Lobster.
I had expected it. Lots and lots of lobster. Before departing for Cape Breton in Nova Scotia, I told everyone that I planned to eat nothing but the rich crustacean for five days straight. Cracked and dipped in butter, tossed in mayo dripping off a roll, soaked in various forms of creamy seafood chowder… I was ready for it all.
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It’s impossible not to be a total tourist in Hoi An, Vietnam. The streets are so pretty that you’ll find yourself snapping pictures every few steps. The high-end restaurants are a far cry from the street stalls of Hanoi (but still affordable by western standards). And the bars that come alive at night along the Thu Bồn River, serving cheap beers and shisha, practically force you to behave like a drunken backpacker, at least once.
We were alone, deep within the woods, when we heard it: a rustling in the trees ahead. My heart jumped to my throat. Naively, we had left our bear spray back at camp, and now we were standing in the middle of a ripe berry patch. Shaking with fear, we waited for whatever it was to emerge.
“Hidden gem” is a phrase that gets tossed around a lot in the travel sphere. So much so that it’s become a cliché, its accuracy debatable. After all, what’s “hidden” to visitors may very well have celebrity-like status for those who live in or near the area.
You could say that’s the case with Canada’s Niagara wine region. Located on the border between Ontario and New York State, Niagara is, in many ways, Canada’s claim to wine fame. It may not be as commonly known as other grape-growing regions, like California’s Napa Valley, France’s Bordeaux, or even Australia’s Barossa Valley, but many Canadians, in particular those who reside in Ontario, know that the vineyards that line the Niagara River are as worthy of the world stage as their sisters around the globe.
I looked around me, a twinge of guilt in my gut, before lifting my camera, snapping a shot and stuffing the offending lens back into my bag as quickly as I could, fumbling with the zipper and painfully aware of my surroundings.
I was in downtown Christchurch, New Zealand—a city ravaged by two devastating earthquakes in 2010 and 2011, and still in recovery mode now three years later. And I couldn’t decide whether to document the sites before me, or to take it in only in my mind. I’ve never been comfortable with disaster porn. Rubbernecking nauseates me. And why did I even want physical memories of the scene, anyway?
It took me all of a day to decide I didn’t like Hanoi. I arrived at night under a sky that was starless and rainy, air that felt cool and clammy—and in a taxi that cost me $15 more than I had anticipated. Come morning, a grey haze hung over the city, drizzly rain seeping into every crack of the mangled sidewalks and into my pores—admittedly a welcome relief after leaving behind a cold Canadian winter that had my skin as parched as a desert. The streets screamed with chaos—cars, motorbikes and bicycles all surged from seemingly every which way, a moving mob on wheels.
It’s the palm trees that get you.
There are some things you expect to see in Ireland: rolling green hills, fields of sheep, rainbows with leprechauns at the end pouring pints of Guinness. But not palm trees.
Pop quiz: You’re headed to Calgary for a culinary weekend. What are you going to eat?
Beef, you say. Of course.
Well, not exactly. Sure, the west is known as the beef headquarters of Canada, and the first time I visited Calgary, I ate so much of Alberta’s acclaimed AAA beef that I’m pretty sure I cleaned out at least one cattle ranch entirely on my own.
But as it turns out, Alberta, and the city of Calgary in particular, is about a heck of a lot more than steak and burgers. Not only that, but it’s also home to some pretty damn good chefs, both established and up-and-coming.
The first time someone told me they were living vicariously through me, I felt a little thrill inside. It meant I was doing something admirable and, dare I say it, worthy of jealousy. And then I heard it a few more times. And a few more. And each time, it rang a little differently in my ear until it wasn’t so thrilling any more.
And then at some point, it switched to this: “Oh, must be nice.” I’m sure the phrase was never uttered with malice, but my ears heard hostility. Maybe the tone was conscious, maybe not. Or maybe the tone was merely a figment of my own insecurities. Regardless, there comes a point in almost every traveller’s life when they start to feel like travel is the elephant in the room.
I don’t know why I can’t get her out of my head. I didn’t know Anita Mac personally; she was just the voice behind a URL, someone who shared some connections with me, who loved travel and writing like I do. I don’t know why, when I opened my Facebook newsfeed and saw a note that she had taken her own life, when I read her final blog post about feeling alone, it hit me so hard that I sat at my desk sobbing on a Sunday afternoon for a woman whom I had never met.
Anywhere & Here 