VirtualTourist

$8 USD: The Price of my Freedom

2006-11-23T05:22:00.000-08:00

I am going to preface this post with a quote from the Lonely Planet: Middle East guide from what is has to say about being a pedestrian in Cairo, which will help to explain what follows.

"Playing Chicken In Cairo:
It may sound silly, but the greatest challenge most travelers face when traveling through Egypt is crossing the street in Cairo. Roads are always frantically busy and road rules are something that the average Cairene has heard of, but only in jokes. Our advice is to position yourself so that one or more locals form a buffer between you and oncoming traffic, and then cross when they cross - they usually don’t mind being human shields! Basically, it’s a game of chicken. Never, ever hesitate once you’ve stepped off the sidewalk; cross as if you own the road. And do it fast."
If only I had read this advice before I stepped out of the hotel, I may have been able to avoid being kidnaped by an "artist" and I wouldn’t have been forced to pay my own ransom for my freedom. At least, at about $8 USD, my freedom came pretty cheap.

I arrived in Cairo after a blissfully short flight from Dubai on Emirates, which has become my new favorite airline largely based on their advanced and varied entertainment options. The cab ride from CAI to the hotel was unlike any cab ride I had ever taken. Traffic here is unbelievable and if you have questions about Vancouver’s aging taxi fleet, you would be down right concerned at the state of Cairo’s fleet of eastern block tin machines. I only wish that my cameras hadn’t been locked away in the trunk.

After arriving at the hotel and spending some time with my liaison I decided to brave the streets again to pay a visit to the near by Egyptian Museum. It is a great place in an old building with a poorly displayed yet unbelievable collection. I stopped at the Tanis display and combed through the artifacts looking for any signs of R2, C3PO or the Well of Souls. I came up short, alas, and I cursed myself for not having packed Raiders in my DVD wallet.

I was able to shake many offers of a guide. I was quite polite about it, though one guide was very persistent. I patiently waited for him to stop describing what purpose a sarcophagus served to take a breath before I told him that: "You know I think I am fine on my own, thanks." My would be guide cast a smug look my way and wandered off.

It was great to just wander about the collection, looking at what caught my eye and passing what didn’t. It was nice to be out of the hotel, but It was really an opportunity to have a walk and spend some time thinking of things unrelated to exposure, busy lobbies or early morning wake up calls. Through the stands of security guards I made my way back to the street where I ran into the aforementioned challenges with traffic....

The Desert Safari: Update, story still pending

2006-11-16T02:58:00.000-08:00

So where is the story you ask; Thanks Jenni G, there is a story for that too. The story may be pending a publishing date in a Dubai Magazine and deal is that I have to wait to post it on my blog. So stay tunned, there will be more to come.

You Buy?

2006-11-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

A quick post from Dubai with a promise that there will be more to come. I have a great view over the Dubai Creek Yacht Club but I've been spending most of my time behind the camera or infront of a computer. Actually I did get out of the hotel the last two nights. Last night I headed to Deira City Center, a middle of the road mall not far from the hotel and tonight I made it to Irish Villiage, a themed restaurant and drinking establishment at the Tennis Stadium.

Last night was a frustrating and exhausting struggle through the crowds and public announcements in Carrefore, a Wallmart-style "Hypermart." There must have been a thousand shoppers and hundreds of employees in the store buying and selling everything from baskets of kids shoes to flat screen TV's to fresh fish. I managed to escape with a six of tonic water, some AA batteries and a strong desire to never set foot in Carreforre again.

Tonight was a little more relaxing, I got to chill out with a couple of pints of Guinness, a cheeseburger and a patio. It was almost a normal dinning experience and though I had no company I relished every minute of it.

Oman in the Mirror

2006-11-06T03:16:00.000-08:00

The title of this blog may be a little misleading, there is nothing virtual about my travels no matter how much I would sometimes wish this were true. My title “VirtualTourist” has it’s origins in two parents, one an Ex-pat bar and Improv theatre in Amsterdam called Boom Chicago and the other what I do for a living. Two years ago my colleague, Adele, and I had a unique opportunity to explore Amsterdam at length and found ourselves repeatedly at the bar at Boom. On a couple of occasions we decided to put our skills to the test, with moderate success, in a weekly trivia night and we needed a team name which we derived from what we actually do for work. One of the photo products I shoot is called a Virtual Tour, it is a 360 degree panoramic image, hence The VirtualTourist.

I have been in the Middle East for almost two weeks on assignment work shooting 360's of lobbies, pools, bars and hotel rooms, sometimes at very awkward hours. After a late shoot and a long day I found myself staring at my reflection in an elevator mirror and wondering if this is indeed the face of exhaustion. I am almost finished my assignment in Oman and tomorrow I will be leaving for Dubai for two weeks in a city regarded as Las Vegas on Crack.

This afternoon I took advantage of an opportunity to get into the city for a couple of hours. I was dropped off on the Corniche, in the port area, and left to explore both the tourist and fish souks. The tourist market is a labyrinth of corridors, stalls and vendors selling spices, frankincense, fabrics and cheap trinkets. Everyone was my friend and everyone wanted to show me what they had for sale. The exchange between the vendors and the tourists is a well practiced dance, vendors seem to know exactly what the tourists are looking for even if they don’t. During my short tour I was offered t-shirts, head wear and textiles and I did my best to smile and wave my way through the crowds.

The fish market was a little more interesting, crowded, hot and smelling of the day’s catch, I noticed much that I can’t imagine seeing in the market on Granville Island. Tiny shark, whole tuna and dozens of other kinds of fish were piled on mats lying on the floor. The fish market experience couldn’t be more different from shopping at home. It is these experiences that remind me that I am indeed a long way from South Granville Rise.

Well in a fit of homesickness I am going to take a wander down the beach to “coffee corner,” it is a little plaza with a Starbucks, a Costa (UK) and a Second Cup. A Second Cup? I haven’t seen a Second Cup since the last time I was in Montreal. If only there was a Tim’s!

So Long Amman

2006-11-03T03:40:00.000-08:00

Downtown Amman is a rabbit warren of streets, alleys and stairs which go on forever all in the relative shadow of the Citadel. The Citadel is home to a collection of ruins left by the Unayyads, Byzantines and the Romans and while I was there it was a sanctuary from the frenetic activity in the city below.

On the occasion of my last afternoon in Amman I took the opportunity to do a little exploring. The truth is that I had been limping about for most of my stay due to a mysteriously strained ankle received somewhere between my apartment and the airport in Vancouver. My complaining ankle and the area around the hotel, not being particularly pedestrian friendly, kept me hotel bound for much of my stay with the exception of my dinner adventure (last post).

It was a short and thrifty cab ride from the hotel to the Citadel though my driver offer me a warning as he pointed to a group of parked cabs, “those guys, Syrian cabs,” he said as he waved them off. I am sure there is a story there somewhere but I had ruins on my mind.

For a couple of hours I wandered around the ruins, probably more grateful to just be outside than terribly interested in the specifics of one column or another. Though I could hear the hustle of the streets below there was something calm about being on the hill. There were few people and I had the place largely to myself until I was getting set to leave. Il-balad, or the downtown region was as busy as the Citadel was quiet. I braved the traffic, both foot and auto, to have a brief walk through the shopping of the area and saw heaps of cheap clothes, electronics and jewelry. I’m glad I had the chance to see the area but I was pretty worn out and headed back to the hotel on foot.

Amman is a city built on hills, and as it turns out, just because you can see your hotel doesn’t mean you can walk there. After walking for about an hour I could see the hotel and made in that direction only to come to an over look high above a valley dividing me from a hot shower and something cold to drink. I felt so defeated I wanted to catch a cab, but crippled more by pride than hobbled by a whining left ankle, I pushed on and after another 40 minutes I finally presented myself to be frisked by the hotel security check point.

The first picture, from the Citadel, is of the remaining pillars from the Temple of Hercules built during the reign of Marcus Aurelius (AD 161 to AD 80). The second picture is one of the city. I found remarkable how one city, the ancient city, seemed to give way seamlessly to the new.

Amman in a Cab

2006-10-30T14:40:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t until I slipped into the back seat of the cab that I realized that I had no idea where I was going and the only words of Arabic in my vocabulary amounting to “hurry up baby”where severely unlikely to guide me through any communication breakdown. As soon as we pulled away from the Hyatt it occurred to me that I had just left four different and perfectly reasonable dinning options behind me.

The problem is that some random and vague notion of threat is enough to make my pants a little more uncomfortable than usual. In pulling away from the hotel I instantly felt like I had just put a heap of faith in a cab driver in a way that I never have to worry about at home. So I was a little spooked cruising through Jebel in the back of cab on the way to a restaurant I had read about in a Lonely Planet guide book. I didn’t really think that I had anything to worry about but then again it was dark, I had no idea where I was going and Arab men are the new bad guys on American TV.

“How much?” I asked as we pulled up to the Blue Fig Café. I really had nothing to worry about. Clearly I watch too much television and though I try to avoid them at all costs, Fox News and Donald Rumsfeld have had an impact on my pysche.

“Four JD, my friend.” Nothing like six bucks and a cab ride to seal that bond of friendship. And since we were now friends I was concerned about the amount of searching the driver was doing to come up with some change for my tenner. “Do you have anything smaller.”

“Ah, nope.”

“Then you will pay me later, my friend” He reached back with my ten and his card and offered “Just leave some JD at the front desk at the hotel and I will pick it up later. And here is another card for you my friend.” Friends indeed. After my heartfelt commitments to leave money at the hotel I backed my way out of the cab feeling vaguely ashamed for my earlier fears. It was not unlike a moment I had in Athens with my friend Filip a couple of years ago.

We were at the end of a week in Greece, split between Athens and Naxos, and were both feeling very burned out by our time in Athens. We had spent the day photographing a cruise ship and we were on our way from our hotel to meet friends of mine for dinner near the Plaka. On our way we stopped for a snack, kebabs and pita. Just a few moments after we sat down a well dressed man, about 80 and five feet tall, put a can of beer and a glass in front of both Filip and myself. In a state of shock we tried desperately to show our gratitude to our host but he just smiled and waved his hands wiping clean all of our negative feelings of Athens for at least a few minutes. It was a moment of great generosity and equal humility for Filip and I who were both so exhausted from navigating Athens, and work and shifty cab drivers.

After dinner, a stop at Starbuck’s and a reminiscence of being humbled by kindness in Athens fresh in my mind I boldly stepped into the street to hail a cab back to my hotel.

“Grand Hyatt.” I offered to the driver.

“Who?” He offered back.

“Hotel...Grand Hyatt.”

“Sorry, no understand.”

“Ah...Hyatt Hotel, Grand Hyatt.” I gratefully resisted a mighty temptation to talk slower and Louder.

“Amman?”

“Yes, Grand Hyatt Amman.”

“Ah Okay.” And we pulled into traffic and stopped. The passenger window dropped and my driver hurled a slew of Arabic to a guy in a climbing into a Toyota truck who responded with a litany of emphatic hand gestures and an equal slew of Arabic. It occurred to me that my driver could have been asking how much an American was worth on the open market, though it was my sincere hope that he was merely asking directions.

Two blocks further on we stop again, and again my driver yells out the passenger window. At this point I am concerned that the guy in the Toyota made a low ball offer for me and my driver drove off in disgust and was now looking for a better offer. More hand gestures and more Arabic and again we drive off into the night.

A third stop and the ensuing emphatic conversation between drivers made me wonder if my driver was trying to force a bidding war. ‘But I am not an American, and there is no way my company will pay for my release’, I think to myself. Ironically it was the discomfort of getting caught in a bit of a traffic jam which made me think that he really was asking for directions because he clearly doesn’t know his way around. But since he wanted my three bucks nearly as much as I wanted to get back to the Hyatt we had no choice but to stick it out like humus and pita. Ten minutes later and another stop for directions I was safely returned to my hotel.

I left some JD at the front desk for my new friend Moussa making a promise to myself that if I needed to take a cab I would gladly pay the hotel rate again for a driver who knows where I am going especially if I don’t.

Amman with a View

2006-10-27T04:49:00.000-07:00

This is just a quick post to let everyone know that I have arrived in Amman, Jordan. After what felt like two days of travel, and an extended stop in Frankfurt, Germany, I arrived very early this morning. From the back of a Mercedes taxi I peered into the dark trying to discern any view, and any image of Amman I could but knowing that I was only a 99JD (about $160 CDN) cab ride to the Iraqi border my mind was hardly focused. It was a surreal trip into the city, only a few kilometres separated a sign directing drivers to either the Saudi or Iraqi border and another advertising Chicken Mc Nuggets.

Home Again, and Again?

2006-10-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

With the amount of time I spend away from home each year it stands to reason that I often wonder about the nature of home. I have come to appreciate that home is a combination of physical and emotional qualities, home is a place, but it is also an idea and both qualities have an added measure of being dynamic and ever changing. In the past few years home has been a number of seemingly contradictory experiences from the driver’s seat of an old Subaru to a third floor bachelor suite in Brown’s Addition where I lived for four months one summer.

The past two weeks have been a whirlwind of airplanes, rental cars and taxicabs, from Vermont to Vancouver, Chicago to Toronto, Millbrook, Trenton, Belleville, Ancaster and back to Vancouver I have logged a ridiculous number of kilometres. But all this time in airplanes and behind the wheel provided a heap of opportunity to consider the nature of going home.

The road home is not always an easy trip it is bound by memory, expectation and some times nausea inducing drama. My grandparent’s house in Eastern Ontario is as much home to me as any other place I have lived, but Eastern Ontario is not. When I was at school in that area five years ago it was the people I shared that experience with made it home. But just as time has no meaning for some friendships, it is an enemy to others and though you may try to make that trip home you may not be welcome.

Going to my grandparent’s house is among the easiest things in the world for me to do. The only expectations they seem to have for me is that I make my own coffee and spend as much time as possible entertaining them with stories of my daring-do, as long as it doesn’t interrupt Coronation Street. I am quite happy to oblige on both counts and it is amazing how making one’s own coffee can take 30 minutes while the sounds of Coronation Street fill the living room.

Off you go then, Cheerio

2006-09-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-26T11:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-20T20:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-16T07:37:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-15T14:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-12T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-09-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-02T19:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Ok now what?

2006-08-22T22:10:00.000-07:00

I have been home for a little more than a week and I am discovering that being at home is not my natural state. I have been institutionalized. I am no different than a career soldier, or a ex-con who can’t adjust to life on the outside. That’s me and it sucks. It’s hard to interact with other people after being away for so long, conversation skills atrophy and issues of personal hygiene seem to take on lesser and lesser importance. I have unlearned how to be around others. After four weeks of the most significant face to face conversation being with the barista at Starbucks who is certain I ordered a half-caf, soy, lite whip mocha, it’s almost hard to speak English again. Does my lifestyle justify my job, or does my job justify my lifestyle? At any rate I am pretty sure I ordered an americano, black.

I thought I might share what I will call the media file update; what I have been reading, watching and listening to lately.

Book: Steve Coll: Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and Bin Laden, From the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001.
This book is the history of the US involvement in Afghanistan, and it is very illuminating. Nothing like buying communist made Chinese AK-47's to supply to Afghan rebels to kill communist Russian hoards!

TV/DVD: Lost, Season One.
Twin Peaks meets Survivor. Suggestion? Less Survivor more Log Lady. I’ve heard that Cooper has retired to regular walks in Suburban Atlanta.

CD/iPod: Thom Yorke: The Eraser
I first heard heard Black Swan as I was crossing the Missouri river from Missouri back into Nebraska and I thought: “No kidding, how did I get here?” Just consider some lyrics: “...it’s the price that you’ve got to pay, do yourself a favour and pack your bags, buy a ticket and get on a train, buy a ticket and get on a train, because this is f**ked up, f**ked up...” Other songs to consider on a soundtrack to life on the road: Man in a Suitcase, the Police “I’d invite you back to my place, it’s only mine ‘cause it holds my suitcase” and 1000 Miles Away, the Hoodoo Gurus: “I spend half my life in airports doing crosswords or attempting to sleep and when the bar is open you’ll often find me warming a seat.”

I’ve been home a week and I have already started planning for the next one. This is effed up, effed up.

The smell of home in the morning

2006-08-16T10:36:00.000-07:00

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Welcome JF." I am home again, home to my city, my community and my apartment, and my head is still spinning from road. Some numbers to consider from the last month, 25 hotels, 5000 km of driving, three states, four plane rides, three airports and no duty free scotch. I was at full stride for four weeks and now I have come to a complete stop, now where do I start?

It starts with my own bed, linens and pillows, followed the right cup of coffee in the morning, the one I've done without for the past month, and then the wander. It takes a couple of days to get over the full stop and to allow that recognition of place to settle in. I know this place. It is an act of convincing one's self. This is home, this is where I am comfortable and this is where I belong.

After a couple of weeks on the road the days become one, and unfortunatly they all become Saturday. Every morning begins with the question: "What the hell am I doing awake so early on a Saturday?" The hard thing about this is that after a few weeks on the road I find myself waking every morning a few minutes before the alarm rings. The worst is the idea, then, that waking so early on a Saturday is a voluntary act.

Bad Day at the Office?

2006-08-13T12:16:00.000-07:00

But I bet you've never had to dodge traffic on an interstate, in the rain, to stand on a lane barrier, to take a picture of a building. Colleague and intrepid photographer, Steve Li, shows us what it takes to get the job done. Well done Steve, you are a credit to the rest of us, now come down off your horse, and stop raising expectations. And in case you are wondering, there is no hazard pay, it's all in a day's work.

My Slippers Must be Broken

2006-08-09T13:52:00.000-07:00

Ok, so my bike shoes are niether ruby nor are they slippers but they click when I walk and this must count for somthing. Perhaps not. Perhaps the magic in my shoes is only great enough to bring me here, and not enough to get me home. I arrived in Kansas yesterday and I have been looking for a tornado ever since. I even heard a klaxon this morning but no such luck, perhaps it was a warning to check my air conditioner.

Yesterday's drive from Nebraska took me down county roads past ranches, farms and the remains of one room school houses. I passed grain silos and corn fields and even a stop on the Pony Express and though I kept my eyes peeled I've yet to see Dotty or Toto. So Dorothy, where are you? And where's you little dog too? So far there's been no Scarecrows, no Lions and no Wizard of oh holy crap what the hell is that smell? Oh yeah it must be the meat processing facility down the street. Imagine putting rotting meat directly on a stove element and seasoning it with moldy macaroni and cheese.

All things considered I had a nice stop for lunch yesterday in Manhattan; Manhattan Kansas. Home of Kansas State and Aggieville, which seems to the college community strip, home of cheap pitchers and bucket nights. At any rate it was a good place to stop for an hour and get out of the car for some food and to stretch my legs even if it was freakin' hot. I would have been quite content to wait out the heat with a couple of the aforemention pitchers. Seriously though, the people I'v met have been super jolly and friendly and all too accomodating considering my random and eratic lane changes.

And from the "Just so you know" file:

What No. 23 Looks Like

2006-08-08T20:09:00.000-07:00

Just in case you were getting jealous of my fantastic travels over the great plains I thought I would offer a peak at typical accomodations on such voyages and this is the 23rd different motel room of this trip. I suspect that even Lewis and Clark had more comfortable digs. Well at the very least they came through the area long before Tyson set up a meat processing facility which you can smell from blocks away. Very similar smell in fact to the one I described in an earlier blog regarding road kill and convection oven-like temperatures.

What does poison oak look like?

2006-08-07T14:20:00.000-07:00

I know the blog is terrible need of an update. What can I say? I’ve been busy, but I am also at odds over the idea. Isn’t a blog essentially an act of ego? Well maybe I’ve just been mostly busy, and somewhat lazy.

My time in Lincoln is coming closer to it’s end and hopefully that means that I am getting closer to coming home, though it still feels like a month away even if it is just over a week. I have been busying myself with riding this past week and have gotten out for a few great rides in the Lincoln area. I broke down and bought a set of cross tires - off road tires for road bikes - and took to the trails around town which has been a great escape from the thoughts of work and office politics which seem to permeate my thoughts when I am shooting.

Lately I have been dwelling on an incident that happened in the office a couple of weeks ago when I was very publicly excluded from the congratulations for a recent success, a project which I spent six weeks working on. It’s unnerving how easily these things come between me and my day or how dominant that inner dialogue becomes; what we would have said given the opportunity to say it.

A few days ago the heat broke and leveled off at about 85 and I got to head out for a ride through the trees. Somewhere along the trail that inner dialogue drowned in the sound of the cicadas in the trees and the rumble and whistles of a near by train. There I was suddenly giddy, spontaneously smiling and laughing, the world had disappeared except for the hard brown earth and the verdant green of Wilderness Park. Nothing mattered in that moment, not work, not disinterested clients and not loneliness. In the park, on the trails, I suddenly felt very connected to everyone else on the trails, everyone I crossed and everyone who had left their tracks before me. The only thing left to worry about was whether or not that last grove I rode through was poison oak. I guess I should find out what poison oak looks like.

On Friday night a colleague and I returned to a restaurant in Lincoln which I had been to twice before. It can be a great local place with nice food and warm service but on Friday I came to wonder if the restaurant experience is on a sliding scale. The first time you go to a restaurant, a decent one anyway, they treat you great, the food is good and the service is attentive, they want you to come back. When you go back the second time the restaurant is grateful and rewards you for returning. The service is even more attentive, water glasses never get past half full, the bread is warm when it hits the table, and your wine glass is a little fuller than it should be. But all bets are off for the third visit. They impress you on the first visit, reward you for the second, but by the third they know you’re coming back, so you’ll have to endure what ever service they can spare for the night! Oh well.

The picture is from the Mill coffeehouse, not the place in question, in the Haymarket in Lincoln. It’s a great local place, good coffee and free internet access. It’s just a cool place to hang out and, as Steve Li can attest, attracts a nice looking crowd. Not that I would notice such things!

Lunch Break at Big Sal's

2006-08-01T12:07:00.000-07:00

Actual conversation overheard at Big Sal’s at 27th and Vine in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Woman at the bar: “So you’re a Canook huh?”

Rob: “Well I guess if you are a Yank, I can be a Canuck.”

WATB: “So I guess it depends on where yer from then?”

Rob: “What does?”

WATB: “Bein’ a Canook.”

Rob: “Not really.”

(Rob: “Can you say knuckle?”

WATB: “Knoockle?”

Rob: “No, not like noodle, knuckle.”

WATB: “Knookle?”

Rob: “Nevermind.”)*

WATB: (to an entering customer) “Hey Bill, hot enough out there for ya? How’s the sidin’ bis?”

*Dialogue in brackets may have occurred only in the author’s head.

The Trouble with Goals

2006-08-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t like country music and I was never a fan of Garth Brooks, but word is he was pretty good at what he did. He sang, he played guitar and he sold millions of cds. He must have been doing something right and you have to appreciate that even if you can’t stand the music. It was in this spirit that I anted up ten bucks on my one day off in Nebraska to see the Americruise Hot Rod show at the Lincoln fair grounds last Sunday.

Since giving up the Falcon almost three years ago my interest in cars in general has actually diminished and though I am not interested in ever owning one there is something to a hot rod that I appreciate. Beyond all that chrome and steel which I find very distracting there is the effort, skill and passion that went into the build. This is what I appreciate. I don’t really care for the noise and some are just garish but when a hot rod is done right it is easy to recognize the skills and commitment which led to the final product. Who am I kidding? There is just something cool about building a shiny car that goes fast.

After the car show I headed back into down town for a coffee at the Mill coffeehouse in the Haymarket district before heading out for a ride. It was Sunday, the sun was shining, I had the day off and the alternative was to spend the day in a smokey motel room at a truck stop in rural Nebraska watching HBO.

The problem with setting goals for one’s self is there may be an expectation of actually meeting them. This was what I was faced with after riding two thirds of my planned ride on Sunday. I planned on riding 75 km to meet my goal of averaging 200 km/week on this trip. The problem with this was that after 50 km, which is no small accomplishment for a 210 lb man in 35 C heat, I still had 25 km to go. Crap. Enter the distance index (See Iowa Heat Index below). The distance index represents the distance a ride feels like. It is a formula whose variables include wind speed, air temperature, and actual distance. It is safe to assume that there are no know values to represent the distance index of the last 25 km of Sunday’s ride.

With wobbly legs and ribbons of salt on my jersey I made it back to the Mill for an iced coffee beverage, a healthy dose of conditioned air and a change of clothes. Thanks to the Mill for the fine coffee, cold air and the bathroom I use as a change room.

Views from the commute

2006-07-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

Scenes like this are pretty common in Iowa, Nebraska and Missouri, on whose highways and bi-ways I have been traversing for the past two weeks, but for a boy from the city it seems like a different world. I have driven through dozens of towns and communities just like this one and I have to admit that I feel pretty removed from the means of our food production. I know that getting a cob of Nebraska corn in Vancouver is about as likely as finding a BC wine in Omaha, but I think you can see my point. Where ever our produce comes from, it has to travel both a literal and figurative distance to land in our fruit and veg markets on Cambie, Gravnille or West 4th. I have spent a lot of time thinking about the GMO/Organic debate over the past week and I cannot help but wonder if there is a much broader argument to be made for both sides. In this argument I am having trouble taking a side and will remain grateful that my decisions are made at the grocers and don't have to be made in the field.

Kirk Cameroned

2006-07-25T12:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I joined a ride out of a local bike shop in Omaha and I was unceremoniously dropped off the back by much stronger riders up front about half way through. The shop is called Bike Way and I felt like the fat kid at summer camp. You know the one. The slow kid that one of the counselors has to hang off the back with on long hikes. Oh wait, I was that kid. And yesterday night on a bike path in Omaha I was left behind.

I really wanted to hang on, but they were on a tear yesterday, through wooded bike/pedestrian paths, and residential subdivisions. It was a much more competitive ride than was suggested by Trev, the guy who invited me out for the ride last week. I was feeling good that no one was showing up for the ride in matching jerseys, but yet many of the riders had wheel sets worth more than my whole bike! Thanks to the guy who lead me back to the shop and to Brian who was out for the first time also. I'm still interested in the Taco Ride, can I ride it on a crossbike?

The photo is a recreation of how I felt when I got back to shop and before my hour long drive back to the truck stop in Iowa where I stayed last night. I got a note from my sister Lindsay and a follow up from Art (see Art Show link) about my comment settings. I think I have fixed the problem and interested parties should be able to leave comments without joining blogger. Cheers.

Breakfast in America: I am the Super Tramp

2006-07-24T12:10:00.000-07:00

Morgan Spurlock has nothing on me. Well except for the hit movie, the tie-in book and the TV series, but try being a VRX Photog for 30 days in the rural outposts of the Great Plains. I have been cruising the small towns and back roads of Iowa and Nebraska for the past couple of days and have found little to eat other than the usual suspects which seem to show up in every town no matter how small; Burger King, Pizza Hut and McDonalds. I am forced to admit that I am two for three on that list. I used to chide my fellow photographers for complaining about food offerings on the road by saying "if you really wanted to find good food, you would". I now know better. The past two nights I have driven into cities an hour away to find reasonably healthy and tasty fare. But as the photo suggests there just isn't time for such explorations in the morning.

This is breakfast in America, and this is the view.

It's Ok, I'm from Wisconsin

2006-07-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

Just for the record I'm no cheese head, no offence to anyone from Wisconsin, but I am certain that there are drivers in Iowa and Nebraska who are sure I am. The Falcon has been reincarnated and I am on the road again in a Silver Subaru! Which incidentaly have Wisconsin licence plates. Out of state plates are so much more than mearly licence plates they are a licence to swerve eraticly and without notice to avoid taking the wrong exit. Though we curse and wave our fists it is so easy to dismiss the poor manners of a tourist when they clearly don't know where they are going.

The Iowa Heat Index

2006-07-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

The heat index is a measure of how hot it feels, it is a combination of the actual temperature and the relative humidity. Today the index will hit 115 degrees F. Perhaps the real heat index is how long it takes a fat man to sweat through a shirt while taking pictures from the side of an interstate overlooking value oriented lodgings. Welcome to the heat.

Welcome to Iowa.

2006-07-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Council Bluffs, Iowa late Sunday night for the start of a month long trip to the Great Plains region for client work. Lonely Planet does not offer the most flatering impression of Council Bluffs, "At Iowa's western end of I-80 is Council Bluffs, known for its casinos and budget motels, which make it a good base for exploring its big brother across the Missouri River - Omaha, Nebraska".

So far I am unable to refute this discription. Which is to say that much of my free time has been across the River in Omaha, but this is only half the story. After finishing up Monday afternoon in good time, I paid a visit to the good folks at The Endless Ride Bike store in Council Bluffs for a little local riding knowledge. I have a plan to help preserve my sanity over the next month on the road. I am, for the first time, traveling with a bike.

So I paid a visit to a local bike shop, looked at a map and planned a ride. I offered to the staff that I was looking to ride about 50km or about two hours and he responded "Well I don't really keep track of milage, but it's a good loop." He was even gracious enough to warn me that there would be some good hills along the way. In my perspective a good hill is one that falls away infront of me, not one that stands to meet me.

It turns out the hills weren't the greatest challenge, it was the heat. At nearly 40 degrees celcius it was like riding in an oven. But it was the combination of the hills and the heat that made me wonder if my efforts to stave off a heart atack may end up enducing one. Life is great cruising along at 30 km/h, the wind helps keep you cool so the slower I crawled up the hills the hotter it seemed to get. At one point I had to pull over into the shade and hang out. All things considered it was still a great ride and a great way to get out of the city. I have become so used to city riding that I have forgotten how nice riding on county roads can be. No traffic lights, light traffic, and winding roads.

One caveat, however, is to beware of the road kill. The county roads I was riding were littered with hairy, bloody mounds of baking animal flesh. You miss the joy of such discoveries riding in a car. But on a bike in a heat wave you can actually smell the rotting carcases before you see them!

The photo is from last Saturday's hillclimb in Whiterock, BC. It's Super Week at home, and heaps of great racers are in town. I was thinking of these guys while I was draging my self up the aforementioned hills here in Iowa. The race was cool to watch though the most exciting races were the finals where the five fastest riders sprint it out. You should check out Gastown this Wednesday, it's a great venue, great riders, and an exciting race.

What the %$#& was I thinking?

2006-07-14T23:41:00.000-07:00

I am posting another picture of the Lonsdale Classic of last weekend, well because I like it. I am preparing for another extended leave of Vancouver. I am heading to Nebraska for client work and hopefully some milage on my road bike, which for the first time in three and a half years of traveling for work, I am taking with me. It's already packed and waiting for the rental car to arrive.

Of all the things we do to injure ourselves I cannot help but believe the most ridiculous is body waxing. Two days ago I found myself face down on a table with a woman applying hot wax to my back and thinking "what the hell am I doing here?" Rest assured there was an inner monologue filled with four letter words for the 30 minutes it took for that brave esthetician to denude my back of hair.

I have to admit I did not go into this act unaware. I have been before. I wax, or rather, have my back waxed several times a year. Of all the things I am self conscience of, my growing forehead, my short stature, or my round girth, I wax. What an idiot. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, it hurts like a dirty SOB. I hearby retract any comments I have made in the past about the value of bikini waxing. The irony is that no matter how much this last visit hurt, painfully so, it was so much better than the first time I went. The first time I waxed it was at the hands of a woman who was no doubt an esthetician at a Hungarian Gullag. "Wait" you say, an esthetician at a Hungarian gullag? Maybe that's why it hurt so much.

The Blogger in Question (Bio)

2006-07-13T20:45:00.000-07:00

This is the part where I introduce myself. I am a professional photographer based in Vancouver, BC, where I have lived off and on for the past 20 years. My time away has been spent working in Whistler, studying in Victoria or Ontario or traveling for work. While I have and I do travel for fun, there has been a lot less of that in the past four years.

I studied for, and recieved, a bachelor of Humanities from the University of Victoria in 1999. At UVic I studied BC and Canadian History with forays into art history, film studies and sociology. Yes it was a classic liberal arts education, and no, I don't regret my choices. Things have turned out pretty good for me.

After UVic and a two year break I enrolled in a two year diploma progam in Photojournalism at Loyalist College in eastern Ontario. I completed the two year program in an accelerated ten month stream and dived into the daily grind of daily news. After being turned away by a number of smaller community papers in BC I was offered an internship at the Spokesman-Review in Spokane, Wa.

The Lonsdale Classic

2006-07-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I trecked over to North Vancouver to do something I don't often get a chance to do, photograph sports. Since finishing an internship four years ago I have left sports shooting largely behind with the exception of a few events I have come across in my travels. I want to say how much fun it was to "cover" the races, but I felt rusty as hell trying to keep up with the action and the speed of the riders.

The Lonsdale Classic is a Criterium race which consists of a short track and multiple laps, up to 50-70, for the highest category divisions. The fastest riders were breaking 70km/h and posting lap times of less than a minute. As a bit of a bike geek it was quite humbling to watch riders scream past at that speed knowning that even with a downhill grade and a stiff wind, available only to me, there would be absolutely no way I could keep up. Which was kind of how I felt in trying to photograph the races too. Leah Goldstein crushed the senior womens category, it was an impressive win which I got to watch and shoot from the back seat of the pace car.

Itinerant jackass

2006-07-07T10:39:00.000-07:00

So everyone else is posting a blog and far beit for me not to jump on the bandwagon. But make no mistake, this isn't an attempt at being discovered and offered a movie deal! It's July 7, 2006 and I have spent more than 100 nights away from home this year and I have amassed a collection of boarding passes. So over the next couple of weeks there will be more to follow including my rare and unique insights about the world as I see it and pictures too, 'cause that's what I do. I take pictures. I travel and I take pictures, it's not always pretty, nor picturesque, but that's the grind.

The Virtual Tourist

2006-07-07T09:34:00.000-07:00