It’s the little things in life that are the most wonderful. A small exchange with a kind stranger, a moment of laughter with a good friend, a taste of something homemade and pure. And when you can experience all that together under the warm sun on an August afternoon—like I did this past weekend at at the annual Flavours in the Field culinary festival, in New Tecumseth, Ontario—well, it really is pretty wonderful.
Just over a week ago, I was fortunate to spend five days in Istanbul, Turkey, courtesy of Turkish Airlines Canada, Conrad Hilton Istanbul and InS Luxury Tours. And at the risk of sounding obnoxiously gushy, it was pretty damn incredible. As I’ve previously written, I didn’t know what to expect from Istanbul, but it didn’t take me long to fall in love with the gorgeous scenery and culture that make up this East-meets-West city.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I headed to Istanbul last week. Sure, there were some things I already knew about the destination, like how it’s where Europe and Asia meet, both figuratively and literally (the Bosphorus Strait, which runs through the centre of the city, is the geographical dividing point between the two continents), and how the only thing North Americans have seen of Turkey over the past few months has been the riots in Taksim Square.
Okay, let me explain. I am not guzzling wine in some sort of pity party, lamenting my singleness and crying while watching Nicholas Sparks movies. No, far from mourning the romance of Valentine’s Day, I’m celebrating it. Or, more specifically, I’m celebrating the month of February. Because February means it’s time for the Niagara region’s annual Days of Wine and Chocolate festival. Wine. Chocolate. I can think of no combination that could make me happier on a cold February afternoon.
If you want to spark a heated debate in a room full of writers, just mention the Huffington Post. Arianna’s publishing empire incites a range of alternating fury and support that occasionally makes me fear for my life. There are those who proudly declare they write for such a widely read publication, even if it is for no pay, and others who proudly declare they will never give their work away to a non-paying giant like Huff Po.
I’ve been fortunate with my travels. Apart from a few small inconveniences—falling for a timeshare scam in Bali and being abandoned at the side of the road, having a camera stolen in both Cancun and Los Angeles (you think I would have learned the first time), suffering food poisoning in Veradero, sitting in a Florida ER after breaking blood vessels in my right eye—I haven’t fallen prey to serious injuries or other dangers while roaming the globe.
Being a travel writer/editor/blogger presents an interesting conundrum. For most people, a trip is a vacation, a chance to get away, to escape work, to forget about the responsibilities awaiting you at home. For travel professionals, it’s work. Not in a bad way, mind you—I will never, ever take for granted how fortunate I am to work in this industry—but it is work, nonetheless.
I knew something was amiss when my Kit Kat—my favourite of all the chocolate bars (okay, second favourite, after peanut butter cups)—tasted… wrong. Too sweet. Too fake. Too I don’t know what, but not good. Could it be true? Did I really change my tastebuds and cure my daily 3pm addiction to sugar in one week? Looks like it. And I blame Mountain Trek Resort.
This blog post has two purposes: to brag excitedly share the news about my upcoming surprise trip to Vietnam (hang on, let me do a little spazzy dance—I’m going to Vietnam!!!) and to declare my undying love for the Toronto Travel Massive. And the two are intimately connected.
It all started 10 years ago. I was going through a rough time, a period of intense stress that had left me with a severe case of insomnia and—when I could finally sleep—nightmares.
My long-time friend and eternal voice of reason (and fellow mojito hunter) came to the rescue. Erika showed up at my house in downtown Toronto and told me and my roommate Shanna that she was whisking us away to her family’s cottage for the weekend, to kill off the negativity that had consumed us. We were to pack our bags with no worries for what awaited us back home, and head three hours north, to a patch of water near Pointe au Baril known as Harris Lake.
Anywhere & Here 