The Peak to Peak

The first time I rode on the Peak to Peak, I felt like I had never been in a gondola before. Considering I've been snow sliding for twenty-six years, this is saying something. From the moment I stepped booted foot on board, I was hooked.

Not only does the gondola shorten the commute from Whistler Mountain to Blackcomb from nearly an hour to a mere fourteen minutes, but it opens up a whole new experience for our sightseeing and summer visitors.

In the summer months I was privy to seeing first hand what the good folks behind the Peak to Peak had in mind when installing this signature piece. Employed with the passenger train that travels into Whistler from the Rockies and Vancouver, I found that more than half of my guests had come just to see our new lift. Many of these visitors were only in town for three hours and they chose the ride on the Peak to Peak over any other activity.

The scenery is beyond breath taking. On a clear day the entire valley opens up to you, revealing her lakes, forests and other gems often hidden when you're exploring far below. At a vantage point of over 1400ft above the Fitzsimmons Creek you get an all access pass to a view that previously required wings.


There are many local stories that go along with the Peak to Peak, and most people I know can easily recount their first ride on the gondola. My favourite local story is of opening day, when three generations of one family rode together on the first car.

Access to the first car was a coveted position. People wrote in to Whistler Blackcomb and nominated individuals who they thought should be on that car, then from the names provided a lucky 28 were chosen. Of those, three were from the Huxtable family. In his nineties, Grandpa George, a well known local fixture, was accompanied by his son, Gord and his grandson, Ryder. Between the three of them their family have had roots in Whistler since the sixties. With the arrival of Ryder and his two sisters to the family clan, it looks as though those roots will only deepen and grow.

It makes me wonder about the conversation that Ryder might have with his own children on the Peak to Peak gondola some day. I wonder what he'll remember then about all of the fuss of the ribbon cutting and the photographs. I wonder if he will remember that his community was watching, hearts on their sleeves as he and twenty seven others rode the fourteen minutes into engineering history.

I am proud that people from all over the world have heard the rumors of our fabled gondola and come to experience it first hand. It is without a doubt a welcome wagon worthy of their journey.

First Snowfall

I was lucky enough this year to be home from my seasonal wanderings in time to catch the first flakes of snow drift into Whistler Village. In the month that lead up to this auspicious day, there had been a number of teasing snowfalls in the upper reaches of the mountains, but it wasn't until that beautiful October afternoon that we felt the white stuff on our faces outside our front doors.

After the first snowfall every year, the emotional climate of Whistler changes. The air becomes electrically charged with the collective current of excitement for the coming season. From that day on, whether it rains to the top or delivers a record breaking amount of powder, the mood of the Village has turned from mourning summer to waiting for Opening Day.

Opening Day, those magical words, is usually forecast far in advance leaving us salivating in anticipation. The most devoted of snow sport fans will already have their sliders of choice waxed and tuned to perfection, their boots waiting by the front door long before Day One.

Always beneath all of the planning is the hope for that “Early Season Start”- that precious gem that comes along once every few years, where Mother Nature delivers and the good folks at Intrawest decide to start up those chairlifts a week or two in advance of Opening Day.

There is a great deal of speculation every November- will it be Remembrance Day long weekend? Will we be making turns before our neighbours to the south are feasting on turkey? I do recall one blessed year where I was busily waxing and sharpening my gear late into the wee hours on November first because of a rumor that Whistler might open the next day. Standing in the lift line at seven-thirty the next morning, my devotion was rewarded with one of the first rides up the Gondola.

All of the new arrivals in our town are bursting with the energy of their First Whistler Season. Many of them have never seen snow before. You can tell them apart because they are the joyful people rolling around in the first three inches of the stuff while the rest of us more seasoned veterans look on. For the record, I don't believe it's a look of disapproval- it's just that we're deep in the memory of our own first Whistler snowfall.

And so, new comer and long time local alike, we join our hopes and hold our breaths, waiting for the grand start of the 2009/2010 winter season. Will this be the year that all of our previous snowfall records are blown out of the sky? Will this be the year that the park is, decidedly, in the best shape it's ever been? Will this be the year I finally get airborne and land a 360 switch?

The best part of the waiting is that everything is possible. This season has yet to be written. The collective hopes and dreams of the masses will carry it forward into life. All too soon we'll be sitting on a patio on the other side of April reveling in the memories.

I'll see you in the lift line on Opening Day.

My Best Day

I have been blessed with a lifetime's worth of perfect memories riding these mountains, but there is only one that stands out clear and deep like a track you've had to hike to earn. My memory is of the day Debbie Clifton “Danced”.

I once side lined as a Snowboard Instructor on Whistler Mountain. I had many students through the seasons, but Debs is unforgettable. It's not that her feet were born knowing how to turn, this young lady's secret was 100% great attitude. She wanted to snowboard.

What followed were days of riding side by side and on-mountain bonding. As we grew closer, we started to share more personal conversations and I discovered something about my new friend that shattered me. Debbie was living with Cystic Fibrosis.

“C.F.” is a genetic disease that is most famous for attacking the lungs. Eventually the disease wins and the lungs stop working. Debs explained that to gain the lung capacity to ride each day she had an exhausting two hour routine of physio therapy and treatments to preform.

All so that she could do something I often take for granted.

Inspired, I decided to teach Debs something I had never had the courage to share with another student: The Philosophy of “The Dance”.

“The Dance” is what results when the rhythm of your turns and the energy of the mountain merge into one fluid motion. You find that you are no longer conscious of your body. From your toes to your fingertips your fear melts away.

It's awesome.

I took a few chairlift sessions and attempted to explain The Dance to my young grasshopper. Debs grew quiet as I spoke. I was certain that I had scared her with my new age mumblings and quickly changed the subject.

The next afternoon as we made our way down a run, I darted ahead to watch Debs so that I could give her a few pointers on technique. And then, around the corner above me she appeared, turns linked, in total control of her board, her movements fluid, her face relaxed into a huge grin.

My Debs was Dancing.

Pride oozed from me. I was witnessing a new sureness, a Debs-only style of The Dance. We laughed. I cried. I bragged about her all week to anyone that would listen. I brag about her still.

Debs and I kept in touch for a time, but I'm sorry to say that eventually we lost contact. That's a risk you take living in a resort town. The people you love often slip away. I was left with a few photos, a handful of brilliant memories and a renewed appreciation for both the paradise I live in and the sport I love. Her gift to me was My Best Day.

Wherever Debs is now, I hope she is winning her fight. I think of her every time the cold air fills my lungs and my feet strike up The Dance.

Guarenteed: by Eddie Vedder

On bended knee is no way to be free
Lifting up an empty cup I ask silently
That all my destinations will accept the one that's me
So I can breathe

Circles they grow and they swallow people whole
Half their lives they say goodnight to wives they'll never know
Got a mind full of questions and a teacher in my soul
And so it goes

Don't come closer or I'll have to go
Owning me like gravity are places that pull
If ever there was someone to keep me at home
It would be you

Everyone I come across in cages they bought
They think of me and my wandering but I'm never what they thought
Got my indignation but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive

Wind in my hair I feel part of everywhere
Underneath my being is a road that disappeared
Late at night I hear the trees they're singing with the dead
Overhead

Leave it to me as I find a way to be
Consider me a satellite forever orbiting
I knew all the rules but the rules did not know me
Guaranteed

Merci Beaucoup

"...start sharing: whatsoever you have, share it. Share your beauty, share your song, share your life..." -Osho

My dear Marjolaine. The First Frenchie I Ever Loved. Watching you in the context of the home you have built has been such a joy for me. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of you, talking with your friends and loved ones in one of your three languages and I am filled with happiness.

I always remembered you as a strong, beautiful woman with intelligent ideas and interesting points of view. You taught me so much- how to make guacamole, how to swear in french, how to find a smile when there was very little in my sight to smile about.

You were always so patient with me, always so kind. You opened to me a whole new world of thought, of love, of life. My passionate hippie, my Quebecois beauty. I have always felt so honored to be your friend.

When I travelled to Montreal, you were there, too, teaching me your culture, helping me with your language. You protected me like a mother and loved me like a sister, never making me feel like I was a burden to you.

Over the years in between we both have climbed a few mountains. Our feet are blistered with the long walk we each have taken. It amazes me how similar our stories are, and yet how utterly different, too. Through your eyes I have seen a new grace for my mistakes, and I hope beyond hope that I have helped you to do the same.

As always, your generous hospitality and your light spirit have washed me and warmed me while I have lived in your tropical home. I am amazed by the beautiful bamboo creations that your fingers have spun. But everything is made beautiful by your touch. The bracelets that you make, all of the furniture and paintings and lovely lamp shades of your home. Your friendships. Your loves. All is touched and made better by your presence.

And I am so very happy that you are so very happy. That you are in love with a very good man who is so obviously in love with you. That you have such a beautiful home that you have helped to build. That there are people who care for you and enjoy you around your table, and that you may be the welcome to multitudes of weary travellers who come through your door.

You are walking a life fulfilled, and it is a testament to listening to the heart and following your own spirit. I am blessed to be a witness, and I am grateful that you call me friend.

Oct 21st- Christina

Each morning of my stay at this beautiful hotel begins a ritual which I dread. I am a creature that awakes, rubs her eyes, and is instantly starving. I like to have breakfast immediately. Often before I shower. Usually before coffee. In fact, coffee is more like a breakfast dessert to me. On an empty stomach it becomes an enemy to the general peace I try to maintain in my digestive system. Especially since I prefer it black.

There exists one tiny hindrance to achieving this goal here at the hotel Eldorado. I don't speak Spanish. And the breakfast cook doesn't speak English.

The breakfast area also serves as the bar in the evenings. Three rows of bar stools are set up around three sides of the bar and cooking area, facing into the centre. This is the hallowed ground where the lovely Christina cooks the lightest crepes, the fluffiest huevos, the most divine omelets. It is into this haven of delicious smells that the guests call out their requests for breakfast.

This is also where my coffee is hidden.

It is a testament to my love of coffee that I have been able to learn the words “cafe” (coffee) and “negro” (black). If you mix these with “gracias” and the early morning perfunctory “MUCHOS gracias”, you almost have conversation.

But food is difficult. One technique is to find the solo menu and sit expectantly with it in front of me, waiting for Christina to notice. Then I will point shyly at the item I want to order, and she will try not to roll her eyes. Christina is a saint. She is a wonderfully patient woman.

Once, I saw Christina reach for a container of plain yogurt (“nature”- I deduced that this meant “natural”, or plain) and I was so excited! At home, this is what I eat. I really am not fond of sweetened, flavoured yogurts. It's akin to having ice cream for breakfast. Just at the last minute, before the beautiful pure yogurt was added to my bowl, she lovingly dished some out into a separate vessel, and carefully stirred in maple syrup to sweeten it. Oh well. Christina was so pleased when she placed my meal in front of me. “muchos bueno, mi amiga,” I smiled shyly. “De nali,” she replied, confident that she had prepared it to my liking.

After the first five mornings of employing my menu technique, we ran out of yogurt. Or fruit. I'm still not sure which it was. Christina was trying to explain to me the trouble, and I had no idea what she was saying. It was very frustrating for both of us. She tried shaking the granola bag followed by a string of Spanish. Yes. Granola was not the problem. That's about as far as we got that morning, and I drank three cups of coffee and waited longingly for lunch.

When the stocks of yogurt and fruit and granola were replenished, I started to get embarrassed about always pointing at the same thing on the menu. Now, this is silly, I know, because the technique was working just fine, but I somehow got it in to my head that to point at the same thing every day was somehow retarded. So I began to say “same” and grin wildly, and then Christina would reply “same!” and laugh, and then I would laugh, “same, same!” and we both would laugh. It was a genuine moment. We were bonding! The boundaries of language were veritably falling away! I could have cried with joy.

Two days later we ran out of fruit. This time Marjo and Oli were there to walk me through asking for two crepes (which quickly became three as I could not resist their light airy yumminess). This is why I do not order crepes. “I should have two,” becomes, “I will not be satisfied until I've polished off seven.”

I chose to have them with fresh squeezed limes and a light sprinkling of sugar. Instead of attempting to ask for all of this, I scurried around inside the bar, trying to keep out of Christina's way, gathering a small lime, a knife, a spoon for my sugar, and securing a refill of coffee at the same time.

Meg: 1, Language Barrier: 0!

I was half way through the absolute heaven of my first citrusy crepe when I realized I was being watched. I looked up, and my eyes met with the liquid brown pools that are Christina's eyes. She was shocked. Or horrified? I settled on amused and shrugged sheepishly, offering a crepey grin, “moo-ey bueno!”

She laughed (thank you, God, she laughed!) and began tidying her workspace, shaking her head at this crazy gringo that eats the same thing every day, and then has LIME JUICE on her crepes instead of syrup like regular folk.

It is now my last week here at the Hotel Eldorado. I still have not learned any Spanish, but Christina has learned that, “fruit, yogurt and granola?” means the breakfast I am always so grateful to receive. She giggles at me, and busily chops three kinds of fresh fruit, sprinkled with a lovely granola containing tiny yogurt bits and tops the whole thing off with a small container of the yogurt of the day. Today it is strawberry.

I am not sure how it became so important to me that Christina likes me, that I not offend her, but this desire was almost instantaneous. Maybe it's because she is pretty in that somewhat exotic way with her lovely caramel skin and chocolate eyes. Perhaps it's because she speaks fluent Spanish, and I feel like an ass already, coming to her country so linguistically ill-equipped. Maybe it's because she is the keeper of my morning eats, and it is best not to bite the hand of the one that feeds you.

Maybe it's just because she's cool, and I would like her to be my friend.

Whatever the reason, I am grateful for her gracious smiles, for my morning bowl of yummy food, for my daily pot of cafe negro. And this bar stool with a view of the crashing surf, surrounded by the laughter of my friends, has become my favourite restaurant on earth.

Oct 20th- The Central American House Toad

There is a commercial on the CBC that has been airing off and on since I was little. It portrays, documentary style, the life and times of the North American House Hippo.

The House Hippo, the documentary states, is a shy creature who resides in the back of messy closets. Though timid, it will defend itself if provoked! It makes nests for it's young out of soft things such as missing socks and dryer lint, as it sleeps for up to sixteen hours a day. It's favourite food is the crumbs of peanut butter on toast, and this knowledge is illustrated by a scene of a tiny hippo sneaking away from the kitchen, minute peanut buttery hippo foot prints following behind it.

The commercial warns you not to approach a House Hippo if you find one and portrays a small hippo bearing it's teeth. There is even a shot of a House Hippo family, complete with mouse-sized Hippo babies. I think that's my favourite scene.

All of this to prove....that you can't always believe what you watch on TV. That is the entire point of the commercial. It has been modified to include internet during it's latest incarnation. I love this commerical. It is in my own opinion truly brilliant. A classic.

So it is with the knowledge of the North American House Hippo that I arrive in El Salvador and discover the Central American House Toad.

This docile creature makes itself scarce during the heat of the day and so can come as quite a surprise to the unaware sleepy human travelling to the toilets in the middle of the night. The first time I met a House Toad, the introduction consisted of my big toe and the toad's squishy body. As we connected, the frightened toad scuttered away, fairly running for it's life.

Now, if the toad had hopped I would have been rather unaffected since I've never been afraid of frogs but because it scuttered, (which is a thing that only vicious insects, snakes, and the occasional tiny monster do), I completely freaked out.

From that night on I have carried a small light with me and diligently scan the floor during my evening sojourns.

Once when entering a bathroom I accidentally caught a toad in the door while closing it absently behind me. The toad squeeked a few times and then hid itself in the corner behind the toilet, nose pressed into the wall. It squeeked! Like a mouse! I panicked- I hadn't meant to harm the toad, which upset me, but the squeeking really unnerved me.

I spent at least 20 minutes in the bathroom, attempting to talk down the toad who was panting in fear. The toad kept its nose buried in the corner, firmly believing I'm sure that because it couldn't see me, there was a reasonable chance that I couldn't see it.

I finally realized that my presence and the attempted shoeing with various items (the waste basket, the bottle of hand soap, even foot stomping) were not going to work to herd the toad back out the door to freedom. I decided to leave the toad in peace and find a different bathroom.

A few nights later I found a larger toad in the same bathroom (or perhaps toads grow very quickly?). I was about five rums into my evening and decided I didn't mind sharing a bathroom with a toad at all. In fact, I felt rather comforted by it's presence. We had a lovely conversation, the toad and I. It turns out that Central American House Toads are very good listeners.

This toad seemed to be completely unperturbed by me, too. It was really a lovely exchange, woman and beast; House Toad and House Guest.

The other morning I was lying in bed wondering if I might end up showering with a toad that day, when a thought dawned on me. These resident scuttering creatures likely survive off of the multitude of small bugs that also call the main building of the Eldorado home. The toads probably have a veritable feast of bugs. Maybe that's why they grow so quickly?

This realization about the bugs immediately moved the toad's status in my mind from cute and intriguing to the enemy of my enemy, also known as my friend.

Bugs are my nemesis. Well- that is not entirely true. The word “bugs” brings to my mind images of slow plump catapillars, pretty butterflies, the delightful lightening bugs that flutter about at night around the hotel gardens with their built in Petzls. These fun little creatures are “bugs”.

What I fear are insects. Insects constitute the type of evil that gets off on snacking on me. The ones that suck my blood like sneaky winged vampires. The mini demons that hide when I have the light in my room switched on, then (I just know they do this) crawl slowly, menacingly, towards my bed when it's dark.

I lay awake some nights petrified of these insects that want to eat me. The spiders as big as my face that plan to smother the air from my lungs and then nibble on my eyes. The mosquitoes who carry West Nile that want to suckle from my blood stream. The scorpion whose entire “M.O.” is to poison me with his nasty little stinger.

Realizing that the toad was on my side, literally eating my enemy for breakfast, moved the whole species from adorable to hero very quickly in my mind. I now wanted to defend the toad against all harm. I wanted to help the toad, tell it of my gratitude.

So now I exercise the utmost care. I always check around and behind doors before I carelessly swing them open or shut. I search behind toilets and in shower stalls every time I use a bathroom (even if I am only washing my hands) as I do not want to startle a napping toad. Under sinks, beneath shelves. I am very diligent.

On my way to the bathroom in the wee hours of morning or late at night I have developed a shuffle-walk technique which I believe to be proving effective. At least, I haven't kicked any toads lately.

It has come to me that the toad likely is more fond of snacking on the little bugs in my room- the ones I am not so fearful of, and perhaps is less into munching the insects I am afraid of. The toad is probably afraid of those insects too, seeing as how those insects are larger than most of the toads I have seen.

Maybe that is why the larger toads are so serene. They have conquered the great insects and won, chomp, chomp....they have nothing to fear from a mere mortal human!

Never the less, I am much happier believing that the average toad nightly slays my foe. We all like to look to a hero, after all. Mine is the Central American House Toad.

Oct 19th- Dr Lava Lamp

Warning to the reader: This post contains medical information that may or may not be seen as "TMI". Proceed at your own discretion...



I am having an off day. My ear is aching from a freak infection. It still hurts to pee (have I captured this ailment yet in my little daily writings? The other morning I sneezed while peeing and tore something in my urinary tract, effectively giving myself an instant UTI) so today began with some lovely crepes and a trip to the nearby town to go to see a doctor.

When travelling in Central America, the list of things that the average traveller looks forward to might include indigenous cuisine, chatting up the locals, purchasing intriguing items from markets and street vendors, taking photos of all of the magnificent flashy painted buildings, hiking to a pristine vista, catching some surf. Going to a medical clinic in a developing country when the language of that nation is something you have yet to master is not on that list.

Let's be honest- I hate going to the doctor in my own town, let alone here. I am one of "those" people who automatically assume that doctors are out to get me. I've had a few harrowing experiences regarding misdiagnosis that have left me a little, how shall I say it...sceptical.

Lucky though I am, I had The First Frenchie I Ever Loved with me to translate and provide general comfort. The clinic was small and dark (I am told that electricity is very expensive here- maybe it's just a heat thing). The chairs were the plastic bucket type that were popular in hospital emergency rooms and Greyhound Stations in the decade before I was born.

I paid $9 upfront for a consultation with the doctor, a sturdy macho man with a bright gold wedding band and a professional frown. We were never offered his name but decided later it must have been Carlos.

I immediately felt like home from the moment that Carlos opened his mouth. Just like Canadian doctors, I had absolutely no idea what he was saying.

Marjo translated question after question of my medical history, patiently holding my hand through the entire appointment. When the doctor found the inside of my ear interesting, he though Marjo might like to have a look too. Apparently this is very common in Central America, for the doctor to thoroughly share the experience with all gathered, sort of a family fun time. Marjo told me that on her last trip to the dentist, she was even given one of those small bendy mirrors for her very own. The last time I went to the dentist, I got a lecture about flossing regularly and a bill as long as my arm.

Central America: 1 North America: 0

The doctor's office was a story all on it's own. I'm not sure what I expected, but I assure you I was completely floored. I would have giggled outrageously, but I didn't want to offend the man who possessed the key to the future health of my plumbing. On the walls, pictures of five different children, head shots, all larger than life. Sears Portrait studio-type pics. Along one wall, a few shelves containing an extensive collection of drinking glasses. On the desk, hundreds of knic knacks, including but not limited to a small army of shiny silver pens in various cups, a twelve year supply of note pads and pencils, a pair of glass dolphins a foot long captured in joyful frolicking, and the cream of the crop, the piece de resistance: a lava lamp.

A fucking lava lamp.

Central America: 2 North America: 0

Later over lunch quite a discussion arose about whether this prize piece was indicative of the quality of his medical services, or if maybe the guy just had a wild side. The debate is yet to be resolved. Whatever the truth, this dude's office would have been amazing stoned.

Unfortunately, I was very, very sober.

As the clinic was closing at noon (Marjo said to me, “On a Monday? Come on!” otherwise, I would have thought this is just the way things were done around these parts) the doctor did not have time to actually diagnose me. He instructed us to go to the laboratory up the street tomorrow in the manana, have blood and urine taken, and then bring the results back to him. He did, however, set me up with a prescription for some antibiotics and painkillers.

Doctor's fee: $9.00
Medication: $46.70
Health Travel Insurance: $16
Being able to pee without crippling pain: Priceless.

The most harrowing part of the whole experience was returning to the clinic to use the “toilets”- a row of doors that looked as though they had survived a nuclear holocaust, each stall without electricity, toilet seat or toilet paper. I left the door half open so I could hold onto the frame for support and cried softly to myself while I squatted my way through an unhappy burning pee.

Sneezing. Fuck me. At all costs, boys and girls, never sneeze while you pee! This should be more diligently taught in schools. It should be something that parents threaten their children with, "If you don't finish your supper, you're going to sneeze while you pee!" It really is very serious.

I would like to take this moment to thank the internet. Immediately after returning to the hotel I researched the drugs I was prescribed to cross reference potential side effects, etc., etc. Turns out they are better antibiotics than I would be able to get in Canada. And cheaper. Go figure. Same for the pain killers. Apparently this is the good shit.

(I feel it important to note that upon returning home, my follow-up doctor disagreed with the internet on this point, but what do doctors know, anyway?)

While we waited for Moyo to pick us up in the van, we found a lovely corner of park in the shade. Sitting helped my anxiety a lot. I am a creature accustomed to a slow pace of life. My people do not sprint, we meander. My village is very small, with wide streets and no cars. A person could conceivably walk with their eyes closed from one end to the other during the slow season without stubbing a toe. If you accidentally bumped into someone, they would likely consider it their own fault, “Oops, sorry dude! There yah go...yup, liquor store is thatta way....”

I am not accustomed to jostling, and I find the sights and sounds and smells of this beautiful land absolutely overwhelming. It seemed though, that as soon as I was able to take it at a slower pace, it became less hostile.

In all fairness, the jostling really unnerved me in Belfast, too, which was the first place my little Canadian body had ever been forcefully moved by a stranger sana apology. In Belfast, I found that buying a bigger purse and jostling back was a perfect remedy. No hard feelings! Just total elbow freedom. This solution did not seem appropriate in La Libertad.

It didn't help that my infected ear is generally not impressed with loud noise, so the men shouting “Taxitaxitaxi!” and, “One dolla! One dolla!” for various wares upset me more than they normally would have.

Who knew? For one dolla, you can buy a purse. Or some shoes. Maybe a bra? 4 tubes of toothpaste? How about a few baggies of juice? A hundred boxes of gum? Or five of the little spiny red berry fruits that Marjo and Oli eat like candy.

The outside of these fruits resemble a tiny red sea urchin- the inside is gooey and slimy, sort of like a peeled grape if it was more gelatinous. They remind me of Japanese fruit jellies, and are eaten the same way: just peel off the top, and turn the container inside out in your mouth. Mind the pit, though. The seed in the middle is strangely like the pit of a plum, and Marjo sucks happily on them long after the fruit jelly is gone.

If I had been offered one of these fruits without a proper introduction, I probably would have cupped it in my palm and waited to see if it would pee in my hand. They look like little critters. They are a truly wonderful fruit. How did North American food become so boring?

The bra ladies are my favourite. They strut through the market and the park, a large assortment of ladies under garments strung from their arms, displaying them for potential customers. Every shape, every size, every colour. They look exactly like the bras that I found in the “3 for $5” bin at La Senza the last time I was in the mall. At that time, another feisty lady had been willing to fight to the death over the A cups with me. It was a very intense shopping experience.

But these bra ladies of El Salvador are by far the calmest of the merchants and so endear themselves to me. Marjo asked me with a grin if I might like to try a bra? I immediately had ideas that the light blue ones tasted like bubble gum, and the pink ones like cotton candy. But no, apparently women will try the bras on over their clothes before buying to ensure a good fit. In public. The exhibitionist in me adores this.

I asked Marjo how horrified the lady might be if I asked to try a few and gently nibbled them instead. “Mmm...the blue is tasty, but I prefer the lacy green.....”

So my ear hurts. A lot. And my peeing hurts less than it did yesterday, thank God. And I have paid $50 of my vacation budget towards the authentic Latin American medical experience. I can no longer swim or surf because of my ear, and I am trying to remain cheery, but the drugs make me sloooowwwww.

The sun is still beautiful. The salt air feels amazing, and I am surrounded by truly kind, patient people. I also have access to books and writing materials and plenty of free time, so life, in general, ain't all that bad.

The truth of it all is: I am sick for home. My friends here are lovely, the hotel is beautiful, the food is amazing, but I find myself searching for the scent of snow in the air and the familiar siren call of Starbucks. What is it about not feeling well that makes you want your own bed, your own village and your own barista wielding your tall americano?

I wonder how Dave is getting on in Oz.....

Oct 17th- San Salvador

I awoke in the middle of the night again and realized that I am going to leave El Salvador without seeing what the capital city of San Salvador is like. When I came out for breakfast in the morning, I discovered that Marjo and Oli were making a trip to the city to pick up supplies for the hotel. I hitched a ride and we left after 10.

The drive was just over an hour, past many sights that are so utterly foreign to me. Two men riding a top a pile of old propane tanks in the back of a pick up truck. People of all shapes and sizes herded onto old school buses hitching a ride to the next town. All along the street, men, women, children and stray dogs making their way north or south with the familiar trudge of long distances. Many of the women carried baskets or large bowls of laundry or food on their heads, their backs perfectly straight, their hips swaying left and right like a pendulum.

As you enter San Salvador, the first neighbourhood you pass is the Slums. I will never again joke about Southside being the slums of Whistler. I have seen pictures of housing like this, but to view it in person, and see only glimpses of the depth of it....Some of the homes were only bits of corrugated sheet metal leaned against scavenged sticks and held together with discarded twine and cloth. Row upon row, as far as the eye could see, and every now and then an alley, offering a quick peek at a fashioned street, no more than a foot and a half wide, running off into the heart of these thousands of lives.

And then as quickly as the sight bore itself into my being, it was gone again, replaced by the monoliths of the largest malls in Central America. These malls are effectively built on the crest of small hills- they are very visible and ironically it is from the gorge beneath these malls that the slums rise up and out. The playground of the most wealthy and the homes of the least privileged clumped together in the nation's capital.

Can you fathom not being able to give your children clean water and food, yet waking up every morning to the sight of an army of brand new SUV's marching in and out of the Mall parkade? Hundreds of locals, fashionably dressed, spending money on shoes and clothes and electronics.

I have never seen malls like this. The one that we went to rose up level after level, and on a Saturday afternoon it was impossible to get a parking spot. Grandly painted archways, massive people walkers and escalators rivaling any airport. Everything clean, pristine and for sale.

All day long, while we shopped at Price Mart (Central America's version of Costco), and perused the malls for the different items on our list, my head tried to wrap itself around the obvious problem of local poverty and homelessness. What is to be done for these people? Are these are the type of children that you see on World Vision commercials- semi-naked, stomachs distended, flies crawling in and out of the eyes and ears and noses? Sad small coffee coloured faces mirrored by the defeat in the eyes of the adults around them.

The first remedy that Americans think of is, of course, money. How could that possibly help? So you keep these children alive- eating just enough food to survive, providing them with medical care, possibly a bit of education. Are you going to then make sure that someone pays for them to go to University? To help them buy a home outside of the slums? Teach them how to shop for fruits and vegetables? Teach them about reproduction and the history of religion in the world so that they have the freedom to choose if they would like to make a family or not?

Or, in the end, are these children sadly being kept alive to perpetuate the same cycle that produced them? Row upon row, spray painted, built low to the ground, the full view of the neighbourhood hidden from the tourists and buisness people by the thick bushes planted along the side of the road. How far does it stretch? How long will it grow before somebody finds an answer for these people?

Safe in my warm dry bed at the Eldorado, my heart beats in my ears when the occasional night time storm rattles the window panes and whips the trees outside. How must it feel to be under that small piece of metal, no more really than a loud, echoing newspaper over your head, when the tropical storms blow through?

In reading about El Salvador last night, I discovered that the hurricanes of 2001 and 2005 left hundreds of thousands without homes. In a country with the 34th most dense population in the world (5.5 million people in just over 26, 000 square kilometers) where do you build affordable housing? And what does that look like in this sort of a culture where people seem to take such pride in having their own small scrap of land? Apartments wouldn't work. You would be left with a more permanent slum that perhaps didn't leak as much, but would in time develop it's own set of issues.

Is that it then? There is no answer? No answer for these living breathing human beings? For the mothers with children? The husbands with wives? The brothers with sisters? The babies? The elderly?

And no answer for the survivors of Katrina.

And no answer for the homeless in Vancouver. Or Calgary. Or Toronto. Or, or, or....

What kind of a society is this that we cannot take care of our own?

All around San Salvador were the obvious saplings of Capitalism. Everyone wants a piece of that American Pie! They see the new cars, the big haciendas, the powerful jobs that pay so much money....the holidays. All over the city are towering billboards profiling vacations to Mexico and the Caribbean. Few of the people I have met here would be able to afford that. Ever. And yet every time they go into the city, this is what greets them.

No one is advertising the nightmare that comes hand in hand with that “American Dream”: chronic obesity, rampant addiction to perscription drugs, depression, substantial pockets of poverty, ghost towns like Detroit where a large influx of money became counted on and was then suddenly taken away.

I can't help but feeling that these people are being set up for a fall. The underlying truth of Capitalism, is that people who live in the pursuit of money do not share.

The other thing that stood out to me is the advertising. Toiletries, phone cards, baby food, tourism promotions- all of it larger than life, raised up high enough so that no one could miss it. All of these posters made with actors and actresses that have, for the most part, blue eyes, sandy hair, fair complexions. In a land of coffee and caramel and cocoa it is strange to see vanilla as the spokesperson.

The message is loud and clear. If you are white, light hair, blue eyes, then you get to drive a brand new Ford Ranger, and sell Avon like Reece Witherspoon and you will have two beautiful well dressed children and a large vacation house in a gated community on the ocean. When you are not living your fabulous day to day life, you will be vacationing in Mexico or the Caribbean, and you will be deeply, insatiably happy.

This is the root of the rotten fruit I see when I drive by the slums. This is what happens at the ass end of Capitalism. In order for people to be rich and comfortable, there have to be people who are without any means of wealth or comfort.

I don't pretend to have any answers, I am just left with this conviction that something needs to be done. I suppose that is a start, and it will likely help me to sleep at night when I am at home in my two bedroom town house in one of the wealthiest areas of Canada. I hope not. I hope that the sight of those slums keeps me awake and uneasy for a long time.

Near the village where I'm staying is a large town where we go often to check out the market or buy groceries and other necessities. There are two billboard advertisements in this town that always catch my eye. Larger than life, a full head shot of the lovely Reece Witherspoon sells Avon to the locals.

I wonder if Reece knows that there is a picture of her with her long blonde locks and perfectly airbrushed vanilla skin selling Avon products in the middle of a Central American town? “Buy Avon! Sell Avon! Avon will make you wealthy and beautiful and self confident like Reece Witherspoon!”

I'm sure that before that photo shoot, Reece enjoyed a hot shower with clean water, fluffy towels and a host of cosmetics and toiletries. I'm sure she had electricity and plumbing, a comfortable bed, a large wardrobe full of clothes to choose. I'm sure she has never wondered if she'll have enough money to give her children an education.

I wonder if she was in the midst of her divorce when that picture was taken. I wonder if she felt empty that day, if her smile felt forced, like mine did when I was going through that stage of my life. What concerns were on her mind? Her children? The future of her career? Was there a sickness in the family, or was it one of those pleasantly simple days where you wake up and everything just seems to be going your way?

What was behind that smile?

I'm sure that just like me, her pantry was full, her concerns much more topical than most of the people here. Yet now her profile is displayed in the heart of Central America, a poster child of the American Dream for everyone to see and desire to emulate.

Ironically, the other side of the sign, a mirror image of the perfection facing the street, has been vandalized. Half of Reece's pretty smiling face has been torn off and discarded. It leaves the effect of decapitated Barbie doll. A little silly, A little ghoulish.

It was under her watchful eye that I was first offered Chiclets by a small boy. When I said no and walked away, he followed me, chattering away in Spanish. I imagined that he was calmly telling me that I was an ignorant selfish American, but he could well have been giving me a full report of the coming weather cycles on the coast, “It will be stormy tonight, Senorita, make sure to close the windows in your hotel room.” I really must learn Spanish.

San Salvador freaked me out. I wish it wasn't true, but alas, I have to be honest here. I really did not like it. The noise, the smells, the poverty, the hopelessness. In all of the shops, people smiled kindly at me, “Ola,” “Ola!” and as much as I love them, the lovely round women, the stylish twenty-somethings, the heart-achingly beautiful children, the tiny men, I do not want to share their 26,000 square kilometers with them. And I'm sure they are thankful for that. As I read on a bumper sticker in Bubba's Burgers in Kauai, "Kauai is a beautiful place. Please don't move here."

I am embarrassed, but the fact is that I am used to a much more sterile environment, and I don't know that my constant fears of crime and parasites and disease would ever go away. But there are people in my own home town that I can help. And I can support those who travel to Central America and Africa and Mexico to help the humans that live in substandard conditions.

I can be aware, and raise awareness. Somehow simply knowing that an evil exists quietly stages war against that evil.

Maybe someday I will have the courage to return and roll up my sleeves and make a difference in someone's life.

Oct 16th- Clutter Bug

Living out of a backpack again is opening my eyes wide.

How is it that 3500 miles away I have, in my name, an entire house full of crap? How many times already on this trip have I realized I brought more t-shirts than I need (three would have been fine) and an extra sweater? But I remember being so sure before I left that I would be in the markets buying clothes the first week because I's run out.

And it's freeing. That's the greatest realization- I am so absolutely free without having to look after all of my things. No clothes to wash and dry and fold and put away. I don't have enough with me for it to ever become a mess to clean. Here's the kicker- I'm not loosing track of anything either, because I only have two or three items to keep an eye on.

Then the idea hits me.

I think that my life is too cluttered to know where to bring it next.

I am so heavy with all of my possessions and desire for money and comfort and “stuff”. My little wings are not strong enough to lift all of my belongings and soar. Just as wings are not given the strength to carry another, so they cannot carry all of a person's worldly accumulations. I have strength enough to carry myself high, high up to see over my life and the ways that I might travel. But with all of these belongings....dead weight. I sit on the ground and I dust my pretty things.

When I return home to my half renovated house, it is time to take stock of my possessions. It's time to cull the herd- to give away things I no longer use, and more importantly, to part with things I don't need. For the journey I am heading on, I will need to pack light, and I might be gone a long time. I don't want to return home to boxes of dusty belongings and think, “Why did I save that? Some one else could have been using it this whole time....”

I think that the next big step will be to stop buying things. I suppose that by going through each item that I own, I will be able to have a proper inventory. Maybe after labouring to cut my purses in half I will be less likely to want to buy a new one. That need I feel every time I see something I “have to have”- what is that? It seems so foreign where I sit right now, staring off out over the ocean, but I know myself well enough to know that with a return home, that need will also return.

And with that fix, the guilt that follows it. And with that guilt, the purposeful forgetting of whatever it is I had to have. And then I buy more. And more. And more.

When what I really need is a walk in the woods. What my soul is asking for is not a new hoodie, but time of solitude and meditation and communion Which is why in this place, when I am so full, I can't imagine filling my self by shopping.

So then, when my house is in order, I would like to commit to walking in the woods again, chasing the trail of my Muse. I wonder about this. It seems more likely that my Muse has never moved an inch, but these possessions, these heavy weights, have built a thick wall around my consciousness, and I can no longer hear the voice of my heart.

I remember so vividly the process of clearing my head when I spent my one night in the Cheakamus in June. The entire walk in to my campsite, the gibberish in my head swarmed about like mosquitoes, buzzing in my ears and making it impossible to channel pure thought. A whole night of solitude and silence, and my system was almost in....shock. Small pieces of consciousness, but no concise train of understanding. And then, half way back on the trail the following morning, and BAM! Suddenly the clouds parted, and the sun shone, and the writing flowed from me as it hasn't since I was a small child.

While the rain beat down on Cheakamus Lake, I set up my small tarp over a stump and wrote until my hand cramped. Hours passed by this way, grey and cold and joyful. I remember eating trail mix bars and drinking coffee from my thermos and quietly thanking the voice of my heart for dragging me out into the woods.

Just as I'm thanking it now for dragging me to Central America.

“...be herenow, learn to transform your poisons into honey, share your positivity and be nothing."

-Osho, “Life, Love, Laughter”

Oct 15th- Solitude & Silence

“When you become the means and the other becomes the end, this is love. When you are the end, and the other is used as a means, this is lust.”

“Meditation is this earth, it is here and now; the very moment you can spread your roots, do it. And once roots are there, your wings will reach to the highest sky possible. Compassion is the sky, meditation is the earth. And when meditation and compassion meet, a buddha is born.”

-Osho, “Life, Love, Laughter”

I have been learning much every day about the meaning and blessing of silence and the power of words. Unable to speak to the locals or the visitors, I remain largely silent. I am not able to join into conversation, I am not able to brag or to tell wild stories or to scratch my way up over all of the voices to say, “look at me! look at me!”

Instead, I am largely quiet. I smile a lot. I always try to find the courage to say hello, either in french or english or spanish, because this is the one phrase I know, and so much can be communicated in such small words. Otherwise, I largely spend my day a little humbled my my limitations, and a little embarrassed that I have come to a country unequipped to even order my own lunch without help.

I have noticed though- I awake in the morning and I am not regretful or shameful of the things I said the day before, like I am when I am at home. I have not spent the whole night drinking wine and spewing out loads of toxic, ridiculous conversation. I have only my times with Marjo, and I feel no need to be anything but wholly myself with her, since she knows me already and I have nothing at all to prove.

I wonder why I am here for such a long time. I wake up in the morning and I fall in to my routine. I brush my teeth and wash my face, I dress and go out to the front of the hotel where a cabana has been set up with chairs and hammocks and pillows to lay on. I read some Osho, I meditate on his words, and then I write, waiting for the coffee to be ready. After breakfast, more reading or writing, some time in the sun, maybe a shower or a swim in the pool. Then a play in the ocean or a nap after lunch, and then it's time for dinner, conversation, and finally more reading or writing and bed.

Each day the same...and yet I sense that this is only temporary- that over the next week, I will find the days unfortunately speeding up. Maybe more people will arrive who speak english, maybe the relationships that I do have here will experience a deepening. Perhaps it is a time for me to practice being still, finding communion with my self again, drawing deep from within my self for my entertainment, instead of always looking outside, seeking stimulation from around me.

In re-reading this, I find that I am actually describing my perfect day, though I have always imagined it in Whistler, and not here in El Salvador. I find when I really look at it that I am not bored but guilty. I should be working! Or doing chores! Surely there is some laundry I could be washing? Or tidying my room? But no- here everything is looked after, and I have such a sparse compliment of clothing and personal effects that they require little to no maintenance. The only thing I really need to do in any given day is to get up, and even that only because to waste a day here in bed would be such a crime.

I have no limitations No boundaries. Nothing expected or asked of me. I am equipped with a good challenging book, a lighter work of fiction, a trashy magazine, a lap top and a never ending source of coffee. In the evenings I have good conversations with Marjo, and I am free at all times to carry out my whims of listening to this tree or that path or the waves who wake me sometimes and call to me at night like sirens from the deep.

It seems as though I have some how stumbled into Writer's Heaven. There is so much here to stimulate my imagination, and unlimited time to indulge it.

These past few days have been a wonderful time of self reflection, of fantasies and discovery and generally flaky stuff. A few small revelations, one or two weighty ones that I'll carry around for awhile, but mostly the makings of surface area observations. What I would really love is to get into a character and start writing, writing, writing- where I wake in the middle of the night and I can't wait for the computer to start up so that I can start to tell more of the story in my head.

I have the character of Lulu who came to me when I was in the woods in June. She was so strong then, and I can still recall her conflicts and her loves and challenges and victories, but it seems so strange to write of my coastal mountain girl when I am so far out of her natural element. Maybe if I just remain open, listening to my heart, something will come.

I'm off to day dream....

Oct 14th- Little Light

“If you are looking at somebody else to dictate to you, to decide for or against, you will never be able to know what your life is. It has to be lived, and you have to follow your own small light.”

-Osho “Life, Love, Laughter”

I am finally getting into the Osho book that I brought along to El Salvador. It has been sitting on my bookshelf at home for months now, collecting dust. I have picked it up and purposefully tried to get through it a number of times with no success. I think it actually spent a well intentioned week in my purse at one stage, another in my car.

Osho is one of my favourite authors, and his books are always timely for me. I guess it just hasn't been time until now. This very morning, four days into my retreat, the words are opening up to me and flooding into my heart.

The truth is that it has taken me this long to find the place of stillness within me where all good things find route. My writing, my thoughts, my spirituality, all draw from this well. I have to be drinking from this well for the words of Osho to make sense to me, to resonate within me. Otherwise I am like a starving woman who is being offered words in place of bread.

The fact that I am now devouring his words gives me hope that I am healing.

I still do not have an answer, but I am beginning to make peace with not asking. My questions are not meant to be answered with words or a directive or lesson. I am meant to just live out my questions every day walking in the direction in which I feel convicted. I am not meant to verbalize these questions- I am not meant to pray them to an outside divinity- I am meant to sit quietly in the river of my soul and bring my questions to my source.

I am returning to the place in which I dwelt when I was a child. Maybe this is why people travel and travel only to return to the town of their birth- not because of the familiarity, but because there is a memory there of a confident and complete self untarnished by the world.

My childhood self was in many ways much more complete than I am now. I am returning to her each time I meditate, each time I write from my soul, each moment I spend in solitude. When I was young, I simply KNEW what my heart was asking of me: “...today I must walk through the forest, singing...” or, “...today I must spend on the lake, writing.” Often in solitude, often in silence, walking transcendentally through the moments of my youth.

The memory of the stillness of my forest returns to me as clear as day. While I feel the tropical winds on my skin and hear the ever present roar of the surf here in El Salvador, my mind carries me back to a very different setting. The crunch of needles and brush beneath my feet. The scent of earth, of sunlit decay, of moss and dew and pine and sap. The feel of bark beneath my palms. The scratch of rocky handholds as I climbed small mountains. The resistance of the forest in scratches and scrapes as I attempted to mold it into forts and secret hiding places.

And the moments when the light would cascade through the tree branches above just so, the cry of the loon to his beloved ringing out, the plop of a fish catching her breakfast, the steady lap of the water testing its boundaries. There in those spaces I would transcend- not out of myself, but within, deep into the core of my being where I too became part of the orchestra, where all that is essential within me communed with all that is essential in existence. Where the fish and the moose and the beaver and the poplar and I could hold court with one another- where we each drew from and offered up the energy of our beings.

I have forgotten how to live this way. I now reside mostly in opposition to all that is naturally around me. I build my house and paint it and dress it up in ways that discourage harmony with the wild world. I hide behind my door when it is too hot or too cold outside and I do not take the time to commune any more.

The calls to walk in the wild always come at such inconvenient times and there is just so much to do in my silly little life. I ignore them. For laundry, for work, for movies, for friends I ignore them. For television, for shopping, for groceries and cleaning I ignore them. I tell myself I will answer next time. Next time I will walk in the woods again. And then the voice becomes too quiet to hear. I have stifled my heart.

Something important within me is lost.

Lately I have heard the whispers again. The callings of trees and the secret places in the forest. Perhaps my heart is reawakening, and is being called to by these natural spaces to come and sit awhile and present my offering as I cherish that which is being offered.

Back to my trees and my forests then, soon I will go, but for now: the ocean. For now the steady waving palms. For now the salt and the surf and the sun. Renewal, for now. Peace and solitude and quiet exploration of my self for now. This time is a time to practice living again, so that I may return to my woods and have something to offer for the communion.

The call beats louder in my heart like a drum. Oh, how I've missed that song...

~^~

Oct 11th- "Hell-A"

LAX. Saying goodbye to Mr. Man was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I felt a wave of emotion; anger, regret, joy, confidence. Excited to set out on my own for awhile- scared because it's been so long since I've trusted myself. Resentful that it's taken me so long. Desperate longing for the closeness of this man who I will not touch again for six long months.


A thought came to me on the plane as I stared out of the blackened window at the glimmering shit stain that is Los Angeles far below. I have not travelled internationally by myself in seven years. Seven years! I have not picked up my passport, taken my freedom by the balls and leapt out of my comfort zone in seven long years.


How far is that statement from what I had willed my life to be when I was eighteen and first tasting freedom? In those days, I genuinely felt limited only by the multitude of possibilities out there. Which door to walk through first? Which path to choose, which adventure to take.
And now....what have I become?


I have a deep hope that being with my Frenchie again will remind me a little of the spirit of that eighteen year old girl. How was I to know then that seven years later I would be reflecting on her, wishing I could be more like her? Passionate, stubborn, filled with hope. Having the courage to choose to live only the way she felt convicted to live. Unapologetic and utterly free.


I can remember thinking at eighteen that I had so far to go, so much to learn, that the path was so blurry and unfocused.


And now I know that is the best way to have it. Unclear. Wild. Unpredictable. My life has become dull and robotic. I feel more machine than woman, working and earning and fulfilling my commitments while I squirrel away time to myself and watch my dreams slip past me year after quickening year.


No more.


Let's suppose I only get one time around the sun. Let's presume for a moment that this one life is all that is allotted to my little soul. Then I need to milk it. I need to fly...


I will not again stay on the ground for the approval or love of my family, my friends, my religion or my culture. I will not stay on the ground again for a man...



Thankfully this time I've finally found one with wet trembling wings of his own. His encouragement has led me here, to this midnight hour in the LA X airport, waiting for the plane that will carry me to Central America and whatever awaits me there.


My little wings, weak from being tucked away for so long, are opening wide to receive whatever this time holds for me. With all of my being, I want to walk in to this space with my heart open, searching for treasures in the minutes. My heart is pounding.


I am excited. I am nervous. I am alive again.