Off you go then, Cheerio

Cheers to Gned and Ms. Muppet, whose days in Canada are numbered, Jolly Old England awaits you both. But if you promise to keep a supply of Jaffa cakes on hand you will be sure to attract many Canadian visitors. As I am tied up in New England at the moment I will have to raise a pint of ale in absentia. Safe travels, congratulations and fare thee well.

View from the Commute

I knew it as soon as I saw him pull a u turn in my rearview mirror, so as soon as he hit his lights I pulled over and waited for him to catch up.

“Do you know why I stopped you?”

“I was going a little fast.”

“You were going 65 in a 50 zone, is this your current address?”

While I sat there waiting for the Trooper to run me through his computer I was remarkably calm and resigned. Perhaps it was NPR, perhaps it was because I knew that I had only had myself to blame. I actually enjoyed a little chuckle at my own expense. I was, however, a little perplexed that I managed to muscle the Kia that far over the limit.

“Today is a warning sir. Traffic is going pick up later. Be safe and have a nice stay.” So for my crimes I was sentenced to a gracious and polite warning. With my needle pegged firmly at fifty I wondered if airport security or customs agents couldn’t learn something from the Vermont State Police. Cheers.

Random Happens

It has been brought to my attention, again, that this post is a little confusing. Who is the woman in the picture and why has she been blogged? These are reasonable questions which I will finally answer.

Some of you know that about this time four years ago I had to turn down an offer of internship at a small but very well respected New England newspaper, The Concord Monitor. It was one of the most difficult calls I’ve had to make, but there it was. I couldn’t get a visa, the Monitor had to move on and I’ve been leaving toe nail clippings on hotel room floors ever since.

The last four years have proved to be an adventure nonetheless, and I while I would make the same choices again given the same circumstances, I sometimes find myself wondering what if things had been different. The truth is, however, I’ll never know and it’s too exhausting to speculate.

My job has taken me from Aruba to Amsterdam and from Boston to a beach on Kauai, and after four years it dropped me in Concord, New Hampshire, one place I never expected to end up. This experience just goes to show that what comes around ends up in the morning paper, and that’s where I found the girl in the picture. I spent my afternoon in Concord tending my laundry and a stack of receipts in a truck stop wondering about calling the photo editor. I decided to pass. Instinctively I understood that the experience was different for the Monitor than it was for me. For me it was a singular opportunity and I have always regarded it as such but the photo department at the Monitor has seen 15 interns since then.

I found the perfect opportunity to impose myself the morning I left Concord. At a main street bakery for breakfast I sat with my coffee and the paper and on the first page I turned to was a brief about a presentation that night by former Monitor staffer Andrea Bruce. I read and reread the brief and by the time I stuffed the last of my pain au chocolate into my mouth the wheels had been set in motion. I was going to see the inside of the Monitor building after all.

In addition to being a former Monitor staffer, Bruce is a current staffer at the Washington Post, a three time White House Photographer of the Year, and sometime war correspondent. Bruce presented work from India, Afghanistan and Iraq, some of it was tragic, some of it was breathtaking but all of it reflective of a skilled and intuitive eye. It was a hard reminder for me about what I set out to do six years ago. This, however, is the nature of travel. Travel is random and revelatory.

I sat in the front row transfixed by the images while Bruce stood in the shadows narrating her work. While I was moved by her photos I was also forced to consider how different our travel experiences have been over the past four years and how random it was that there we were in a conference room at the Concord Monitor. No matter how subject I am to schedules and responsibilities while traveling for work there is always that element of randomness that is impossible to plan for.

That night I was reminded why photography is important to me and how that has changed over the past six years. About 30 minutes before the presentation began I introduced my self to Dan Habib, the Monitor’s Photo Editor and he introduced me to Andrea Bruce. The three of us chatted for a few minutes as photographers about work, the industry and making the most of opportunity. A journalism instructor once said to me that I would never save the world as a photographer, and I responded that it might just save me. I am still here, so what’s next?

A (metric) Century Ends

Actually it was a hair over 110 km. You might begin to imagine the heartbreak when at 100 km, the metric century, I was looking around for a parking lot and a rented silver Kia with none to be found.

I headed out early this morning into the fog and mist of northern Vermont with the Green Mountain Bike club and about 40 other riders. Three rides left together and I was assured that I would find my rhythm and place within the group. After about 15 km I found myself quietly huffing away somewhere in the middle third of a line of riders stretched out over a kilometer or two. My ride skirted the edges of the Green Mountains through a number of small towns, picturesque valleys and between dairy farms, made all the more ethereal by the low hanging clouds and the light mist in the air. Despite the lack of sun, it was great riding weather, not unlike riding at home in the early fall, cool with just enough moisture in the air to be refreshing.

The first 50 km came and went, and the struggle began. It was an all out grind for the last 60 km with few respites from climbing. It is a safe assumption that I am stronger descender than I am a climber, but for every descent there seemed to be three climbs. But the end came, a glorious, weary finish in a parking lot in South Burlington. In the last 10 km I muttered to Davis, a printmaker, that I thought we had covered the last of the hills, and he responded “Hey this is Vermont.” One thing remains, however, one might think I’d be skinnier.

More adventures in customer service

If you are going to be smug and self righteous, you’d better be perfect. I don’t even remember the name of the restaurant I ate at last night but it’s worth mentioning. After driving around downtown Burlington last night looking for a parking spot I finally settled on one about four blocks away from the Church St, pedestrian mall.

I finished the Afghanistan book yesterday so my first stop was to find a new dinner companion. After reading a couple of heavy books recently, Ghost Wars, and From Beirut to Jerusalem, I needed something decidedly lighter and so for the next week or so I will be spending meal time with Bill Bryson and his collection of columns I’m a Stranger Here Myself. It’s a collection of writings for a British newspaper about his adjustment to life back in the US after nearly 20 years in England.

On my way to the book store I came across a lively little place off of Church St, and thought that every one looked like they were having a good time so I would return for dinner. I was seated and I waited. I waited, but it was ok because I was with Bill and he was telling me about the differences between the US Postal Service and British Royal Mail. From personal experience I can tell you the differences are many.

When I finally had the opportunity to speak with April about my choices I ordered Maura’s fabulous salad, which, with a name like that, seemed too good not to order. I said that I would like to wait a little before deciding on my entree but I would like a glass of wine and would it be too much trouble to have it on a separate check.

“We don’t do separate checks.” Replied April smugly. “Besides you’re just one person, just pay for it separately.”

“I’d rather have two checks please, because I want a glass of wine, but I don’t want to charge it to my expenses.” I say pleadingly. April reluctantly relented and assured me that she would separate my food and drink.

Bill is a great dinner companion, funny, insightful and maybe a little sarcastic, but a great story teller. Bill is such a great dinner companion that I didn’t notice that my fabulous salad was taking an age to arrive. My wine came, my water glass was filled and a small plate of bread magically appeared, but no fabulous salad. After a while, about 30 minutes, I caught on and wondered if Boris was in the kitchen. Fifteen more minutes passed and my entree arrived in the shape of very tasty little burger. I had passed on the baked pasta as it was laden with mushrooms.

I continued to enjoy my wine and the burger was very tasty, but I couldn’t help but wonder where my fabulous salad ended up and if it would end up on my bill. April returned much later to ask me how things tasted. “Great I told her, this is a tasty burger. But I was also looking forward to my salad.” April looked at me with great puzzlement.

“Salad?”

“Yes, the fabulous salad, I ordered it with my wine.”

“Oh yes, well I’ll get that started for you right away.”

“Perhaps I will pass.”

While I was waiting for my separate checks I constructed a rough estimate of the number of meals I eat in restaurants every year, I think it averages about 500 or so. Sometimes I wonder if I am becoming Sally-esque (When Harry Met Sally) in my dinning demands, I’d like the wine if I can have it on a separate check, I’d like the pasta if I can get it without mushrooms, I’ll take the soup if I can get it without out your finger, thumb, hair or booger. I may be too demanding, but I don’t think so.

You are here...no, seriously.

Transcript of actual conversation overheard in a motel lobby in Dover, New Hampshire:

Photographer: “Can you tell me the best route to Nashua?”

Clerk one: “Nashua? Ah, no.”

Clerk two: “Ah don’t look at me.”

Clerk three: “I’ve heard of it but I don’t know where it is.”

Photographer: “I know where it is, I just want to know the best route. It’s about 90 minutes from here.”

Clerk one: “Ah, I don’t know.”

Photographer: “It’s New Hampshire’s third largest city.”

Clerk one: “Yeah, I don’t know.” Clerk one reaches for a road atlas, photographer considers smacking clerk one with road atlas.

Photographer: “You’re kidding right?” Photographer leaves lobby shaking his head.

Oh dear.

No Bush for Rob in Kennebunkport

Though the local paper assures me that the President was here last week riding on the very same trails I rode this afternoon.

With no particular destination in mind, but hunger in my belly, I climbed into my rented Kia and drove off in search of a sandwich. Which is how I came to find myself in Kennebunkport, Maine. K-port, as I like to call it, is a very quaint seaside town dating back to the 1600's with a history that includes whaling, fishing, lobstahing, the War of Independence and forestry. More recently it has become a quaint seaside town with many restaurants, gift shops and ice cream vendors. It is also where George senior and wife Barbara have a vacation home.

For me, however, K-port was a great little place to stop for an afternoon and evening. After taking lunch I wandered down to the water front admiring the many nic-nacs, x-mas ornaments and t-shirts on offer in store windows along the way. I was about done when I came across the f8 photo gallery and photographer Brad Maushart. Brad is a man of many talents, not the least of which is maintaining the 200 year old house he lives in, but specializes in manipulating Polaroid SX-70 photos and enlarging them.

Though I missed the Presidents, former or current, I was inspired to get out on my bike for a couple of hours after seeing the current President Bush on the front page of the local paper out for a ride. I can’t say for certain, but I am pretty sure the tracks I saw were left by the Secrete Service’s quad motorcycles, but there I was, riding in the tracks of the leader of the free word.

I was just about finished my ride when I heard the high-pitched whine of an old motorcycle screaming up the trail I just descended. As I headed back up the trail on my way to my Kia all I could smell was the lingering exhaust of an old two-stroke engine. I’m all for sharing trail but if your internal combustion engine requires anything more potent than a cheeseburger and a pint of bitter I’d rather not. It’s too bad Maine’s non-smoking laws don’t apply to singletrack.

It was a great afternoon nonetheless, and it was great to get out and spin for a couple of hours before nosing into a great steaming plate of pasta.

Road Worthy Rejuvenile

Some days I feel like that guy in that Johnny Cash song...”I’ve been everywhere man, Bangor, Auburn, Lewiston, Portland, I’ve been everywhere...”

Today, as a matter of fact, I am back in Bangor after spending the weekend in the Portland area and tomorrow I head south again past Portland to Sanford. I’m far from the miles I drove across the great plains but I feel like a road warrior nonetheless.

But I’m restless. So after finishing for the day I got back in the car and drove to Orono, home of The University of Maine. Like a colleague of mine I get a little nostalgic visiting campuses and college towns and I too, feel a connection to the particular kind of energy that circulates so freely in these environments. I get a little nostalgic when I find myself in these communities, but more and more I wonder if I am nostalgic not for my university experience but for someone else’s.

School is always in the back of my head like a safety net. I know that it’s there and I can convince myself in my state of suspended adolescence that it will always remain an option but looking around the Bear Brew Pub tonight I was starkly reminded that I still have nothing in common with the jocks and sorority princesses that exist in my nostalgia. I am not Bluto and I didn’t go to Faber College. It is the idea of school that fires my imagination, the keg parties, cheerleaders and ideological freedoms.

But we all know these things represent a fantasy. The reality is much different. I was bound by a different set of experiences and responsibilities than I am today, but bound just the same. All things considered I enjoyed my time at school but I don’t miss it. I remember some great times but there were many hard times as well. In many respects I am enjoying a freedom that I could never afford as a student. I just hope what they say about 40 being the new 30 is true. Bring on "Sanford, Dover, Concord and Vermont ‘cause I’m a travelin’ man."

Of Donuts and Pennies

Have you ever tried to slip an American retailer a Canadian penny? Occasionally one gets through much to the ire of said retailer. It’s insidious they say. A quiet attempt to disseminate Canadian values and unload our lower value coins.

But we have made our mark on the world and while I will forego the accomplishments of Lester Pearson for this post I want to take a moment to recognize Norman Breakey, Louise Poirier and James Arthur Gosling, the Canadian inventors of the Paint Roller, the Wonderbra and Java script respectively. Go Canucks!

What brought on this rash of patriotism? Well the latest volley in the donut wars of course. Who among can forget the jittery buzz created by the arrival of Krispy Kreme in Canada five years ago? We have struck back. This morning in Lewiston, Maine I had a old fashioned sour creme glazed from our own Tim Horton’s. There it was on the side of the road like a fifth column and I was drawn to it like a 401 trucker is drawn to a large double double.

With the old guys talking about the price of gas and what kind of mileage their trucks get, I could have been back in Belleville, Ontario. Right up until the cashier picked the Canadian pennies from the change I handed her, “Sorry” she said, “do you have any American pennies?”

Oh Hoppy Day!

Nobody labours on labour day in Hallowell, Maine. Lonely Planet suggests skipping the chain restaurants in the Maine Capital, Augusta, in favour of the more unique and local in Hallowell, down the road. I did just that this afternoon and I was greeted with one closed sign after another, which was unfortunate on so many levels and not just because the local brew pub was among the closed. I found my lunch back in Augusta but was instantly nostalgic for my options at the beginning of the weekend when I found myself in Bar Harbor with a Saturday off.

I’ve heard that the lobstah chowdah in Bah Habah is wicked good. Lobster chowder may taste like pumpkin pie but I’d never know, ‘cause I’d never eat the mofo. Bah Habah has a great feel in the mouth, say it out loud, and more is better when it comes to intonation. Bah Habah.

Through some charitable act of the gods I ended up with Saturday off. Which was good because I squandered two and a half hours of my free time on Friday driving back to Bangor to pick up something I had left behind that morning.

My first stop on Friday was to the Bar Harbor bike shop to repair some of the damage that was done to my bike during my flights so I could head out for an afternoon ride. A local club hosts rides several times a week and I was excited to ride with local knowledge at hand. A guy at the bike shop suggested that I may be on my own for the ride since it was so late in the season, but I was resolute. I was going to ride the Acadia National Park carriage trails and I would get lost if I had to. Fortunately for me, Carol was unloading her Subaru while waiting for another to join her and she was most gracious to invite me along. It was a casual spin on hard pack gravel trails, although wide enough for cars, are limited to bikes, pedestrians and horses. I f I knew any better perhaps I wouldn’t make the comparison but Mt. Desert Island could be a Gulf Island.

The feeling of recognition was strong and during my wandering through town on Saturday I overheard references to Salt Spring, Powell River and Nelson. Could Maine be a spiritual second to a homesick, and wayward photographer from BC? Perhaps.

Saturday was what a day off should be for a guy alone on the road for work. Though it started early the day began with wild blueberry pancakes and coffee and was followed by a four hour ride through the carriage trails. The return to the carriage trails wasn’t by design, but by the sad fact that no one but me showed up for the local Saturday morning club ride. At times I felt like I was riding through a plateau over Nelson and at others I felt like I was looking down on the Georgia Straight. It was uncanny but there I was, as close to home I could imagine without actually being there.

The ride, however, didn’t end with the gusto and enthusiasm with which it started. About 40km in I started to get cold and I blamed the season, the wind and my lack of sleeves, but all those factors couldn’t explain why I was dragging my ass so egregiously. I was so cold that I found myself looking at people in jackets with envy and those in short sleeves with pity. But there was a much sadder reality at work. I was bonking. I was out of gas and I was suddenly regretting not ordering the triple stack at breakfast. With 15km to go I had to sit down and fish an energy bar out of my bag.

I managed to make it back to the hotel and through the shower process before I passed out in my hotel room. 15 minutes later I woke, dressed and headed off for lunch. Since I was so cold and hungry earlier I left my room wearing 16 layers and armed with a wicked determination to find a burrito as big as my head. An hour later, after successfully finding such a burrito, I was stuffed, over heated and I could still barely move. Moderation is a crutch. Welcome to Bah Hahbah.

I should explain the picture. After riding till I passed out, and then eating till I couldn’t move, I paid a visit to the Atlantic Brewing Co, just outside Bar Harbor, where I was treated to a tour and tasting and a Special Old Bitter. I passed on the all you can eat BBQ, but I won’t next time.

A Marathon of Sweaty, Twitchy Restlessness or Rob's Commute

About four years ago I found myself checking my schedule for the next few weeks and found that I was going to be flying from Spokane to Seattle to photograph a football game, and I was very excited. It didn’t matter that I could have driven to Seattle any weekend I wanted, what mattered was that I was being sent out of town, on an airplane, on assignment.

In the four years since that Labour day weekend assignment in Seattle the romance I ascribe to getting on a plane for work has suffered a terrible ebb and flow. I spent 18 hours in transit last Wednesday and I only made it from one coast to another, I didn’t even leave the continent. While I was waiting for my much delayed connection out of Liberty Airport in New Jersey I contemplated all the places I could have flown to within 16 hours of Vancouver. The list is extensive. I calculated for 16 hours allowing myself to arrive at YVR two hours prior to departure like the responsible passenger I am.

After five hours in Continental Cargo Class I was waiting to deplane with my head pressed against the overhead compartment surrounded by equally sweaty, twitchy and restless passengers when it dawned on me that this is no longer fun. Little did I know that worse indignities were yet to come. After waiting for three hours my fellow passengers and I were compensated for the delay with a coupon. I now know what three hours is worth, you can take your pick: a free drink, or head set or $15 discount on a duty free purchase of over $75 on a future flight.

After four years of traveling for work I have only one expectation of air travel; that I and my luggage arrive safely and on time. Apparently this was too much to ask of Continental this past Wednesday. The icing on the cake was the damage done to my bike and my bike helmet. While wheels can be trued there is only one cure for a fractured helmet: replacement. I have had some experience testing the limits of bike helmets but I have never fractured one, no matter how hard my melon has hit the ground. I can only imagine the force with which my bag was “tossed” to break my Bell Nemesis Pro.