludicrous. I’m tearing my hair out “where could it be!!??” I text my husband; he was there when I wrote it.

I leaf through my day planner, maybe I stuck the calendar in there, and I stop at the current month of December. Below the month bares an inscription. The words bring me instant calm.

Every end is a new beginning.

I say the words again in my mind, slowly. Every end is a new beginning. Of course I realize the words are a cliché and fairly obvious when applied to the final month of December, but I don’t care. I take them as if they appear just for me. And in response, I feel a real glimmer of hope. Our trip may be over, but that just means there’s room for something else marvellous to begin. Thank you, universe!

Dan texts me back, “Are you sure you didn’t just write the calendar in a notebook?” I thumb through the Hilroy notebook I had on the go before we left, and sure enough, there are my well laid plans for a bright future – except, you know what? They aren’t as great as I remembered them.

We can work on that.

Lovely Lisbon, Perfectly Portugal: Saying Goodbye

You’ll have to believe me when I tell you it’s hard to fathom six and a half weeks has gone by in the blink of an eye. It has. Don’t tell our parents, but I was loathe to return and see our trip come to an end so much so that I pleaded with Dan to extend. Morocco, we would head to Morocco, a place I originally slated into our itinerary, but for lack of time, we had to leave out. Africa! I made my case, then let Dan mull over the pros and cons of asking work for yet another week away, and in the end let’s just say it didn’t work out. I’ll have to live to see Africa another day. I can dream, but I can’t complain.  We had an incredible trip.

I’ve enjoyed travelling so much so in fact that I would have happily continued to do so for a year, maybe more. We met a few awesome families along the way, one of whom were fellow Canadians travelling for a year with their two girls; another group from Oregon travelling for two years with teenage daughters and a son Elyse’s age. I’m reading a book, One Year Off by David Elliott Cohen about a U.S. family with three young kids, ages 2, 7 and 8 who sell their home and make for the globe. When you get a good taste for travel, meet other families who are travelling longer, and read about world travelling families, it isn’t too hard to envision yourself in their shoes. Maybe one day. In the meantime, back to work and real life. Christmas is coming!

Lisbon was a dream. European cities hold old world charm and there was an abundance to discover. The history of the place is staggering and humbling. Their statues honour those who discovered “new worlds”, i.e. America. Lisboa in a snapshot is all squares, some raised on stilts (!) and painted tiles called azulejos; dank alleyways and lit smokes. Exuberant grandmothers tapping our girls on the cheeks, dark hair, dark eyes and tanned skins, yellow trams used as buses or elevators, seven mountains with viewpoints, miradouros, high above; fado music acapella floating in through our window, oceanfront graffiti, and custard nata tarts. Salted cod fish, bacalhau, hearty lunches, late dinners, cobblestone streets, narrow passageways and secret staircases. NASCAR taxi drivers, euros that slip away like a fish from your grasp, roundabouts round, a zoo, the oceanario, and the beautiful language of Portuguese, obrigada, thank you (obrigado for a man). Cruise ships docked and tourists, throngs of us, teaming the streets; wolfish vendors and restauranteurs with hungry eyes, licking their lips. The clown who gifted our children with balloons we did not want, never asked for; Dan and I rolling our eyes, playing along, for the children, think of the children. “One euro”, the clown’s hand outstretched. I reach into my bag, pull out the piece.



“One euro, each.”


The clown isn’t smiling. Her eyes grow cold. I don’t budge an inch.
She leaves, with a flourish of her hand, dismissing the children.


Chocolate cake and croissants with chocolate, decadent desserts, creaky wooden steps and floorboards, sleepy children, wine glasses clinking, a courteous knock on our apartment door, “Excuse me – I understand, I once had small children, but they are running on my head.” Walking feet and tippy toes, an antiquated apartment. Acoustics. Sound that carries.

A statue, arms wide open, churches set against blue skies, layers of edifices, centuries old, millenniums. Concrete steps to climb on, balance, jump off. City jungle gym. The rattle of our rickety fold-up stroller. The piercing smell of human waste, piles of clothes, empty bodies, missing. The telltale signs of any big city. A beggar woman cross-legged in front of a two-thousand-year-old church, clanging a coin in a tin cup.

Chickens! Roosters! Brightly coloured, mosaics, checkers, paintings. Old meets new. Sleek, exhibition park, pier-side, a gondola ride. Jellyfish-spotting from above. Blub, blub.

The ease of normalcy returning; the familiarity of Europe in food and folk. A French tour guide, the awesome surfing waves of the Atlantic crashing against the rugged coastline. A farmer’s market outside of town. Six euros for an armful of fruit. A large mango – surprise! – papaya. And octopus, you must eat the seafood, that tastes like, well, chicken.

Castles and palaces, kings and queens past. Whole rooms dedicated to mermaids. Thrones and royal gardens. Grand walkways and palisades. Ariel’s search for the crown jewels, but none to be found in Sintra’s summer palace (try the permanent residence). Pena’s towering height and bright pastels, turrets and towers, staggering views, but mind the drop. Cheapo vino, dark ale, bitter coffee quick quick, make it an espresso.

An unassuming day, an unassuming time, a riotous uproar down the alley to my left. Football fans leave the bar, as dusk settles, on the move, chanting for victory. A pregame display of machoism, patriotism and club fidelity. Do not get between a man and his ball.

Where are all the women?

Sports fans? Joggers? I encounter mostly men. Families in the squares? Mostly it is men milling about. Do I imagine, when I handle our affairs, the men eyeing me curiously? Small men with tight-fitting jeans. Have I stumbled into a man’s world? Back in time?

It’s a new world. Old world charm. Could I fit in here? I already know I would.

Many a stone left unturned, more to see and learn,
Until we meet again.
When one trip ends…another one begins.

Koh Samui, Thailand: Relative Safety

I thought the ocean was the dangerous place. Venomous jellyfish, crashing waves that can drag you under, saltwater that burns the eyes and hungry mysterious sea creatures below. But mostly it was the jellyfish I feared.

My fear isn’t completely irrational. I read the memoir Traveling with Ghosts, by Shannon Leone Fowler, who was vacationing with her fiancé in Thailand when he unexpectedly dies after getting stung by a venomous jellyfish. The injected venom caused his heart to stop and he was dead within five minutes.

On the day of our arrival in Koh Samui, I sized up my foe, the ocean. Impressive, perhaps insurmountable. There was a sign posted warning about venomous jellyfish, but not about their lethality. I took this as an admission of the jellyfishes’ presence and confirmed existence, and that the potential threat of a sting was indeed plausible. But what I needed to assess was the severity and the species of jellyfish encountered.

The evening of our arrival, having stuck only to the glistening safety of the pool that day, I typed “jellyfish” and “Koh Samui” into Google. My research confirmed my fears: over the years, people have died from jellyfish stings here. Just a month ago, a ten-year-old boy was severely stung and rushed to hospital. In one photograph, the boy is being led under the arm by an ambulance attendant; his face pale and ashen. Next to him, juxtaposed in a smaller frame, is the culprit and attacker: a translucent box jellyfish. Scrolling down the page revealed a third photo of the boy’s foot, badly blistered.

The attacks I read about seemed to be localized to one part of the island, not where we were or at this time of year. After reading the article, I turned to Dan,

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to swim in the ocean. I don’t think I can let the kids go in – it’s too scary.”

On day two, the waves calmed down a bit, and I jogged alongside my foe, in a pitiful display of intimidation. Oh, I longed, how I longed to penetrate those waves.

I jogged past a little girl laying on her stomach in the sand, with her back to the ocean. The waves pounded and crashed down in the background then lapped at her legs, gently – playfully – pulling her in.

What fun.

During my run, I also spotted a roped-in (netted?) area for swimming. This would be my entry point.

My family acquired beach toys, and the plan was to play safely at the water’s edge.
With Dan and the girls settling in at the beach, I told him where I was going, loosely, pledging to find us a “safe place to swim” and that I would be “right back”. He never saw me again.

Just kidding!

I got my family to the beach because of one reason only: chlorine rash. All three girls got nasty painful rashes from the chemicals in the swimming pool the day before. Go figure. With the girls needing a break from the harsh exposure of the chemicals against their sensitive skins, a beach day seemed in order.

I paced down the beach, seeking a perfect “safe” spot. Finally, two kilometers later, at the spot where I had turned back in my run, I came across the nets and a dad playing in the water with his little girl. The little girl had a blond braid trailing down her back and she must have been five or six. She played carefree, while I stood frozen in place, looking out at the waves that beckoned. Finally, I inched my way close enough to get pummelled by a wave, then I was in the ocean. Nothing bad happened.

By the time I walked back to Dan and my family, I’d reached the conclusion that probably anywhere along the shoreline was just as safe as anywhere else. Dan and I jumped in together, from the shores on the property of our resort. We packed up for lunch, and that afternoon took the kids back to the pool and made sure to rinse them off well afterwards, which seemed to help with the rash situation.

That evening at dinner, it happened. I saw a couple moving gracefully through the water as the sun set. They looked like angels floating through heaven out there, and I, momentarily, seriously considered ditching my dinner and my family to join them – such was my desire to truly swim in the ocean. Turns out the couple are from Kazakhstan (side note: cool! I’ve met someone from Kazakhstan – Kazakhstanis!).

While I had all of my attention focused on the ocean, I’d completely overlooked other potential threats.

There are feral dogs roaming the grounds of our resort. They aren’t aggressive towards humans (until they are), but random dog fights occasionally arise on the beach and within ear shot. Penelope and Ariel broke free and sprinted ahead of Dan and me after lunch one day, and a dog came out of nowhere and barked aggressively at them, stopping them in their tracks. Thankfully, someone called it off. Another morning, jogging down the beach, Dan passed by packs of dogs. Normally, the dogs barely lift their head, but as he reached the turnaround point, a dog charged at him barking aggressively. He yelled at it and grabbed a stick for his way back.

We are staying in a beach front villa that has a partially covered private patio. On day two, returning back to the safety of our villa from the beach, a black and green snake slid (or fell) down from its perch with a THUD on the ground beside Dan. The snake slithered into the corner where he stayed to visit for a while.We took pictures and asked the hotel staff about him.

“Just little bite, but you should have it removed because of the children.” They might not know not to touch it.

There go the howls of the dogs again.

I ventured down the laneway leading away from our resort and across the street to a coffee shop owned by a German expat with a man bun. I told him about my interest in renting a motorized scooter. He looked at me skeptically,

“Have you ever ridden one before?” Admittedly, I hadn’t.

“It’s incredibly dangerous to drive here,” he warned. “One and a half people die in traffic accidents on the island every day, and in Thailand it’s over 12,000 people per year. Thailand is considered one of the most dangerous places to drive in the world.”

Interestingly enough, the thirty-minute car ride from the airport to our resort was dotted with motorcycle and scooter rentals. With our lack of experience being a factor, and the sheer unexpected busy-ness of traffic on the island, Dan and I decided to pass on the Asian driving experience.

While I had found the courage to jump in and get back out, I wanted to fully enjoy the ocean and to do so, I began interviewing locals. I asked various hotel staff members about the jellyfish situation. Had anyone ever been stung here? Hurt? Killed?! They mostly told me, “No, no, no – no have jellyfish!” One local woman pointed across the way to the visible nearby island of Ko Pha-ngan and said pointedly, “but don’t go swim there.” That is, in fact, the island where Shannon Leone Fowler’s fiancé died. I found the woman’s comment troubling.

I finally got what I felt was an honest and accurate answer. Yes, there are some jellyfish, and people get minor stings, but “we put the vinegar on it, they okay.” I could live with that. I would live.

The next day I woke up and the ocean was calm and clear as glass. I spotted the Kazakhstani couple out there swimming and without a second thought, dressed in my bathing suit, snapped on my watch and swim cap, and headed for the door. My feet hit the sand at a jog and I dove straight into the waves. Okay, I paddled out cautiously, like a frog, but it was a glorious moment, all the same. I was able to push my fears aside. I swam for 600 meters back and forth up and down the shoreline. The ocean lifted me up, effortlessly, each stroke felt light and breezy. I waved excitedly at the Kazakhstani couple, my water comrades, as I caught up to them. I was in heaven. With the water flat and waves mellowed out, my entire family joined me in the ocean after breakfast. We swam off and on for hours and delighted in the experience of the warm bath. Ariel remained somewhat skeptical about the safety of the sea; Penelope was carefree and Elyse, my little pitcher with big ears, screamed and hollered in protest when I dragged her into the ocean. Perhaps the only sane one of the bunch.

Another dog stalks by me, watching me from the corner of its eye.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the ocean’s a dangerous place deserving of respect. And for the record, just as many people have died from box jellyfish stings on Koh Samui as have died on Ko Pha-ngan – about seven or eight people on each island over the last twenty years.

There’s no doubt in my mind the ocean’s a dangerous place, just not today.

Author’s note: The day after I wrote this piece, I went for another morning swim and experienced tingling and annoying stings on various parts of my body. At first, I chalked it up to psycho-somatic symptoms: you know, I’m writing about killer jellyfish and now I’m feeling jellyfish stings, come on! I was wearing goggles, and as I cut through the water I looked down and could see nothing, but felt stabs of pain; it was like being stung by ghosts. Eventually, I got out to check my stinging arms, and there were indeed tiny red marks. My friends from Kazakhstan were also getting out of the water, and the husband confirmed it for me. Jellyfish arrived with the tide. I was stung by jellyfish. I was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and my abdomen was inflicted the most. Hive-like welts scattered across my stomach.

If you or someone you know is stung by a jellyfish, apply vinegar to the wound immediately. Vinegar helps to remove the tiny stingers leftover and prevent further venom from getting into your bloodstream.

Clearly, the jellyfish that stung me were not dangerous – I’m here to write about it – but let’s just say I was happy we booked a land tour for the next day.

Chiang Mai, Thailand: The Most Enchanting Experience of My Life

You know how there are those moments that can change everything in an instant? Often, this is in a bad context, but I believe just as strongly in the irrevocable flashes of good in our lives. The moments when the universe steps in and says look what is possible.

For me, these moments include the night Dan proposed under a starry sky of snowflakes, our wedding day, the birth of each of our children, and a handful of incredible experiences I’ve encountered through life and travel, many of them on this trip around the world. So far, Thailand has given me no less than two such amazing experiences. The first was visiting Elephant Nature Park, a sanctuary and place to encounter elephants in their natural environment. The second experience, that dazzled and amazed, can be summed up in three words: the lantern festival.

There are two festivals happening simultaneously during our time in Thailand. The name of the festival varies by region, but it is the same festival, essentially. Loy Krathong is characterized by releasing small boats into the water, called krathong, that are made from banana trees, decorative flowers and a lit candle. Loy Krathong was traditionally celebrated on November 11, but with tourist interest and attention, the festivities have ballooned to last several days (this year from November 8 to 12). The exact date also depends on the lunar calendar and the arrival of the full moon. In Buddism, releasing krathong is supposed to appease the Queen of the River, Kongka, and serve as an apology for taking her water and doing with it what we will. While Loy Krathong is celebrated across Thailand, specific to the region of Chiang Mai with its old city, is Yi Peng. As a member from the staff of our hotel explained to me,

“The North of Thailand we call Yi Peng. The people are called Yi Peng.”

While Yi Peng is the name of the festival of lights in the North, it also happens to be the birthplace of the tradition of releasing lanterns, called khomloy, into the air in Thailand, which now happens in other cities in Thailand as well. Khomloy are large lanterns, lit from the bottom like hot air balloons. You grasp the khomloy tight, and then when it reaches peak temperature and tugs away from your grasp, begging to be let go, you release it up into the air, along with all of your troubles and a wish for good things to come. This year, the mass release of the lanterns was slated to happen on November 11th and 12th mostly; and though the city of Chiang Mai tried to outlaw releasing khomloy within the old city limits for the first time, the Yi Peng were not dissuaded, I can assure you.

Releasing the lanterns carries great significance and is a symbolic act. As our hotel staff member explained,

“Your life now has a trouble, your wish make it better. Make a wish about the good things to come in your life, (release the lantern) make the bad things go away.”

Our accommodation was twenty-five minutes outside the city by car, and our hotel graciously organized a boat tour for its guests to be able to experience the simultaneous festivities, lights by sky and water, in the middle of it all. Of course, there are organized mass lantern releases, and you can pay $100 a ticket, but arguably the best place to see the lanterns and experience the sights and sounds is in the heart of the old city of Chiang Mai, by Narawat bridge. The cost to be in the old city is free, if you can fight your way in; the view priceless.

Our little boat crew of about twenty-five people took off downstream. We could see beautiful krathong floating in the water right from the start, from the shores of our hotel, but as we passed by several celebrations taking place further along the banks of the river, the array of accumulated lights along the water was dazzling. By boat, to reach the heart of the action, we had about an hour of drifting to do, but around each bend the anticipation and thrills only grew. We saw a few lanterns, khomloy, dancing high in the air in the distance, a harbinger of delights to come.

As we approached the city, we observed many people releasing khomloy into the air and krathong into the water, but it was the scene as we rounded the final bend that was the most spectacular. Thousands of illuminated lanterns, suspended in the air, moving in unison, rising. My eyes glowed from the sheer pleasure of the scene. And as we drew nearer, the lanterns only grew bigger, fireworks shooting off all around us, packed shores and bridges, bodies and lights everywhere. I could plainly see the scene from shore would have been too much for our little family. We would have been engulfed by the masses entirely. Even from the water, the scene was overwhelming. I was brimming with emotion, every one of my senses firing, lit up. The thought came to me, and without question I knew it to be true: this is the most enchanting experience of my life.

Our boat tour began at 8:00 p.m. – past our children’s regular bedtime. Despite her tiredness, Ariel remained engaged for quite a while; but when she deteriorates, she deteriorates fast. Penelope, bright-eyed, was eager for adventure and told me, “This is so cool!” as we approached the multitude of lights by boat. Elyse was able to take in the sights and sounds, but in a modified way. We needed to tune down the sensory experience for her so as she would not become too overwhelmed and shut down completely. The combination of a late night, being out in the dark, loud and abrupt sounds, bright lights, a moving open-air boat, and a foreign situation all spell disaster for our sensitive Elyse. So we did what we had to do – not what I would have liked to do – but what we had to do, and we brought earphones and an iPad to help keep Elyse calm. During what I would call the height of the chaos and beauty, while our boat was momentarily stationary, Elyse took off her earphones and came over beside me while I lowered a krathong on behalf of our family into the water, and that was a beautiful moment. She took part in her own way.

There were several families and children on the boat alongside us, which was nice. The look of wonder and excitement on their faces, on all of our faces. One French-speaking boy, who took a particular liking to Elyse, happened to be on board with his family. Earlier in the day by the pool, I had come down for a swim with Ariel and Penelope, while Elyse was upstairs still getting ready. The little boy came right over to me and asked,

“Où est celle qui a sept ans?” Where is your daughter who is seven years old? He was delighted when she joined us shortly thereafter.

After our evening boat ride ended, sometime after 10:00 p.m., each of us filled to the brim by the experience, but also exhausted from the day’s events, we traipsed through the lobby on the way back to our room, and I caught up with the little boy again. He handed me a candy. “Oh, thank you! Is this for me?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Oh, it’s for Penelope?” who was standing beside me.

He shook his head again.

“Non, c’est pour celle qui a sept ans.”

Elyse had already made her way upstairs, but I made sure to deliver the candy from her crush.

There are definitive moments and large sweeping gestures, grandiose scenes of lantern-lit skies that take your breath away and then there are the everyday kindnesses that make life so sweet and worthwhile, that make the heart glow from the inside out as bright as floating lanterns backlit against the night’s sky. I am grateful to have experienced both in one day. Life will never be the same.

Japan II: The Ice Cream Incident

I am currently 2,743 feet up in the air. The temperature is minus forty-five degrees Celsius, but I’m donning a sleeveless dress with black tights. We are on our way to Thailand and I am prepared for the thirty-five-degree heat. But I can’t leave Japan without a warm farewell, a sincere sayonara, and a further account of our experiences there.

We stayed in Japan for a total of eleven days, and spent time in Tokyo, Yamanashi (Mt. Fuji region), Hiroshima – including a day trip to Miyajima Island – Kyoto and Osaka. Our time in Kyoto and Osaka was admittedly short, about twenty-four hours each. How long does one need to stay in a place to get a sense of it? Not that long, it turns out.

While Tokyo was hit by a typhoon a few weeks before our arrival, the climate cooperated perfectly during our stay. The ongoing joke between Dan and I was him asking if we needed the winter coats I packed, as the thirteen degree overnight and brisk morning temperatures quickly rose to nineteen or twenty degrees during the day. You can’t say I wasn’t prepared.

Interestingly enough, we hardly needed any of our own clothes during our time in Japan, as we spent four days at a traditional ryokan (Japanese inn) where our attire was provided. From a laundry perspective, this was great news. The hotels we stayed at in the big cities also provided nightwear, aka pyjamas, but we opted for our more casual t-shirts and nightgowns versus the buttoned-up affair.

My impressions of Japan are a series of moments and small details: colourful paper cranes at the Children’s Peace Monument; matcha tea and gelatinous purple treats in the tea house of the rock garden at the ryokan, the sound of a bullet train whining past, like steel breaking the sound barrier; soaking naked in the onsen beside strangers on the roof and staring at Mount Fuji in awe.

Dan described Japan best with a simile. He said Japan is like an iPhone in that if you follow the system, not only do you get the most out of the experience, but it works, and it works well. If you try to deviate outside the norm, there is no flexibility, and you will spend a lot of time banging your head against the wall in frustration. We had our share of glitches in Japan. Nothing frightening or harmful, just the impracticalities of trying to operate under a different system. Of being an outsider.

Perhaps the most acute difficulty with trying to simultaneously figure out a new culture while living our lives was to also care for our children. I often advocate on children’s behalf promoting their ability to adapt to change more readily than adults – and this is true, to an extent. Children are also creatures of routine, and when those routines are significantly altered, chaos can ensue. Okay, in our case, no chaos ensued. Well maybe a little chaos.

The food was the most obvious deviation from our regular routines. Despite Japan’s international reputation as being one of the healthiest nations in the world, partly due to its intake of fresh fish, we struggled somewhat with our diets. In a pinch, Seven-Eleven proved to be a great take-out option, but the meals we procured weren’t necessarily complete or health-conscious. For example, for one of our last breakfasts, I grabbed a cooked hotdog in a bun, a few bananas, donuts (for Ariel, the picky eater), an orange juice, yogurt cups, hard boiled eggs, and an egg & ham sandwich with tomato (a very popular meal option found around the country). While the meal wasn’t un-healthy per se, it wasn’t exactly healthy either. At home, we try to limit our kids’ juice consumption, but in Japan, vending machines abound, we embraced it and tried to fill our kids up on juice more than once. To my surprise, we often found ourselves in restaurants serving udon noodles or ramen, that often also served fried chicken and rice. Those were the staple foods our family came to depend on (outside of our ryokan stay where we were fed like kings and queens). I previously wrote off western foods in Japan, but that’s just not true. There are more options in the bigger cities, you just have to know how to find them. Down the road from one of our Airbnb’s, we stumbled across a burger joint. Hamburgers and onion rings have never tasted so good, especially to Ariel who had been subsisting on dinner bowls of plain white rice.

On the eve of our departure, Dan and I finally said enough is enough and pointedly asked the hotel receptionist for a good place to get sushi.

“We can’t leave Japan without eating sushi!” Dan and I both reasoned, having eaten so little.

When I explained our desire for good sushi, the receptionist was resolute.

“Good sushi and cheap,” she promised me, pointing to a place close by on the map.

Well, we navigated the directions she gave us and found ourselves in a mall food court. Not exactly what we had in mind, but you can’t win them all. Much to my surprise, the food court sushi was sublime. We ordered seconds.

When we found ourselves in a pinch for food, and the kids were getting cranky, ice cream became the answer. Not only did we buy it for our kids en masse, but restaurant owners, those who took us under their wing, those who didn’t even sell ice cream, would give our kids their personal ice cream stash in an attempt to please them.

One afternoon, nearing the end of our Japan stay, we pushed our kids to their limits. They had reached a point of exhaustion for which there was no return. What happened next, I will fondly refer to as the ice cream incident. I am only able to detail the experience now, because we lived through it.

Dan and I rely on Ariel heavily to be the Big Sister, the mature one, the kid who gives us the least amount of grief. Whether this is fair to ask of an eight-year-old or not is debatable, but none-the-less, we have high expectations for her that include helping out, so when she shuts down, all hell breaks loose. On the day of the ice cream incident, Ariel lost her favourite pink sweatshirt. As it turns out, the sweatshirt got left behind on one of our shinkansen (bullet train) rides that day and with the sky overcast, a light drizzle falling, the air felt cooler. She was miserable and cold. Dan wisely refrained from making the winter coat joke. We had more than one long-sleeved shirt for Ariel, of course we did, but we had abandoned our luggage the day before and wouldn’t be procuring it back at the train station until later that day, so she was stuck with only a t-shirt – the first sore spot. Then, we happened to be visiting a “park”. When I say park in Japan, I mean a place where there is some interesting shrine or pagoda or monument. My kids assume playground. I have since learned – the hard way – to watch what I say. BE specific.

Ariel and the others anticipated “park”, aka “playground”. Instead there was a massive crowd and a whole lot of steps to walk up through beautiful, “boring”, wooden orange archways called Torii gates. Ariel was incensed. Elyse protested the crowds and was unsettled riding on Dan’s back in a carrier and Penelope refused her stroller, deciding instead to weave dangerously in and out of crowds of people, risking getting lost or injured. Her behaviour put me on edge, my mother instincts on high alert. Ariel protested her displeasure with her currently situation loudly, repeating the same complaints over and over, with a voice I’ve come to associate with her alter-ego, Exhausted Ariel. I should note, for posterity, that I also have an alter-ego we refer to as my “secretary”. I have the world’s worst secretary who absentmindedly speaks on my behalf, but doesn’t actually listen or pass on any messages or recall any important details of the exchange for real Adelle.

Exhausted, and now irate Ariel was in full swing. The difficulty in travelling as a family – if I were to put myself in the child’s position – is the inability to get away from each other for a break. Dan and I constantly have eyes on our kids, which is exhausting and draining for both sides. Nobody wants to be monitored constantly.

At one point in the steep walk, Ariel staged a showdown. This was it. She wasn’t going to walk any further. I coaxed her up to the top of the next set of steep stairs, at which point she accused me of grave lies, stating I had promised that would be the end of the hike. I had not – could not – make any such promise, having no idea where we were or where we were going beyond following the crowd. As a final straw, I had to implement one of the only respite techniques at my disposal to try and rally the troops – candy. I hate to say it, but with our kids getting whiny, candy has been a great way to either silence them at pivotal moments (think: Penelope bellowing Frozen’s Let It Go! at the top of her lungs in Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Museum) or to try and tide over their hunger or displeasure in a given situation beyond our control. I hate that we have done this. We are not that parent, but then again, I guess we are. You do what you have to do. So, when a little further down the trail, hoping to regain regular Ariel and send Exhausted Ariel packing and I saw the ice cream stand, I offered my children ice cream.

I’d like to pause here to say that Dan and I have done our best to raise respectful, peaceful, grateful children. What follows is a shame and disgrace, but if I’m going to share our adventures, then I’m going to share them all.

There were two flavours of ice cream available for purchase: vanilla and green tea. In Japan, there are replicas of all the food out on display – very helpful – so right away, Elyse latched onto the idea of the green cone, pointing to it profusely, as did Penelope. Ariel, having a better grasp of the situation and her preferences, chose vanilla. So far, everyone is feeling good. Each girl knows she is getting what she asked for. Spirits are brightening at the prospect of ice cream. My plan is working.

Dan and I chose a hot pork bun and a milk tea latte with tapioca “pearls” to share, for the record, and that was the extent of the choices.

There was a small seating area carved out into the jungle for patrons of the small shop to sit with their ice cream. We took our places, and as the cones were prepared, a group of Spanish-speaking women joined us. They were grandmotherly and sought to make a connection with me, mother to mother, which I appreciated, but I was straining under the weight of my children’s needs.

In stark contrast to our children’s exhaustion and foul moods, was the chipper, helpful and industrious little girl working behind the counter taking our payment, counting out our change and serving our ice cream. She must have been the same age as Ariel, about eight.

I’ve tried to encourage my family to adopt a group mentality while traveling together. We do what is best for the group. As such, no one individual has true ownership over anything, if what is best for the group is to share.

The cones arrived, and predictably, ice cream can’t fix exhaustion, it can, however, apparently make things worse.

Elyse didn’t want the green ice cream cone she asked for. She fussed and complained loudly, letting out angry screams. This is a behaviour she engages in when she’s shutting down, frustrated and needing to be heard. Dan, in turn, lambasts me for letting her get what she wants because I should have known she wouldn’t really want the green one. His tiredness showing, having carried forty pounds of extra weight on his back for the last hour up hill, I wisely ignore his slight with a reproachful glance and turn my attention to Ariel’s cone. She will have to share. But Exhausted Ariel doesn’t share, she is understandably too intent on meeting her own needs. The Spanish-speaking women are impartial to Elyse’s screams; one woman says to me, “we’ve all been there before,” as I give her a weak smile in return. As the eternal optimist, even I can’t see this scenario getting better. In fact, it’s going to get a lot worse because now Ariel is complaining, LOUDLY, about having to share HER ice cream cone. She is beside herself. Her voice turns shrill and convalesces into an indiscernible whine. I’m cringing inside and out at the absurdity of my children arguing over ice cream. My cheeks burn at their privilege, at my ineptitude as their parent and embarrassment at the very publicized tantrum by two of my children, screaming at each other back and forth. The icing on the cake was not only could Ariel not bring herself to share any of her cone with her sister, but when Penelope’s cone became available, and Elyse was finally calming down to enjoy some of the last bites of the freed up cone, Ariel snatched it from her hand and Elyse wailed at the injustice. The Spanish-speaking women all sighed and turned away. As it turns out, we hadn’t all been here. I hated for my children – and admittedly myself – to be so exposed to the judgement of others for this subversive behaviour. To watch my children melting down in such a public forum. To add to my shame, as we were preparing to leave, the little girl who had served us the cones came out to offer our girls a cup of broken cones – as a sort of peace treaty. My girls were hardly in a state to show gratitude, but the Spanish-speaking women ate it up, with looks at me that conveyed, that’s how you parent.

I know sugar only makes things worse, but this proves it.

Dan and I packed up our kids, heads down, and continued on our way back down the mountain hoping not to run into anyone who had just witnessed our family catastrophe.

Not long after the ice cream incident, our kids made amends and were reunited in their shared pursuit of petting a shrine cat. Kids are good at forgetting and being in the moment. Dan squeezed my hand and shortly thereafter, we made our way out of the “park” and onwards to our accommodations, with no long-term ill-effects or family fallouts not reconciled. While there are challenging behaviours, I am definitely remembering to hug my kids close and enjoy our time together. Families that play together, stay together, but you have to expect a little rough housing every once in a while.

Ultimately, this story has a happy ending. Ariel’s pink sweatshirt was eventually returned to her, having been recovered from the train station’s lost and found and Exhausted Ariel was laid to rest. Elyse ate many other ice cream cones that she thoroughly enjoyed, none of which were green. Penelope stopped associating bad behaviour with candy, because I learned to disassociate the two, and Dan and I reconciled the tensions the best way adults know how, through more love, less talk. Japanese style.

And one more thing before I go. Did you know that in houses in Japan they don’t just have a shower, but an entire shower room? That it’s customary to remove shoes at the entrance of a home and wear slippers? That there are separate bathroom slippers? That hotels provide sleepwear? That several public bathrooms don’t have soap dispensers? That there are no trash cans anywhere, but it’s not dirty either? That in Hiroshima, you can’t book a taxi before 7:30 a.m.? That our family of five required two taxis with our luggage – and that taking the train or public transport is usually the best option to get around? That Osaka, the city of our departure, has a population almost equal to the size of Canada in its entirety?

That on our flight to Bangkok, we would be served ice cream. And that, predictably, while Dan was out at the bathroom, Ariel would ask the flight attendant for seconds – and seconds would come! I’m shaking my head. What I didn’t know, is that Dan had already given Ariel his ice cream cup. Thirds it is, and many more fun parenting moments ahead.

Japon (Nippon): Culture Shock in the Land of the Rising Sun

We are staying in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. We arrived to face a line of women dressed in kimonos poised and ready to greet us with a bow. I’m so awkward with this type of grandiose hospitality. Upon exiting our shuttle bus, the staff were so eager to take my bags, I just handed them all off. I’m more concerned about someone getting in trouble for not doing their job than I am about what I actually need or want as the guest they’re trying to impress. I walk in and the kimono ladies all bow and greet me with smiles, which my Canadian modesty can bear exactly one time. I walk over to check-in and realize I need our passports and therefore have to run back outside to chase my bag down while the woman assigned to help us is apologizing profusely. Walking through the doorway a second time – all the ladies bowing – it’s almost too much.

Our time in Japan began in Tokyo. You know the pictures you see in magazines of Asians wearing face masks? In Japan – and especially Tokyo – face masks are pervasive. People are not wearing them because they are sick, but as a preventative measure. I wish our family had been quicker to jump on the mask-wearing bandwagon. While mask wearing in North America is broadly reserved for hospitals, I think this is one social taboo we should abandon – for good reason. Our second night in Tokyo both Penelope and Elyse developed a horrendous cough, reminiscent of when our big dog Sumo once had Kennel cough (like whooping cough in humans). The sound is bark-like.

To date on this trip, Elyse’s puke count is up to three. Once after a long flight (we’ve medicated her with anti-nausea meds since during subsequent travel) and twice in one day since arriving in the Mt. Fuji region. She happened to be sharing a futon with me, directly facing me, when she appeared to choke on her phlegm from a cough and threw up all over my pillow. The joys of parenthood. After that, she put herself back to bed and slept the entire morning. She got up around lunch time, drank some orange juice and ate some teddy grahams, which also came up. Then she was fine. A kid’s ability to rally is phenomenal, but I’m questioning whether a face mask may have prevented the drama. While it’s hard to say whether the vomiting was a result of her cough or a virus or otherwise, I know for sure that all the travel and tiredness has something to do with it. Also, culture shock!

One night at dinner Elyse asked for pizza. There is no such thing as pizza in Japan, and for the North American – isn’t that weird! Since we’ve arrived here, I’ve been craving Mexican food – give me a grilled chicken pita or fajitas or a Mexican salad – no way! That is just not in Japan’s wheelhouse. If you want oodles of noodles, then Japan’s got your back. I was expecting sushi to be everywhere, but certain dishes are much more prevalent according to their region than others. There must be a region for the kind of sushi we eat, but we are simply not in it, though I have eaten my fair share of sashimi (raw fish). It is such an odd feeling to be completely outside your comfort zone. Stick me in North America and I can get along just fine. I know what food to buy in the grocery store for my kids. I know I can always order something, and have it delivered to my doorstep. Not so in Japan. The hotel we are staying at, the finest in town, or so I’m told, does not serve lunch; you have to find alternative arrangements, if lunch is your thing. And yes, lunch is my thing.

I have little to no Japanese to work with and the English at the front desk of our hotel is mostly limited, but this is the gist of various conversations I had with staff one morning:

My daughter is sick, can we bring food up to the room for her to eat later (from the breakfast buffet).

The response: Umm, no. No, you cannot bring food up to room.

Prior to lunch time, I inquired about where to eat? The response: you cannot eat here.

Is there anywhere to get takeout or can we order in?


Such a difference in culture! While the hospitality here is truly outstanding, in America it’s my way, all the time, when and how I want it. In Japan, there is a system for everything and that is what keeps the country so orderly, fair, clean and functional. Even with housekeeping, with Elyse sleeping off her sickness in our room, we wondered if housekeeping could be shifted to dinner time.

No. Housekeeping is done by 12:30.

The staff were apologetic, but…not really. Because that’s just the way things are, no exceptions. And – at the risk of sounding like I’m complaining – I’m not at all. I respect boundaries. As an organized person myself, I appreciate Japan’s transparency and adherence to rules. I put my trust in these people, but I feel like a bit of a loose cannon in comparison.

Speaking of trust, how about leaving your bags in the hotel lobby after checkout for safe keeping while sightseeing elsewhere? How about bikes left unchained, out in the open, in the big city of Tokyo and not needing to use a safe or lock your door? Japan is so frickin’ safe. And if my sense of safety is only an illusion then the Japanese are master magicians. It’s a culture of caring for the group, not looking out for number one. Case in point. One day, we took a taxi into town to visit a park and famous pagoda with a gorgeous view of Mt. Fuji. We settled on a little restaurant nearby for lunch and were treated like family. Extra treats for the kids and snacks to go. We paid a total of about $20 CAD for our meals. Before we had the chance to ask if they could call us a taxi, the owner’s daughter said she would drive us back to our hotel. And she did. This is the caring and kindness I speak of.

We happened upon our first travel mishap on our way to the Mt. Fuji region. We missed our bus and when I approached the attendant, he was reproachful. I asked him if we had missed our bus and he tapped his watch and said, “Well, look what time it is.”

We were five minutes late. Of course, we missed our bus! What, did we think it would wait for us? That is not how Japan works (or really anywhere, I’m pretty sure, but especially in Japan). And while he had given me a sideways glance, with the click of a button we were on another scheduled bus an hour later, our family seated near one another, no woman seated beside a man outside our family. One word: efficiency.

There are signs translated into English everywhere. Many people speak rudimentary English. But, the even bigger shock to my senses is that most people don’t speak at all. Japan embraces a culture of silence. On the whole, the Japanese are an extremely quiet group of individuals. Emotions are subdued. I smiled and engaged countless people on my 12 km run in Tokyo and the response was almost a unanimous look of bafflement, like what are you doing? I’m trying to be friendly, but I clearly don’t know how.

Having now experienced culture shock, I can empathize better with visitors and new immigrants who join our culture and wonder at our overt displays of emotion, in-your-face friendliness, and comparative lack of hospitality. Our North American boisterousness. The constant chatter.

Japan is so damn quiet. I find myself hushing and whispering constantly.

Those who know me might be snickering. I am who I am. A talker. Outgoing and somewhat obtrusive. Penelope and I went on a lunch date for noodles in an authentic joint and the first thing I did was to loudly knock a glass of water off the table onto the tatami mat. Like we didn’t stick out enough already. The hostess was understanding – she blamed Penelope and I didn’t correct her – but I couldn’t help but shake my head and laugh at my ineptitude. I will never be Japanese. Maybe that sounds funny, and at the risk of generalizing – what I mean to say is I could never operate at that level of perfection. I need a big margin for error. I may never be Japanese, but I will always respect this country for all that it offers and the opportunity it has afforded me to truly feel like an outsider in the best of ways.

Looking through the window, there is so much I’m taking in, including how to graciously accept the person on the other side.

Hawaii Part II: Oahu, Catching A Wave

It’s a Friday, I woke up early this morning, 6am, as I have almost every day for the last week and a half since our travels began. I don’t mind early mornings and travelling west suits me. Looking out our window with a view of the Pacific, there’s a certain quality to the light that isn’t duplicated at any other time of the day. On this last day in Hawaii, I don’t want to miss it. The early morning’s light is as fleeting as our time on the island.

The beach house we stayed in for three nights on Oahu has a row of large ocean-facing windows. When I look out, I can’t help but smile at the surfers that make their way toward big distant waves, paddling far out unfazed, hands cupped with clear strokes, over the sharp rocks and coral and sea turtles and whatever else lies below. For the people here, surfing is a way of life. Our surf photographer first took his baby out at six months old. Locals get up early, pack up their board and gear and make their way down to the beach. With the wind picking up, the surfing conditions appear to be excellent and blinking out at the blue sky, the warm sun overhead, I wish I was heading out there with them. But it’s not to be, we have a flight to catch.

While in Oahu, our entire family had the opportunity to try surfing. From the onset, I was extremely nervous – though I wouldn’t have admitted it – both for myself and because of the helplessness you feel when you’re putting your children’s safety into the hands of another. We had to trust complete strangers to keep our children safe far from shore, amidst powerful ocean waves. Trust can be won and lost in an instant.

Thankfully, we were in highly capable hands with North Shore Surf Girls company. Three instructors, plus a photographer (also a skilled surfer), were there looking out for us, and had our family secure and locked down at all times. The kids each wore a life jacket, for starters, and Dan, Ariel and I were all tethered by the ankle to a giant floatation device – our surfboards. Having instructors was key: they not only showed us the ropes and taught us the beginner basics, but they set up our waves for us. Essentially, they kept an eye on the waves, brought us to the right spot and helped us get into position, then they pushed us into the wave and yelled “Paddle! Paddle!” at which point you paddled with both cupped hands. You then heard “push up!”, which meant you were to slide your hands down to your hips and lift up your chest, so you look like a seal. The next part was up to the surfer. On land, we did a dry run of proper surf technique. For the beginner, push up your chest, then slide up to your hands and knees; next put your right foot forward, push up onto two feet sideways, remembering to keep your knees sufficiently bent and your hands touching the board for balance and to turn your feet sideways, then once – if – you make it that far, both hands come off the board and your arms go out straight for balance. No problem.

Standing at the shore, I cupped my hand up to my face, shielding my eyes, to watch the other surfers out in the distance. What had I been thinking dragging our family into this? To add to the butterflies in my stomach, Penelope was being uncooperative. She wanted nothing to do with this surfing business. With much protestation, we got her onto the board with me, laying her on her stomach, and with Ariel on her own board to the other side of me, one instructor, Alexa, strapped on flippers, then holding onto her surf board with her arms and placing one flippered foot onto both my board and Ariel’s board, we set out into the ocean. She towed us out and maneuvered us carefully, avoiding any big waves, and the first knot in my stomach began to unfurl taking in her skill and agility in the water. Elyse was sitting on a board with Carol, the incredible owner and operator of NSSG and Dan was, funny enough, left to paddle himself out. Jenn, our third instructor set out ahead to create a “holding” area. The holding area was a calm zone in the water where we would wait as a group when not surfing, and the area we had to paddle back to after surfing a wave. You could think of this area as a chairlift on a ski slope.

Once we made it over to Jenn, Dan and Ariel were led immediately over to the waves with Elyse and Carol close by. Jenn made friendly chitchat with me in the holding area while I craned my neck wildly to see where they were taking Dan, Ariel and Elyse. Her voice was soothing and reassuring, but I needed to have eyes on my family. Dan would be the first to try a wave, and I saw him go out and then bail hard. When he fell off, he dipped below the waves and for a minute I couldn’t see him, but next thing you know he popped up with a smile on his face and I watched him paddle off to the right. I allowed my body to relax on the surfboard a smidgeon, but then it was Ariel’s turn to be pushed into a wave and I tensed right back up again on her behalf. They sent her on a wave and there she went, off on her own. She made it to her knees, but I never saw her stand. It all happened so quickly, and I couldn’t see her. Alexa was there to keep an eye on her though and paddled out to meet her when she fell off. I relaxed when I saw my husband and eldest daughter paddling back in my direction and allowed myself to sink down on my surfboard and embrace the bobbing waves, instead of trying to fight them. To enjoy myself, I had to relinquish control, which is hard for me. Dan and Ariel each had a few more turns, and then Elyse went with the instructor too and even stood up (not very willingly, I’m sure). Carol the owner, or auntie Carol as we called her, never once fell off her board or let the kids fall into the water. She made surfing on her knees, holding our children, look effortless. Later in our session, Penelope and Elyse did get to have a swimming session in the water, but otherwise they stayed safely afloat either in the holding area with Dan or I, or on the board with auntie Carol, out surfing the waves. I can’t say they loved it; I think the activity was fairly stressful for them being so novel and foreign to their senses; but at the very least, they were exposed to surfing, kept very safe, entertained and looked after while Dan, Ariel and I got to try our hand at surfing too.

Finally, the moment of truth, it was my turn to surf. Penelope, with much protestation, was removed from my surfboard and onto Dan’s. Alexa waved me over, and so off I paddled. Alexa would be the one to push me into a wave. She must have picked the perfect wave because when she told me to, I paddled, pushed up, got on my hands and knees and before I knew it I was cruising the wave and loving it. The proper way to end your ride is to get back down onto your knees and into the paddling position, and so when my board slowed down, that is what I did. We were told, under no circumstances, should we ride a wave to shore. That is where the shallowest water and dangerous rocks are. Using the technique they taught us, I paddled my way off to the right and back up the “water chairlift” to meet back up with my crew.

“You’re not doing it right!” Dan yelled out to me jokingly, “you’re supposed to fall off.”

I took a second turn with success, then Dan and I traded off again in the holding area.

Now, I’m making this sound easy. The surfboard does give you more support than I imagined, but you still have to contend with the awesome force of the wave beneath you. After my third turn, on my way back up the chairlift, a big roller came my way. We were taught, when coming face to face with a wave, to always turn your board directly at it, versus turning lengthwise or sideways. If you turn sideways, you’re bound to be bulled over, but face to face, you simply push up into that seal position and sail over the wave. The contingency plan, if you don’t think you’re going to be able to push up in time to avoid the crashing wave, is to roll off your board and submerge yourself underwater. This option sounded scary to me, because it contradicted the other advice to remain flat and stretched out when you fall off the board, so you don’t accidently brush against the rocks or coral at the bottom. I was determined to face the waves head on and stay on top of my board. As a second giant wave came my way, I bobbed up in time to see the faces of my crew looking concerned, I pushed up strong and just barely made it over the top of the wave before it crashed on the other side of me. From the holding area, Dan said our photographer had been holding his breath, commenting, “Whoa! I didn’t think she was going to make it.”

On my fourth surf attempt I bailed hard. The wave came too quickly from up underneath me and I never made it to my feet before my board flew out and up into the air. I tumbled under water and grabbed for my ankle like we had been taught, reaching for the cord that would get me back to my board as soon as possible where I could hoist myself up and paddle to safety.

“I guess you didn’t hear me say to push up, huh?” Jenn asked me kindly on my way back. I was plowed over by the wave.

While Ariel silently refused to try standing while surfing on her own, once she rode tandem with auntie Carol she rocked it. The whole time we surfed I could see the worry written all over her face; she takes after her parents in being risk-averse, so I was surprised when in the car ride after the experience, when we were all exhausted, she asked, “So when are we going surfing again?”

But I shouldn’t have been surprised, because now I understand what draws people to surfing. At least, I know what draws me to surfing. Harnessing the power of the awesome wave beneath you is an incredible feeling. Once I let go of my anxieties, out riding the waves, then I truly felt in control. Being able to tame mother nature in this small way is so gratifying. Or perhaps tame is the wrong word. It’s more of a partnership, a unison, a meditation of becoming one with the wave. There is definitely a thrill. When I made it over the crest of that second giant wave, the sense of relief and redemption was palpable. I had been pulled under the water and spit out upon our arrival in Hawaii, but not this time. This time I came out on top, riding the waves.

On our way to the airport, as we bade Hawaii goodbye, the melodic ukulele strumming in Somewhere Over the Rainbow playing through the car speakers, I got misty-eyed at the reality of our leaving.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, mommy? Penelope asked.

We made a family pact to one day come back to the North Shore, to shaved ice and acai bowls; to lush tropical forests and waterfalls and crystal blue waters as far as the eye can see.

And when we do, I’m going to ride those waves.

Big Island, Hawaii: The Black Rock

As the designated Big Island driver, I’ve had less time for writing and travel musings in my notebook as I’ve been driving all over this black rock. Hawaii. The place where new land is made. During our time here, there’s one theme that keeps coming back to me, hanging out in my mind, and so naturally that is what I will write about. But first let’s get the obvious out of the way: Hawaii is paradise. There is no question about that. But it’s a natural paradise, rough and rugged, alive and vibrant and the forces at play are not only elemental, but unstoppable.

I got my first taste of the island’s awesome power on the shores of Kua Bay. If you were to choose a swimmer in our family, it would be me. My affinity for water is well known (especially by my friends and family who have pools) and so immediately after disembarking from our flight I slotted in a trip to the closest beach. I knew Big Island was about visiting volcanoes rather than being renowned for its amazing swimming and beaches, but I hadn’t understood the awesome force of the currents.

When we arrived at Kua Bay, the beach was a dazzling array of turquoise waters and lush palms. As the self-proclaimed water tester, I approached the crashing beach waves with a degree of caution, but also with the air of someone who knows they are a competent swimmer. Within minutes, when I did a slight jump with my back into the wave, I was sucked right under and spit back out, coughing and sputtering, my sun hat lost in the wave. Well, hello there Hawaii, I thought; you like it rough; I see how it is. Danger. Imminent threat. Could it be otherwise on an island with not one, but two volcanoes? The most recent of which erupted in 2018 causing devastation to everything in its path and the loss of 7,000 homes. The apparent danger is everywhere, and yet, you really aren’t afraid, instead you feel emboldened. The stark beauty of the ocean, the lush land; the land that can erupt and the ocean that can pull you under. There’s a balance to be found here, a place in between, teetering on the edge.

On our second day we drive to visit the caldera of Mauna Loa. Hot steam vents surround the massive crater in the earth, and Elyse, right on point, is terrified when we tell her we are going up to see a volcano. “No!” she wails convincingly, “it’s too hot!” She has seen the pictures. She knows what burning rock can do.

Arriving at our beach house, Dan realizes there’s no coffee. Not being a coffee drinker myself, but understanding his need to caffeinate in the morning, I suggest we stop at a coffee plantation on our drive to the volcano. I was sure I’d read something about a store nearby. Coffee beans, pre-roasting, if you’ve never seen them, are cherry red. I was excited to show the girls the beans and get Dan his cup of Joe.

I hung a right into the driveway of the first coffee plantation we arrived at. As we drove down the incredibly steep laneway, it occurred to me that this could be a terrible mistake. It was a Sunday morning. What if the store wasn’t open? What if there wasn’t a store at all? What if the property owners weren’t understanding or grew upset about our intrusion – because this is what this was.

I shifted into park at the place that seemed the most promising and offered to take a look around. We were in the middle of what looked like a jungle and there was no one to be seen, just a few cottages belonging to some sort of retreat. There was a narrow pathway that disappeared into a thicket of trees. This seemed to be my only option. I took it. My heart was beating wildly in my chest. Where was everybody? Hello? The next minute, I ran into a man who didn’t speak English and seemed quite surprised to see me, but he was pleasant and gave me a smile.

“One minute! One minute! I go get…I go get…”

Who’s he going to get? It didn’t matter. I was committed now. He disappeared into one of the cottages.
A woman emerged and greeted me warmly as two oversized German Shepard’s appeared out of nowhere and made a full display of barking and howling aggressively. A second man appeared from the cottage and waved the dogs off. I relaxed when the dogs seemed harmless and appeared to listen to their owners who were clearly communicating there was no need to eat me. I explained to the couple that my husband needed coffee when my kids loud voices back at the van roused the dogs’ shackles back up and sent them into another barking fit. They took off full speed in the direction of my family; I hoped Dan would close the doors in time.

Though there was no store, and they only shipped their coffee overseas, in the end I walked away with a delicious bag of the freshest ground coffee you can imagine, and a ziplock bag of macadamia nuts – an island specialty – the kind woman told me she had roasted only the night before.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Best macadamia nuts I’ve ever tasted.

Back to swimming in the ocean. Once you make it past the shorebreak, and let me tell you, THE SHOREBREAK IS REAL (Dan and I joked about this after I was pulled under and we had essentially ignored the signs); once you make it out there, there’s salt and sea creatures to contend with. After Kua Bay, we found a calmer, kid-friendly idyllic tide pool thanks to a conversation with a friendly local who told us about the spot where he took his grandkids. Fact. We all know there are sharks in the ocean. Fact. Sharks don’t usually eat people, let’s remember that for later in the story. Sea creatures don’t usually want to hurt people either, but we all have a need to protect ourselves.

Even at the tide pool, danger lurked around the corner. As I wade into the water, a young boy, eight or nineish in age, tells me, “oh, don’t go that way. That’s usually where the sea urchins are.”

“The what?”

“The sea urchins. They have spikes and if you step on them they will hurt you.”

Oh, I know what they are. The question is why are they where I want to swim? That was my initial arrogant approach. Then we hung out for a while and watched as the other kids and a local family discovered the sea life around us. There were black crabs scurrying on the rocks and a hermit crab. The mother of the family was scooping up sea urchins in her bare hands and passing them to her toddler. I talked to the children who lived there and found out that if you don’t press on a sea urchin, it has suction cup tentacles that don’t hurt you at all – they tickle. Sea urchins generally stick to the bigger rocks, so avoid the rocks. I laughed at the silly sea cucumber that look like a…umm…what’s a polite way to say this…a black soggy cucumber. The kids told me if you squeeze a sea cucumbers it pees. Maybe don’t squeeze them. There was a black brittle star, a creepy starfish looking thing, that clung to the underside of rocks and gets its name because of its fragility – if you pull on one of its limbs, the limb detaches. For that reason I felt protective of the little guy.

Once the scariness factor was removed from the sea creatures and the girls and I were exposed to them, like with everything else – once we are informed – we felt safe and could fully enjoy our natural surroundings. Not to mention the majestic sea turtles we encountered at a different beach later.

But, remember, balance. There needs to be balance, and to tip the scales in the favour of danger we factor in a good shark attack story.

While at the gentle kid-friendly tide pool I was chatting with a mom Elyse had really taken a liking to. She’s done this a few times now, buttering other mothers up, then throwing herself at them like she’s in need of a new mother, a better family. Oreo, my dog, does the same exact thing. We’ll be walking together in one direction, and another family will pass us by and Oreo will turn and start walking with them. I’m trying not to take this personally. Anyway, I ask this woman what she knows about the Ironman finals that are held on the island. I’ve recently signed up for my very first Ironman. The championship race recently took place in Kona. She explains the participants start out in Kona Bay for the almost 4 km swim. As she’s telling the story, her face clouds over. Someone she knows from work, not two days before the Ironman race was held, disappeared in Kona Bay. He was night fishing, alone. They found his belt and dive kit with big teeth marks in it.

“A shark got him,” she explains.

As I’m thinking of those elite athletes getting in the water a few days later, she retorts, “Yeah, they sure didn’t advertise it. That one got swept under the rug.”

On our final day on Big Island, we visited one final beach with tide pools for the kids and a coral reef for Dan and I to explore snorkeling.

“There’s a reef shark out there,” a local woman explained to me, she gestures at Ariel, “its mouth probably isn’t even big enough to eat her.”

We didn’t swim out there to find out.

Now, as the sun is setting its final rays, I’m urging my crew, let’s hike out to that cliff point, one final hurrah as darkness sets in, a final opportunity with high stakes: the chance to see humpback whales.

But as night falls, watch your step, the black rock cuts deep.