The 777 passes to the east. Forty thousand feet over the Canadian plains a turbulent tailwind rocks us all to sleep like babes in an industrial steel cradle. We are helpless as infants for all the power we have over our paths at this moment.
But I can’t sleep. Choosing to travel is choosing the path of transience, and I’m haunted by the souls who’ve invaded my airspace and gone: with hugs and affirmations; with nothing at all because we didn’t know that was the end; with casual disappearance into the night shadows.
Last night on Robson Street was filled with neon lights and open air bars. The scent of seaweed and colognes, nachos. Our merry band of travelers strung out over blocks and breaking apart in that special kind of fission unique to large groups of people. Read more...
I blurted it out, the words giving shape to a thought my mind hadn’t even consciously registered.
“Passion pulls.”
Gavin and Rene nodded in enthusiastic agreement. They might have even stopped eating and vocalized assent. The three of us were in the midst of a sumptuous lunch at the Knockomie Hotel just outside Forres in Moray, Scotland, and we’d been discussing success in tourism and business. Gavin owned the hotel and Rene was my rockstar guide through Moray on behalf of MoraySpeyside Tourism.
Oh I know, I’m so clever. Read more...
Making the decision to quit my steady job and reach for a passion was hard.
Very hard.
It required me to believe – not kinda-sorta-think-I-can-do-it, but really believe – in my abilities and to hang consequences on any failure to achieve my goals. It’s so much easier to avoid crossing that line, to continue on in a comfortable life with the mushy half-belief you might have what it takes to capture a dream. But the decision is only the first difficult obstacle; even when you’re walking the walk, there’s always a shadow of doubt trailing behind. Read more...
The gauchos of northwest Argentina sing their hearts out to Salta. I asked Ana, the guide I’ve met up with on a couple of occasions here in Salta, the meaning of some of the folklórica songs we’d heard. She smiled, turned a bit red, and said, “they sing about their love for Salta, how they’re leaving their hearts behind when they ride away.”
There was no need for embarrassment, I understood exactly what she meant. The process of travel is the great distiller of life. The dislocation of your self from the everyday grind is polarizing. The meaningless elements disappear in the shuffle, perhaps never even considered. But the important parts, the heart, stick in your mind and gain prominence. I remember feeling this way after a six-week trip Sarah and I took in 2006. By the end, we knew we needed to spend more time with family and friends. That’s what was important after being outside of our workaday routines. ESPN and TCM, games and drinks out at the bar, trips to big box stores – all this crap really didn’t matter. Read more...
THWACK! THWACK!
A cleaver sinks into a wooden block stained with a spectrum of red. Bits of gristle and flesh shoot out from the impact in tiny arcs.
THWACK!
A rough hand rotates, adjusts, and flips the carcass as the blade flashes down, an arbiter of division.
THWACK!
The bird dissolves into quarters. Seconds later the cutting board is fringed by cast-off slivers of meat marbled with fat. A stringy bit of skin dangles off the corner.
THWACK! Read more...
A hunter, oft-stubbled and bleary-eyed, driven by an insatiable hunger for exploration and experience - and perhaps a chance to thin the herd of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages. From the highlands and islands to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and the Borders, I explore Scotland with a pen in hand and a fire in the belly (which could be partly from the whisky). 
