"It's a Pity We Have to Work"

The Toronto skyline faded behind us as our tour boat, the Harbour Star, motored out from Queen's Quay. I had anticipated this ride to be a bit over-touristy, but it was kind of fantastic. A very animated young redhead narrated the tour. She spoke about the history and the current happenings in and around the harbour and the islands. On such a hot summer day, it was hard to imagine any part of this harbour being frozen over as she had mentioned. We learned of the rivalries between the local yacht clubs (oh, life gets so complicated sometimes...) and even got to witness children scrambling to keep their sailboats upright during lessons from the National Yacht Club's Junior Sailing School; so cute...and kind of funny. There were great views of everything from here, but get in line early to avoid elbowing fanny-packers for a chance to sit outside.

I sat inside the boat, chin resting on my folded arms (that were being slightly scalded by the sun, but oh well) and just gazed out the window as the breeze ruffled my hair. The boat was quiet. The animated redhead had stopped speaking and the original Dusty Springfield version of The Look of Love gently caressed my ears. We coasted past swans frolicking on the bank, a family splashing about in the water, and a mass of orange clad children flying kites. Obviously appreciating the serenity, a very wise woman (yes mom, that's you) turned to me and said, "There's so much life has to offer, it's a pity people have to work." Hmm. I pondered this profound statement. It was indeed a pity...but how did it come to be this way?

There was only one conclusion–society must have been designed incorrectly. I mean, who decided we should work for most of our lives, eventually retire at some old age, and only then take the time to live and play? Who decided that work should take up most of your day, most of your week, and most of your life? And who decided that doing something you love would be next to the most impossible way to make a living, so instead you are more likely to spend this work portion of your life doing something you could really care less about? And most importantly, who invented the heinous, torture device that we have come to know as a cubicle?! No. Life was not meant to be lived this way. There must have been some kind of mistake. Maybe there will be a recall on this faulty life design, and they will come out with a new and improved version. They are probably working out the details now. For now, I am content to forge my own path (because I can't wait around forever). Live and play will be at the forefront of my design, with work spliced in accordingly. Or, ideally, I will find the perfect fusion of live-play-work and be able to patent my design and sell it. We'll see what happens. In the mean time, refuse to accept the existing design; there is so much life has to offer.

Perhaps one day "they" will issue a public apology.

Muddling Through Marrakech

Oh, Morocco. Your first trip, first hours, first minutes there can be packed with all sorts of adventure. Check out my first published article "Muddling Through Marrakech" over at Travelmag. Travelmag has a wealth of exciting travel stories from real, independent travelers with great experiences to share.

From the magazine's editor, "Travelmag correspondents travel well beyond the guidebook routes, illuminating little-known corners of the globe and, occasionally, revealing a bit about themselves as well."

This travel writing thing isn't impossible, you just have to start somewhere. Yay!

Love Where You Live

Nice of him to pose for me :)

Home is where the heart is...right? Well what if your heart is all over the world? Then would home be wherever your stuff is? Maybe you don't have stuff, or are traveling with all of it. So would home be where your family lives? Sigh. Who knows. I suspect I have not found home yet; haven't found one place where my heart is. But I fear that is an impossible feat, as I have dispersed little fractions of my heart on six different continents.

As I traversed the streets of Toronto and the Daniels signage blatantly bawled my name, I had a profound realization: I don't love where I live.

Don't get me wrong, this is not a reflection on Los Angeles (so die-hard Angelenos, don't get all riled up). Los Angeles is a beautiful city for the most part. There is nothing wrong with it. There is just something wrong with me in L.A. I have no spunk, no excitement, no free spiritedness when I am "home." I don't party with random strangers I can't communicate with. I don't try unfamiliar fruits from unfamiliar trees in the middle of the jungle. I don't scale imposing mountain peaks at exceedingly high altitudes–okay, maybe I don't do that anywhere, but that's beside the point. Maybe I'd consider it if I was somewhere else. Wanderlust is a funny thing that way, it can really take over your life, make you do things you've never done and go places you've never been. I cannot love this place with all my heart because there is so much more in the world to love, and I want to go love it.

I want my return flights to land in a place that excites me as much as the one I have just departed from. I want every day, or at least most days, to be filled with the adventure that travel and new experiences bring. I want to be free and fun and happy all the time. I want to love where I live. And although this city where my stuff and my family are will by some definition remain "home" for the time, I don't always have to live here.

Conclusion: You must love where you live and be your best self in that place. And if you can't, then live everywhere; wander this land and find "home" wherever you choose to leave your heart.

Maple Syrup and Hockey, eh?

I never thought Canada was my type.

Or at least I didn't think we would hit it off like we did. I mean, I always figured it would be nice, but nice in that kind of 'we could be friends way,' not the 'I want to spend every waking moment in your presence kind.'

It is a love affair, my relationship with travel–some countries will set my pulse racing with excitement, while others draw lukewarm feelings, no butterflies in my stomach.

But you can never really know a place until you visit it, go out at least once.

That seemingly quiet and simple country could turn out to be packed with all kinds of colorful delights and adventures once you get to know it; things you might never have otherwise discovered.

That was Toronto.

The warm summer days were filled with sights and culture, and the equally warm nights with an array of worldly cuisine and cozy bars.

A quick subway ride brought me into Mirvish Village one particular evening. Trees partially camouflaged the charming, old-fashioned buildings. There was something comfortably quiet about this place even though the restaurants were packed and the bars filled.

We ventured to the end of the street and took a seat on the patio of the Victory Café. The wooden, almost picnic-like tables gave the place a relaxed feel. It really was cozy. In my world, cozy usually depends on how nice the designer couches and chairs are in the place. But this was a different kind of cozy, the company also made it that way.

We ended up chatting with the groups of people on either side of us (sure it was after a couple of shared beers by each party, but so what?)

Marcus, a sweet-faced, glasses clad guy to my right was especially friendly. We fell into deep conversation about life, politics, and misconceptions as they exist both in Canada and the United States.

Being a traveler himself and having experienced other places, he tells me, "I really do love it here, Canadians are just nice people. We actually get made fun of by the States for being so nice."

I was ashamed to admit I had heard a joke (or two...) of that nature.

Marcus's chipper friend decided to pipe in when he heard I lived in California. In all seriousness and enthusiasm, he turned to me and said, "California? So do you hang out at Venice Beach and go rollerblading?"

I looked back at him with the same seriousness and enthusiasm and said, "Do you love maple syrup and play hockey?"

No?

I didn't think so. We both laughed when he realized the silliness of his comment and the mockery in mine.

Sure, there are Californians that go to Venice and rollerblade, and I am sure there are Canadians that love maple syrup and play hockey. But not everyone does.

Travel is the most supreme education. I shudder to imagine the things we would run around thinking of places and people if we were never to experience them and learn that there is so much more than what little we might know.

Marcus ended the evening by saying, "It was nice chatting, eh?" I smiled and said yes. He smiled back and said, "Yes, we really do say eh."

While some things might be true, there's way more to this place than maple syrup and hockey.

Coolest. Plane. Ever.

I am flying.

I am sitting in the comfort of my fancy, black leather seat, laptop open, and writing this blog.

I arrived at the airport a few hours earlier for the second time in a month. I know, I know, I love this place. Besides, after such a long separation from travel we have a lot of catching up to do.

I walked into Terminal 3 of Los Angeles Airport to meet a scene quite unlike that of last month's. There were flowers in vases, fancy carpets, and cute pink mood lighting. Beyonce's Sweet Dreams was playing in the background. Everyone was young and attractive.

Was this a party? Did I make a wrong turn and end up in some swanky lounge?

My confused thoughts were interrupted by a soft and courteous voice. "Where are you traveling tonight?" he asked, then escorted us to exactly where we needed to be. I guess I didn't make a wrong turn after all–this was flight check-in for Virgin America.

I couldn't believe it.

Everything was perfect. There were no long lines, no broken kiosks, no people rolling luggage over my feet, no screaming babies; none of it.

Even the bag tags were cute. Just under my name, the tag had a line for 'Favorite Thing.' My favorite thing?! How special that the luggage tag and its affiliates want to get to know me!

I had barely enough time to write names on three luggage tags, and it was my turn to check in.  The attendant was friendly, pleasant, and efficient (yes, I might not believe it either if I didn't witness it first hand). This must be some sort of alternate universe; one where no one needs to curse. She handed me a neat little boarding card with just the important information on it, and small enough to fit right into my passport/pocket/other convenient location.

And the coolness didn't stop there. The headphones were pink, the flight crew was hip, and the captain proposed to his girlfriend. Yes–a full on proposal, ring, one knee, tears, kissing, clapping and all–right in the middle of his captain's welcome speech. It was beautiful.

This plane is amazing.

I can even shop from the slick screen in front of me! Seat-to-seat chat?! Wow, this would be perfect for sending a message to the cute guy/girl seated ten rows ahead, provided that you scoped out their EXACT seat number. It would not be nice to mistakenly send your flirtations to the old man snoring, mouth agape, in the seat next to them.

But there's really just not that much excitement in my life, so I sent a message to my mother. In the seat next to me. Sigh. Well, at least there is no annoying person near me making audible reactions to their reading. But that may just be because I am well acquainted with both of the passengers in my row, and there is no social etiquette preventing me from looking over and saying, "Shhh!"

This is how flying should always be.

And for those of you lucky enough to have flown Virgin before, please excuse my naiveté, it was only my first time. But seriously–Coolest. Plane. Ever.