• Day 219

  Hey Meg, 
  
  Remember when we used to do this in the cold gutters of Calgary, just as the ice melted? Well, we tried it in Florida. Not the same.
  
  Miss you and love you. xox
  
  Rach & Trav

  Popsicle Sticks (by Rachel Gertz)

  Featured: “Our Age” by Constantines (Kensington Heights)

  Posted on May 25, 2010

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• The Home Stretch

  Day 218

  Although we’ve haven’t yet related potent details about our stays in Ottawa, Toronto, and Niagara, I have to intercept. 

  This is the home stretch, folks. 

  We’ve been on the road for over seven months and are now a mere 16 days from our Alberta hub. Oh Calgary, you spawned this crazy idea of traveling in a Winnebago to escape winter, and now we’re coming back to see if we can’t inject a little summer into you. If not, we’re done. Just sayin’.

  Anyway, just so you (and the nice men and women at border patrol) know, this is the plan: we’re giving ourselves two weeks to get home, with an estimated return of June 9th. The plan is to dip down through the US for a pleasure cruise (on the road, not in a boat because that would literally mean the Great Lakes, and that’s just stupid). 

  We’ll visit Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, South Dakota, and Montana before arcing up into Alberta through Cardston (a fun place to be if you adore boredom). Basically, attacking the quickest route to Calgary that DOESN’T involve driving 30 hours through the abhorrently green Canadian Shield. Then it’s home to see family and friends. We’ll be renting a block from where we lived last year.

  For those that care, we’ll fill you in on the plan after that. Mostly we’re gluing new meaning to the term, “seat of your pants.”

  Our blood is tingling with excitement. Is yours? 

  No? Well, gd’it. Get off your hiney and go do something about that.

  ***

  In other news…

  A special thank you goes out to Bill Lang. I worked hard to tease a smile out of Bill while nosing the grindstone with him at LivingWorks for a year and a half (or at least I tried —he’s so unflappable). But it was only after I left that I realized we had mutual appreciation for adventure and our own way of doing things. Always negotiating a balance between work and play, Bill is an explorer. The type of explorer who will decide to commit to something meaningful and will do it with excellence & pride, sans sidelong glance. Which is why, against many odds, he and his wife, Lois (I love you Lois) bought a beautiful silver Airstream, packed up the cats, and are hightailing it for the road. I couldn’t be happier! I think this whole RV work & travel thing could really catch on.

  Bill, thanks for all your support and RV questions along the way. I have enough answers to now compile a book. Seriously. I await a video demonstration of how to properly shave your moustache or empty your sewage tank. Bon voyage!

  Posted on May 24, 2010

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• Tongue Tied

  

  ~Love stuck to a fence in front of Montreal Expo ‘67

  Day 216

  You can not sum up Montreal. 

  It is above ground and underground. It is French and it is English. It is poutine and it is King crab. We. Loved. It.

  We were raised in Alberta. Blue collar with a touch of white. Cowboy hats worn in July for Stampede. Anglophones. Alberta taught us all of the following things about Montreal (well about French speaking Quebec in general). That’s what generalizations are, I suppose. 

  We were told….

  • Everyone in Quebec despises Canadian English speaking people
  • Everyone in Quebec is a separatist (aka wants to govern their own country called Quebec)
  • No one speaks English, nor even tries
  • Quebec people are rude and dismissive
  • French Canadians are assholes

  Wow. A very well-rounded opinion, n’est pas? Here’s the thing, not only are these generalizations pathetic, they are so inaccurate, they actually crumble. We spent a heavenly four days in Montreal. Hopping on a well-tailored transit system, devouring fantastic grub (yes, there is always room for more poutine), and walking slack-jawed down the streets of Old Montreal, in utter awe of the cultural diversity milling about us.

  Now, we are very anglophone. We admit it. Although Canada has two official languages (French and English), general education in Alberta would have you think otherwise. In Alberta, you are only required to partake in French lessons from grades 2-6 where you learn verb conjugation and basic nouns. If you develop a hankering for more French, you’re free to take it as an option in junior high and high school (or you go to French Immersion). That’s the thing, it’s an option. An option we never took. So our knowledge of French language and culture is limited to “Bonjour” and “toilette”.  Now plant us in the heart of a Francophone city like Montreal…

  I actually took Spanish in high school, and the plague of Spanish words that hit my tongue made me incapable of thinking in French. Now, unlike Quebec City, there is a larger population of Anglophones in Montreal, so if you’re going to scrape by in English, you can retain your dignity. But it’s still impossibly hard if you want to blend in. 

  Trav and I wanted so badly to be spies here. To go unnoticed, blend in like locals, and let the French melt on our tongues like delicious curds of cheese. Fat chance. This is how it went in truth: 

  Every store or restaurant we strolled into garbled our French. We had to attempt it. We had to try to adopt the nuances and silent linguistics code. But we were incapable of getting past, ‘Bonjour’. Spies everywhere would have been embarrassed. The sheer overwhelming spectacle of being struck mute made us feel so incredibly tiny. And to make it worse, we were usually found out within ten seconds flat.

  Example: Travis and I attempt to order poutine in a French fast food restaurant. I know the cashier speaks a bit of English. He answered politely to the last customer. But I’m going to one-up that customer and try out my Français. Except I can’t think of how to say, “I don’t want the combo.” The words will not come. I can’t even think how to excuse my poor french or to apologize. The cashier looks at us quizzically. I stand there red-faced, choking on my own tongue. 

  Luckily a woman steps in to help. Except she looks at me and asks if I need help —in French. I stare at her eyes wide. Now we’re really effed. Then she remembers and code switches to English, helping us to finish our order.

  Anyway, I’d venture to say it was harder to speak French here than it ever is to mutter Spanish phrases like “another beer, please” or “sorry, I’m married” in Mexico (true story). It was an eery and humbling experience. One we’ll continue to try out over and over again until we’re not so terrible at it. 

  But we owed Montreal this favour. The history and culture, and especially the language of French Canada needs to be honoured and upheld at all costs. It is what shapes our unique Canadian identity, and gave us poutine!

  • For the record, we didn’t meet any separatists
  • Each person who greeted us was friendly & even understanding as we spoke our childish French
  • Finally, everyone we met was bilingual and yet began every conversation in French.  That’s more than we could say about some of our rough-collared western counterparts.

  Montreal is a place we could live (after a few language lessons).  I should mention: I’m onto Travis. Normally a good spy, he has a bad habit of waiting for me to speak first in Quebec, which always forces me to stand red-faced and mute at the cashier counter. Sneaky man.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on May 22, 2010

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• To Noble Ottawatians

  Day 212

  An exuberant thank you goes out to our family friends and fellow former-Edmontonians, Wendy and Chris. You certainly topped our tour expectations this week. What with the gardens and waterfalls and cobblestones —and let’s not forget that delicious micro-brewed beer… it felt like we explored the underbelly of Greece, not our nation’s capital (that’s Ottawa, for you in the US of A). 

  We can’t thank you kids enough for the good times. Our night exploded with fantastic conversation, food, and the Ottawa love you so selflessly offered up. I am saving the last piece of chocolate coated butter toffee for when thoughts of our good times creep up on me in Calgary (I’ll brush the pocket lint off first).

  Have a fantastic trip to SF and don’t do anything we didn’t. Actually do. And then brag about it. We love a braggart or two. 

  Hugs and Ottowatian love, 

  Rachel & Travis

  Posted on May 18, 2010

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• What the French Call, “Québec City”

  

  Day 209

  I’m a bit behind on the posties, I am. But if you think you’re going to get an apology for that, forget it! We’ve been too busy freezing off our tooshes and enjoying the sites and sounds of Frenchland to even think about it. That’s Québec, for the rest of yas. 

  The mighty roar of this French province is a force to be reckoned with. Even if you’re shivering in your trailer through most of it, which is what we did when we found ourselves in Québec City. Old Man Winter, the dirty prick, descended upon the green hills of Québec in such a way that the sky turned a monotonous grey, the wind howled with ferocity, and the townsfolk muttered anti-winter sentiment into their coat lapels. Well, we think they did. We don’t speak French.

  The best of intentions got us to this city (almost a week ago now). And the best use of our frozen limbs and brains kept us in two places once we did arrive… 1. A Second Cup coffee shop. Bang up job on sampling that local flavour, right? And 2. An Irish pub —wow, I didn’t know how Irish the French were! Again, wet with sarcasm. 

  I’m personally trying to hide how angry the weather is making me because it has, without fail, dampened our our ability to take in the richness of the places around us. I mean, as much fun as we had nursing hot chocolate in a chain coffee shop while watching the wind blow grannies across the pavement— We much would have preferred exploring the cobblestone streets of Old Town. 

  Then I could have told you so many interesting things. Like….

  • The name Québec is derived from an Algonquin word meaning, “where the river narrows.”
  • Québec City is Canada’s oldest city (established in 1608) 
  • About 30% of people in Québec City are bilingual (especially in more touristy areas like Old Town) and speak fairly solid English. But not with each other, and not with you, until they figure out you’re an impostor and are butchering their language.
  • The importance of the following words: salle de baine (bathroom), Je ne parles pas le francais (I do not speak French—never managed to get that one out in one try), Bon soir (goodnight), Si vous plait (please), Mon petite bijou (rough translation: my little jewel. Only if you’re getting fresh with the locals).

  Our buddy suggest we learn this one in French…

  “You’ll have to excuse me… I don’t speak French. I realize I’m saying this in French, but it’s the only thing I know how to say”.

  Yup. Still working on that one.

  • Old Town Québec is entirely surrounded by gigantic ramparts —or fortified city walls— built as early as 1694. They were erected to protect the French from attacks from First Nations, British, and American Colonies. Only 4 gates are left standing today. 
  • The Battle of Québec squelched any hopes that Canada would become a part of the original United States of America. 
  • Average temp. in Québec for May is 22 degrees. Hmm, not 3 degrees? Like what we froze our pants off in last week?
  • The city has one of the lowest crime rates in Canada (half that of the national average of 2.5 per 100 000 people) No murders were reported in QC in 2006.
  • Chez Ashton serves some pretty incredible poutine. Just don’t add ground beef to the mix. That’s over the top. Hot dogs are okay, just not the beef.

  For those of you who have never tried poutine, you have not yet lived, my friend. 

  So summary: if we’re traveling through the area, we’d stop in to see Québec City again. Or if we ever move to Montreal, or if we ever learn French….

  It is all about what the French call, the joie de vivre.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on May 15, 2010

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• Lobster Proper

  

  Day 206

  I know you’ve eaten lobster tail. Everyone earns a right of passage by munching on the rubbery tail of this archaic animal at some point or another. But how many of you braves have voraciously attacked the fresh Pinchie in his claw and head and antennae glory? Oh, and how many of you have picked at the parts of this noble creature while in New Brunswick —specifically Chocolate River Motel, NB?

  Thought so. 

  We tried the hard-shelled lobster meal deal for the first time after sneaking a peak at the Bay of Fundy. I could go on about the rising tides of muddy water at the Bay, or I could tell you about how I am having nightmares about lobster juice flinging into my eye and growing lobster monsters out of my tear ducts. You want to hear about the nightmares, don’t you. Too bad, I’m just going to tell you how to eat the damn weird things.

  One thing you should know about eating lobsters, which they don’t tell you in school:  There is a right way to eat a lobster.

  We did it the wrong way. Juice everywhere, shell embedded into our noses. What a mess. I’m telling you this, so it doesn’t happen to your sweet self. Be cautious.

  Before we dissect the thing, let’s introduce it. 

  Mighty Lobster Facts

  • Lobsters were once considered bottom feeding creatures, not fit to be eaten by humans
  • The smaller the lobster, likely the more tasty it is (around a pound is a great catch) 
  • Lobsters can be left or right handed. That is, their large crushing claw will show up on either the right or left side
  • Lobsters molt their shells just like insects. The back of their shell cracks and they climb out of them. This process leaves them rubbery and exhausted for several hours
  • Lobster ‘blood’ is a clear fluid that turns white when boiled. Lobsters do not have a brain, nor heart, nor true liver. Basically they’re just an empty shell with fluids moving around inside. 
  • Unlike crabs, lobsters must be cooked live, or their meat is likely to spoil right away (no idea why)
  • Know why Pinchie has elastic bands around this claws? It’s not just because he’ll grab your junk between his pinchers the first chance he gets. Although docile creatures, the lobster can become cannibalistic when forced to exist in an overcrowded tank. Time to make a lobster fighting bet. 

  If you’re in love with lobsters like I am, read some more facts courtesy of Lobster Man.

  How to cook a lobster…

  We got ours fresh of the boat, but if you don’t have the luxury of being served fresh Homarus americanus, this is how to make it taste just as good. 

  Step 1. Choose your lobster. 

  Do not get too attached while this little guy clamours over the heads of his brethren in the tank at Superstore. Choose well. Bright green, hard shelled lobsters are tasty. If you’re lucky, the females might have eggs on them that you can slurp on. Mmmmm lobster eggs.

  Step 2. Put your lobster in the freezer to numb its pain. 

  Alright, I really have to settle this debate. Lobster consuming scientists have scrabbled to publish research regarding whether or not animals like lobsters, crabs, worms, and molluscs feel pain. Some say this freezer trick slows them down and numbs them out. Pull it out after ten or fifteen minutes, still alive, but slow as molasses. Do not test it with mathematical questions. 

  Oh, so I settled it. After reading the above article: Lobsters do not feel. Throw those effers in the pot. Gently, so just in case I’m wrong, they won’t come back to bite me in the ass later.

  Step 3. Boil it (till it turns red).

  I’ve never dropped a lobster in a pot of boiling water myself, but friends have told me they scream as their asses hit the spit. Scientists say it’s just a matter of air escaping through their carapaces. They say lobsters, like all invertebrates, lack the nerve development to feel pain. “No brain, no pain,” they insist. Still, I’m imagining scooping up wily little Pinchie and tossing him in the big old cauldron trying not catching his knowing eye. Their tails thrash when you drop them in, by the way. Apparently it’s just a reflex. Just sayin’.

  In case you’d rather play with Pinchie than eat him— How to Hypnotize a Lobster 

  Step 4. Eat.

  This is the tricky part. It’s why you get a bib. Now I must say that as Pinchie was being placed in front of me, I felt a pang of guilt. His feelers kept drifting off the plate and onto my arm, tickling me with remorse. Poor Pinchie. But I was steadfast. I pretended he was a crab and dove in. For some reason crabs are easier to kill and eat. I think it’s because they remind me of the Mon Calimari aliens in Star Wars. Kind of socially inept know-it-alls.

  More lobster preparing tips!

  Anyway, here’s how you get to the good part. 

  Eat A Lobster Now

  Step 1. Snap off the tail fins. Then break of the tail end from the torso. It’s dead; it doesn’t feel anything. Push out the meat from the tail end. Here you have it. A lobster died for that little sliver of seabottom goodness. Dip it in some hot garlic butter and squirt a little lemon on that sucker. Delicious.

  Step 2. See saw the legs and claws till they break off. There’s some succulent meat in there. Just don’t look Pinchie in his glazed eye.

  Step 3. Crack the claws with a nutcracker and then bend back the ‘thumb’ until it breaks. You can pull the claw meat out. This is actually my favourite part of the lobster. Besides its sunny disposition.

  Step 4. There should be a slice line along the back of the lobster (your chef should have made this), similar to the one Pinchie makes when he molts out of his shell. Crack that back wide open and notice all the weird green goo inside. Yeah, that green stuff? It’s not pate. People just think you should eat because it has the texture of blended liver. In actuality this is the place where all the waste from the lobster’s diet congregates, a ‘liver’ of sorts. Great on crackers. I mean, if you like eating other animals’ waste products, that is.

  Step 5. Poke at the head and the other weird bits of its body. Make the lobster body dance a little. Then compost Pinchie. He’ll make your soil rich and fertile so you can grow huge tomatoes when you switch to vegetarianism after reading this post. 

  A variation on the above nitty gritty.

  And Voila! You have succeeded in eating a bottom feeder. This food is for the riche and affluent only. Don’t let the fishermen fool you into thinking they only make $6 a lobster and then have restaurants and grocery stores tripling the price. Pshhaw.

  Just so you’re aware, now that we’ve eaten the mighty lobster once, we need never do it again. 

  Bon Apetit!

  Posted on May 12, 2010

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• How To Live Like A Spy

  Day 204

  Count how many spies you know. We’re talkin’ first name basis, comes over for beers on Friday nights and has a totally hot girlfriend named Debra. Zero? Yeah, thought so. Now how many people want to be spies? Ever single damned one of ya, that’s who. Because, let’s not kid ourselves. Who wouldn’t want to live the life of a spy? We’ve all watched James Bond and Jason Bourne do it. Spies like these disappear into the night, a new city each time. They pass out in fancy hotels and wake up in dingy alleys. They live off the grid, tapping into society’s nectar with only their resourcefulness to rely on. Spies assume multiple identities to blend in with the locals and work through the night so they can enjoy martinis by the pool in the morning. Bottom line, spies live the dream. Spies ignore the unimaginative rules that society drapes over them. They see past the boredom of suburbia and reject the ‘norm.’ And they do this all with calm and unshakeable confidence. 

  We’re spies. At least we live like them. Last October, the two of us got bored with ‘normal’ in Alberta. We got itchy feet. Sold our belongings. Bought a Winnebago named Walter. As the first flakes of snow touched the ground, we set sail southward across the wide and beautiful North American continent for however long it took. So far, it’s been eight months. And you know what? After ditching the belongings and the expectant guilt and confusion revolving around the question: what am I supposed to do with my life?, you realize that living like a spy makes that question irrelevant. 

  The how and the why…

  Disappear

  A spy will tell you: there will never be a perfect time to live like one, so today is the best day. You must commit yourself. This step is often the one that scares people the most. The anchors that hold us in place are lowered by us alone. The spy life need not be permanent. You can always crawl back to the nine-to-five if you can’t hack the lifestyle of the secret agent man. But don’t think you can just drop your job as a facility operator, don a suit, and start your next assignment. To live like a spy, you must prepare! Where do you want to wake up? How do you want to get there? What crazy things have you always wanted to do, but made excuses not to? Make lists. Cancel your cable, sell your car, form a budget. Strip it all down. Reduce your living expenses by reducing the stuff that weighs you down. Go to sleep dreaming about your new life, wake up planning your departure.

  Now, that one thing that you’ve always been good at? Become an expert and make that thing mobile. Make it work while on the road. Music? Write for Bon Jovi. Accounting? Become a traveling consultant. Web design worked well for the two of us. It freed up our time so we could explore the US of A —let your spy mind spin. Work isn’t work when you’re living like a spy.

  Pack your best suit and take your Secret Weapon. For us, this meant our laptops. Everything that we do centers around being connected to the outside world. Laptops deliver our morse code, if you will. For you it might be your guitar, your Quick Books software, your dog. Pack lightly. You won’t use half the stuff you drag along with you. A caveat: do bring your passport. You’re an idiot if you don’t.

  When you depart, forget who you were. Leave your preconceived notions, your stereotypes, your prejudices behind. Be the spy, wiped clean, who assumes a new identity for his mission. If you think you can get away with hiding that old prejudice against raw food or ‘types’ of bad drivers, it will rear end you. You will then be an asshole, not a spy. Start fresh.

  Fly Under the Radar

  Spies blend in. They mingle with the locals, they glean information from unusual sources. They are social engineers. You can blend in, too. Perfect that Bostontonian accent while hollering at a Red Sox game. Or join some folks playing footy in the local field. Force yourself to strike up a conversation with beer in hand at the local watering hole. Hell, learn to camel race. Whatever you do, do it with vigour. And be humble. You are the fly on the wall, not the writer of Nat Geo’s rare culture special. 

  Leave your flowered shorts at home. This is not a tourist vacation.  You’re here to learn, not to pocket stupid snow globes from flaky tours. I mean, if you want you can go on tours. Just don’t make that your sole spy purpose. You’ll only wind up feeling smart like Stephen Hawkings but with an idiot one-sided perspective.

  Don’t get stuck in one place. Spies are always on the move, taking on new missions and learning about new surroundings. If you stand still too long, one of two things will happen. Either you’ll stagnate and settle, or you’ll be exposed as a fraud. If you pick a new domicile based on convenience a priori and are contemplating buying a sofa, be warned. You have ceased living like a spy. If you are exposed as a ‘tourist’ (the absolute worst thing), you are a failure and can no longer live like a spy. Never settle. Another assignment awaits. 

  Wear Your Confidence on Your Sleeve

  Spies are confident. They know that to falter is to risk death. Don’t let your fear make you go sniveling all the way back to Smallsville. Put your inhibitions aside. Of course you will be scared. Only a miscreant robot would venture forth unscathed by this human reaction. Squelch your fear, or better yet, feed off of the resulting adrenaline. Musicians: stroll into a pub and offer to play some folk songs. Accountants: shake hands with Burt Reynolds at a moustache mixer. Sneak your way into VIP parties as SXSW. What is the worst thing that could happen? You get kicked out of that VIP party you weren’t invited to? Burt shaved his moustache last month? No problem. He’d still shake your hand. Fake your confidence till it forcefully bleeds through your sleeve. It’s the only reliable fuel you have.

  Moles will do everything in their power to raze a mission. They will pose as friends and supporters, then challenge you with pessimism. They will insist you’re making a mistake. It’s the boss who tells you he won’t hire you back. It’s the friend who tells you you’re an idiot. These soothsayers will toss doubt bombs in the way to see how quickly you can diffuse them. Spies do not tolerate moles. They stand strong against inquiry. They believe in their mission and will weed out anything that stands in the way. 

  Bury the mole.

  Be The King of Roulette

  A spy sees opportunity in the oddest of places. He’ll beat up a mugger with a rolled up newspaper. He knows that chance will keep him alive. He knows that chance keeps things interesting. Adopt this belief, if you run out of gas, pull over and explore your surroundings. Chances are you’ll find a gas station and meet some people worth knowing along the way. Instead of mapping your entire stay in California, take the coastal drive and stop at the first grass roots motel looming in the distance. Chance leads you further outside of your comfort zone and forces you to hone your spy senses. You will begin to see things you would have missed before. Not sure? Ask yourself if you might miss something by ignoring your intuition. Chances are, if you have to ask, you’re missing it already.

  Plans will change at the drop of a pin. Be flexible, be adaptable, be creative. Your ability to adjust your schedule will determine your success in living like a spy. Make short term, open-ended plans, but predict the unpredictable. If there’s rain in the forecast, don’t scale buildings. Spies are elastic. If they weren’t they’d be washed up curmudgeons. Adjust your forecast; don’t be a wash out.

  Live Like Royalty, Spend Like You’re Starving

  We live in a trailer. But we eat lobster dinners, visit museums, and drive expensive cars (okay we rented that Mercedes). Spies are well-versed in the art of living large, even if they’re on contract. Just the same, royalty is not about the things you own, it’s about experiences you take with you. If you want to own a mansion and eat chicken cordon bleu every morning for breakfast, this is not the life of a spy. On the other hand, if you want to stay in fancy hotels once a month and eat chicken wings as part of Happy Hour at the downstairs bar, you are most definitely living the life of a spy. Your legacy is made up of the stories you get to tell your future generations. Just like that one time Maxwell Smart bedded seven horny, intelligent women while requesting champagne via his shoe phone. Well, maybe he won’t share that one as a bedtime story. But you get the point. Live large and prosper.

  Accomplices make the world worth traveling. Those times when friends or acquaintances invite you over for tea or beer or offer a place to rest your weary head? Take them up on it. Every time. This is a difficult commitment for spies. They’re apt to want to do things on their own terms. Yet giving in to supportive spy conversation and a hot spy meal acts as fuel for the road ahead. It strengthens an agent’s resolve. Spies must always return this favour, assuming they ever have a hub from which to offer their courtesy. Spies offer even when it is not convenient. Just as they save hapless victims even when it is not in their itinerary. 

  Share Your Intel

  Revel in your adventure. Spies secretly love to watch their own documentaries. It’s your job to inspire, so do it by: blogging, taking pictures, making videos, podcasts, writing articles, submitting to magazines. Without the empire, spies are nothing more than government workers. How glamourous is that? 

  Forget Your Nine-to-Five

  Spies let their passion drive their schedule. They plot their next move ferociously and then phone people on bad connections or take crowded subways at rush hour just to reach their next objective. A nine-to-five schedule is ill-suited to a spy lifestyle. Stay up through the night if you’re wired on cultural caffeine. Or sleep till one pm. You can choose to work while the boring masses are wasting away in front of the TV set. Throw your heart into the work you do. Your work will be of higher quality. And you can rove around at all hours of the day or night plotting your next geographical takeover. Just like a spy. 

  Spies live in the now. They slurp up each moment as if it were their last. The truth is, time passes quickly for spies and commoners alike. You might be moving hastily from point A to point B, but these intense moments that you brush shoulders with are the richest and most meaningful you will ever have. When you spy, be a true spy. Do it with all the might you can muster. Squeeze  the juice out of life.

  Will you accept this mission?

  It’s only when you step outside the lines that you realize the lines don’t matter anymore. Spies know this. They understand this. They live this. 

  —Rachel & Travis Gertz, Spies

   

  Posted on May 10, 2010

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• Day 204

  A little out of sequence. But here you have it. Waterfalls, man. Waterfalls. 

  These Falls Are Grand (by Travis Gertz)

  Posted on May 10, 2010

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• Getting the Halifax Straight.

  

  Day 202

  I had no idea that Halifax was such a cool city. My only frame of reference was from watching Street Cents while growing up. The only thing I knew was that it was small, cloudy, and filled with smart teens who knew how to question advertisers and combat materialism. Also, Trailer Park Boys (if you are not familiar, I implore you to GET familiar. You won’t regret it). Now that ain’t a bad start.

  It’s an old city for North America. It started as an important military harbour in the early 1700’s beginning with the colonization of the British, the Seven Years War, The American Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, and both World Wars.

  In 1917 a French munitions ship exploded and blew the harbour to Kingdom Come, which despite being a major disaster, actually reshaped the city and later helped its reconstruction into what it is today.

  It also happens to be home of several post secondary institutions including Dalhousie University and a couple art schools. This probably explains the large population of smart young people as much as it explains the staggering amount of quality pubs and restaurants.

  Somehow, this odd mashup of history, education, art, Canadiana, and binge-drinking adds up to one of Canada’s most vibrant and fascinating cities.

  It has it all. Smarts, beauty, culture, personality. If it weren’t for the bone-chilling, humid winters and constant grey skies, we would definitely consider calling this place home. I expect we’ll be returning regularly.

  Tagged: Travis

  Posted on May 8, 2010

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• Big Mussels in Amherst NS

  

  Day 199 Oh my Gawwwwd!

  Seems we have family in Amherst, Nova Scotia. Not the blood tie kind, but we certainly will be having the Smiths over for some mussels and some fine Nova Scotian beer when we have a home to offer, won’t we Jeff & Krista? I think they call this ‘bffs’ in French. 

  We were welcomed warmly with Maritime charm, a jaunty driveway, and a ridiculously toothsome meal of: 

  • buttery mussels
  • bacon-wrapped scallops
  • colourful salad
  • sweet BBQ porkchops

  Oh & maple beer (in season)

  …all courtesy of Jeff, or the chef extraordinaire. Seriously Jeff, if you don’t start your own cooking show, I’m going to come over and throw one of your nice pots against the wall. That’s how GREAT you cook. I’d venture to say that Chef Ramsay has been served a cool dish of competition. Don’t let it sit out and get all warm and rotten.

  So we chitted and chatted. I ran my mouth of as I often do when trying to be the social butterfly (more of an injured moth, really). Forgive me Smiths, for I know not what I say and tend to overcompensate when it isn’t really necessary. But that’s why you like me, or maybe that’s why you like Travis more. Our topics were endless, the state of Turd Harbour (what we named the Bay of Halifax), the genealogy of our forefathers, the likeable drunk of the Amherst neighbourhood. Such unfathomable good times. The depths of Turd Harbour had nothing on our bountiful good times. With our great Maritime family.

  So, have the neighbours stopped talking about the strange white beast that slept on your driveway yet? I’m not talking about Travis.

  PS—banana chocolate chip muffins status: devoured.

  Posted on May 5, 2010 with 1 note

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• Day 197

  Travis on B&B’s

  Posted on May 3, 2010

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• Jump in the Carrr, Maritimes

  
  

  Day 196

  We’ve spent the last week moseying through the beautiful Maritimes: New Brunswick, PEI, and soon to Nova Scotia. Bad weather has broken a bit of our spirit. So, we’re toying with the idea of a do-over for the whole east coast.

  Anyway, here ya go.

  Fredericton, New Brunswick

  After pulling through the Canadian border, we bedded down here. In the morning, we tried to find the downtown. Apparently drove right through it three times without noticing. That is not a good sign. Especially when this city is the capital of your province. We stayed in a Walmart parking lot for two nights, then headed to…

  Moncton, New Brunswick

  Moncton is known as the most honest, polite town in Canada. It really is. You have to step back from the curb or people will screech to a halt to let you cross. Kind to a fault. Moncton features the odd yet riveting Petitcodiac river. Twice a day, the tide from the Bay of Fundy pushes the current backwards, filling the river bed with up to 6 feet of brown frothing water and silty mud flowing at 50 km/hr. You might not think this is very significant, but the Bay of Fundy has some of the greatest tide changes (20 feet great) in the world. This river back flow is so strong, it actually creates a tidal bore that can be seen twice a day in only a handful of rivers in the world. The sheer force can trap animals in a muddy coffin. Luckily Moncton has a polite and quick responding rescue team!

  We stayed at the Walmart for one night and the Delta for two nights.

  Charlottetown, PEI

  Walter broke down. He just couldn’t contain himself. He wouldn’t even purr when the key was turned. A pair of guys glanced over from the car beside us. They were snorting lines of coke off of a cd case (I shit you not). No sooner did we lock eyes (theirs were red-rimmed), one jumped out and crossed over to the drivers side where I was perched. “Need some help?” he asked. Amazing —after those two boosted themselves with cocaine, they boosted our motorhome. I guess even drug addicts can be nice people.

  Charlottetown also boasts a pretty fantastic brewery called Gahan House. If you ever go to PEI, you MUST stop here for a pint or ten. We may have spent more time in here than in the Walmart parking lot. Which was a lot.

  We stayed in the Walmart for three nights. And it pissed rain like the dickens. It even hailed on us on our way to the pub.

  Summerland, PEI

  We slept at a Bed and Breakfast!!! This is the pinnacle of excitement for me. All my life I have waited to do this. For some reason, Travis was convinced that it would be just like sleeping at my mom’s house. I’m not even sure what he meant by this, but at any rate, I think I’ve made a convert out of him. This wouldn’t have been the case if we’d chosen this place instead: Rosenheath Country Inn B&B.

  We’ll fill you in on the rest as we go…

  Posted on May 2, 2010

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• Canada Crossing

  Day 195

  It’s been almost a week in Canada.

  We were thinking there’d be a whole falootin’ cavity search, Who-is-your-daddy-and-what-does-he-do 20-Question game at the border, but we can’t offer to spare you the drama. Know why?

  There was none.

  We sweated and cleaned and boxed and sorted, working out Walter’s kinks the best way we could. We wanted him to look like a cherub of the recreational vehicle variety. The whole time, a dialogue of questions flitted through our conversations. What would we be asked at the border that would make us stutter and stumble? We have nothing to hide. We’ve done nothing wrong.

  What would we say that would unconsciously walk us into an immigration nightmare? The likes of which would scar us permanently and prevent any further re-entry…

  Nothing.

  I remember the night perfectly. Friday, April 23rd. 9:17pm. There is a drizzling rain prevailing (as it flipping has since the day we left on this gd trip). We pull up to the station and there is a short young woman with a blonde ponytail. And a bulletproof vest. Could she smell our fear? I remember two things: earrings and eyeshadow. It would not compute. This woman was far too pretty to be spending her time checking cargo in the dinky little border town of Houlton, Maine at 9:30 on a Friday night. She had manicured nails! Yet here she was. And a smile played at the corner of her lips.

  “Where you from?”

  —Calgary.

  “Where were you traveling?”

  —All over the US.

  “How long?”

  —Six months.

  “That’s great. Any tobacco, alcohol, illegal drugs, or firearms in the vehicle?”

  —We have 2/3rds of a bottle of tequila, about 1/2 of a bottle of rum, 2 beers in the fri—

  “Okay, thanks. Just park over there and come inside. Bring your receipts.”

  —(stunned silence)

  • We were not asked for our passports.
  • We were not asked for our licenses.
  • We were not questioned about our reason for wanting to explore the United States.
  • We did not have to undergo mentally exhausting questions.
  • We did not have to fill out endless T numbered forms and be told they were filled out wrong.
  • We did not have to go along with the good border cop/bad border cop routine.
  • We did not have to allow Walter to be examined by intruding patrol fingers.
  • We did not have to relinquish our sanity or our integrity just to cross the border.
  • We did not have to give up those awesome fireworks we purchased in New Mexico. Damn, I wish we hadn’t handed those fireworks over to a fire station in Portland, Maine.

  We paid fifty-one dollars & forty-five cents to spend six months in the US of A and acquire approximately two-thousand five hundred dollars worth of taxable goods.

  I’m sorry, but Canada is pretty fucking awesome.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on April 30, 2010 with 1 note

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• A Reflection. Pt 2: What we’ve learned.

  Day 192

  The other day I posted the raw stats of this glorious trip so far. Here are some of the things we actually learned. The finer points, if you will:

  The RV life is a secluded one.
  We thought this trip would be a continuous social event involving retirees, travellers, locals, and everyone in between. The truth is, RV people like their privacy. RV parks are generally quiet places with quiet (if not quirky) people. Hit the pubs for conversation… and do make sure you hit the pubs. Rarely do you ever get such an honest taste of the local flavour.

  Be honest at the border. Every time. No matter what.
  We learned this the hard way on our way in.

  Shit does happen.
  Seriously. The black water tank is like a ticking time bomb. Respect the sewage.

  Rach and I are capable of spending disgusting amounts of time together.
  We live together, we work together, we play together. Rachel and I spend nearly every hour of every day in the same 280 square feet of space. We were freaked out about this at first, but it turns out we jive quite well. The secret is… if there’s a problem, get it out immediately. Address it head on, work it out, move on. It also helps that we’re both pretty easy going. No room for control freaks here.

  We thought we were open-minded.
  The truth is, we knew nothing at all… and probably know even less now. At least we know that much. 

  Plan only as much as necessary. No more.
  Itineraries are pointless on the road. They will likely change by the day and often by the hour. The more we can let life bump us around, the more we can enjoy what we’re doing. Instead of wasting time worrying and planning, take that time, get stuff done and get out. Do what you need to do to make the next step happen, nothing more.

  If you can help it, don’t rush it.
  It’s really easy to get excited about the next adventure. So much that it’s easy to forget the one we’re on right now. It’s important to step back and live for the present. It’s the only thing that’s going to determine the future, so you better make it count.

  Plan to work half the time if you want to see anything.
  If you can compress a 40 hour week into 20, the rest of the time feels like a vacation. You just have to make that 20 hours count. Focus. Get it done, then get the hell out. Work hard, work smart. Conquer in half the time.

  Work around your body.
  The arbitrary hours of 9-5 no longer apply and are counterproductive. Make a new schedule that works for your body and your non-work goals.

  Getting lost is a great way to see a city.
  We get lost everywhere we go. Never on purpose. Even when I meticulously plan the route out, we end up taking about four wrong turns. Sometimes this can cause stress and frustration, but usually it’s for the better.

  The definition of home changes wherever you are.
  We don’t miss a thing from Calgary. We miss the people. Hey Calgary friends, what do ya say we all move to Austin?

  The less you own, the richer you are.
  We don’t have a permanent residence or a fancy car. Most of our stuff is either lent out, sold, or sitting in a storage unit. Dead weight. We don’t plan on buying a home, a new car, or furniture when we get back. In fact, we’re finding ways to get rid of the things we have left. We’ve built a business and a lifestyle that is completely self-contained and mobile. If we wanted to fly to Europe tomorrow, we could. At least that’s the goal. Without the costs and responsibilities of these useless material goods, this type of thing is definitely within reach. All we really need are some clothes, our computers, and a camera. We may not be wealthy, but we’re living like royalty.

  Posted on April 27, 2010 with 1 note

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• A Reflection. Pt 1: By the Numbers

  Two days ago we hit a major milestone on this trip. We completed a full six months touring the amazing US of A. Here is the trip by the numbers. Maybe when we’re done I can make some sort of crazy infographic, but for now, here is the raw data:

  Travel

  Amount of days on the road: 190
  Amount of days in America: 177
  Number of states we hit: 23
  Number of cities we stayed in: 69
  Hours driving*: 216 hours / 9 days
  Ratio of times getting lost per outing: 9:10 

  Distance travelled in Walter: 12,048.2 miles / 19,389.7 kilometres (half the circumference of the earth)
  Amount of gas consumed in Walter*: 1506 US gallons / 5701 litres
  Cost of gas in Walter*: $4520 USD

  Distance travelled on Isabella: 754.8 miles / 1214.7 kilometres
  Amount of gas consumed in Isabella*: 12 US gallons / 45.5 litres
  Cost of gas in Isabella*: $36

  Amount paid in tolls*: $80
  Times Walter required service: 3

  Cars rented: 4

  Accommodation

  Number of RV parks: 38
  Nights in Walmart Parking Lots: 39
  Nights in unauthorized urban camping zones: 20
  Nights in Hotels: 9

  Walter

  Amount of propane consumed*: 160 US gallons / 605.6 litres
  Cost of propane*: $560 USD
  Times we ran out of propane in the middle of the night: 4 

  Sewage mishaps: 2
  Grey water mishaps: 4

  Times we played Rock Band: 4

  Items we lost that haven’t turned up yet: Socks, two hoodies

  Days we consumed alcohol*: 166

  Legal

  Number of parking citations: 3
  Friendly encounters with civil servants: 4
  Unfriendly encounters with civil servants: 1
  Times broken into: 0

  Amount of goods purchased in the US*: $2550.00 USD
  Amount of duty we had to pay: $51.45 CAD 

  Weather

  Encounters with snow: 2
  Days of rain**: 162
  Places where the thermometer broke 20°C (68°F): 5

  Attractions

  Museums/Galleries: 12
  Zoos: 2
  Tours: 11
  Amusement Parks: 3
  Live music shows: 7
  Movies we saw in the theatre: Fantastic Mr. Fox, The Road, Kick-Ass, Hot Tub Time Machine, Sherlock Holmes, 2012, Avatar, Whip It, Visual Acoustics, Where The Wild Things Are

  Attractions we missed because of weather: 3

  Documenting

  Number of blog posts: 111
  Number of photos taken: 6936
  Number of videos captured: 400 

  The Cities

  Most loved cities: Austin, TX; New Orleans, LA; San Francisco, CA
  Most hated city: Houston, TX

  Friendliest people: Nashville, TN; Seattle, WA; Austin, TX
  Unhappiest people: Miami, FL; Houston, TX
  Biggest hippies: Portland, OR
  Best facial hair: Portland, OR
  Most mutant-like citizens: Kingman, AZ; Moncton, NB

  Best creative community: Jacksonville, FL

  Worst drivers: All of Florida; Houston, TX; Los Angeles, CA
  Worst traffic: Seattle, WA 

  Coolest Cities: New Orleans, LA; Austin, TX; New York, NY
  Best Music: Austin, TX; New Orleans, LA; Nashville, TN; Seattle, WA 

  Best food: San Francisco, CA; New Orleans, LA
  Worst food: Southern Florida
  Best Beer: Portland, OR; Seattle, WA

  Best photography spot: Bombay Beach, CA 

  Top places that we need to do-over: New York, NY; Boston, MA; Portland, OR
  Top places to avoid: Tallahassee, FL; Houston, TX; Fort Stockton, TX

  Places we met with friends: Vancouver, BC; Seattle, WA; San Francisco, CA; Los Angeles, CA; Phoenix, AZ; Las Vegas, NV; Jacksonville, FL; West Palm Beach, FL; Naples, FL; Austin, TX; Baltimore, MD; Amish-land, PA; New York, NY; Lowell, MA

  * Rough estimate
  ** Wild estimate 

  There you have it! Tomorrow I’ll post some of the things we’ve learned on this trip. Also, look forward to more content about how we actually made this happen, and how you fools could do the same (or similar) if you wanted to.

  Tagged: Travis

  Posted on April 25, 2010 with 1 note

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Walter is here…

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