At a certain time in the morning, an hour or so after sunrise, the sky can take on a certain saturated blue that a camera can pick up without any enhancements in post-production. You just have to put your back to the sun and point upward.
And if you have a bright subject, the contrast can be spectacular.
When I set out to accomplish my virtual Camino de Santiago challenge, I initially set out a conservative 16 weeks in which to complete the 773.9 kilometres from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, in southern France, to Santiago de Compostela, in northwestern Spain.
I'm lazy, after all, and didn't think I'd get my butt into gear every day. And while there were a couple of days when I just didn't feel motivated to get on my spin bike, I did cover at least a few kilometres, on foot, moving about my day.
When I saw that I was pulling ahead of the pace car, I reset my goal to 10 weeks, and again, a week later, to eight weeks.
I finished in fewer than seven. Forty-seven days. The last day was accomplished with more than three kilometres of snowshoeing through deep snow and forests, by pedalling on my spin bike for 16 kilometres, and walking for more than a kilometre around the house.
While I'm taking a minute to pat myself on the back, I really have the app, The Conqueror Virtual Challenges, to thank for lighting the fire under my butt, as well as my love of maps and my love of travel. Because of this app, I have wanted to see what lay ahead of me, on my virtual trek, and I would look ahead on the map. I'd pick a distance and then, after a day of work or at the end of the day, I would hop on my spin bike and watch something on TV while I pedalled. I would add up my steps that had accumulated through the day. And I would plug in my stats.
I loved wandering the towns and villages, through Google Maps street view. I would look up some destinations on YouTube, watch a few videos, and add these places to my list of travel destinations.
I initially balked at the cost of these travel routes on The Conqueror, but the cost is much lower than a gym membership and even more motivating. Because DW and I have friends who have joined our community, we feel that we're not doing the Camino de Santiago alone. DW and the others, who have been keeping within a few kilometres of each other, often chat online about what they see, where they should meet for drinks, and where they should 'stay' at the end of the day.
DW is far behind me but has decided to complete the Camino de Santiago trek and simultaneously start the UK trek. I'd like to start the UK trek on Monday, March 1, and DW will begin counting her cycling distances to that journey, reserving her walks for the Spanish pilgrimage.
How about you? Would you like to join us for the next challenge? Have you been looking for an exercise regime that you can safely do during this pandemic? Download the app. Purchase the Lands End-John O'Groats challenge, and join the Bytown Blazers community.
And then get going on March 1.
I'm looking forward to this trek. I hope to 'see' you on the path.
One year ago today, DW, our friend Alex, and I drove around the city, looking for a KIA dealership where we could test-drive a Niro hybrid. It was a sunny but cold Saturday and we had all day to car shop. A couple of days earlier, DW and I had test-driven a Hyundai Ionic hybrid and we wanted to see what else was out there.
Little did we know that by the end of that Saturday, we would have signed the papers that would make us the owners of a replacement for our 2012 Ford Focus.
The first KIA dealership was a couple of minutes away from Alex's place and we quickly learned that this dealership had no Niros on their lot. When we asked where we might find one, they were only interested in selling us one... sight-unseen.
No thanks, we said. We're not looking to buy one at this point. We hadn't even seen one except online, and we wanted to see one up-close, to sit in one, to get the feel, and to drive one. Buying one wasn't even in the cards, at this point, and as I said, we had already looked at the Ionic and hadn't scratched it off our list.
The second dealership was further out in Ottawa's east end, next to where we had bought our Honda CR-V, a little more than five years earlier. The salesperson was a bit more helpful, even though he also had no Niros in stock. He talked to us about what we were looking for in a vehicle, and tried to steer us to another vehicle, a Mitsubishi plug-in hybrid (PHEV).
As friendly as he was, we were only interested in checking out a Niro. And besides, DW and I had test-driven this Mitsubishi vehicle a few weeks earlier, at an electric-car information centre, in Toronto, and as much as we liked the vehicle, we had ruled out owning a PHEV.
Rather than drive all over the city, burning fuel in our search for a hybrid, we began calling other dealerships to see if they had a Niro in stock.
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| The photo I took after signing the paperwork. |
When we arrived at the dealership, we found our salesperson but the Niro was out for a test drive with another customer. Our salesperson said that the Niro had suddenly become popular and it was hard getting one in. We said that we were in no rush but that we did want to give one a test drive before we would even consider it as a candidate.
The car returned to the lot within a few minutes, and the other customer and salesperson emerged from the vehicle. Our salesperson took the keys, gave them to me, and the four of us (DW and Alex, in the back) were on our way.
It was the first KIA that I had driven since I lived in South Korea, in the late 1990s. Back then, KIAs were popular but didn't have a great rating. They didn't come close to the quality of Hyundai but they were better than Daewoo, one of Korea's other big manufacturers. The KIA that I had driven back then shuddered and rattled, and the fit and finish was cheap and nasty.
The Niro felt solid and was quiet. There were lots of features and it had something that DW has come to enjoy in a vehicle: a sunroof.
I drove the car a bit harder than I usually do, giving her more gas as I entered onto the 417, cornering faster than I do, and testing the feel of the brakes. All done safely, of course, and all within legal restrictions. I was impressed with this car's handling, especially when I compared it with our Focus.
The Niro was a better vehicle.
When we returned to the dealership, we saw that the previous customer was still sitting with his salesperson, obviously working out a deal. Our salesperson wanted to talk numbers with us, and we expected this, but we were still operating under the assumption that we were still shopping and were not ready to make a deal.
Our salesperson offered us $500 more for our Focus than the Hyundai dealer had offered. He threw in winter tires and rims. He knocked down the price three times. He upgraded the quality of the winter tires from Kumho to Michelins.
We got to a number that we liked but we said that we were still just shopping. If our salesperson could hold his offer until Wednesday, we'd make up our mind by then.
He said he could, but there was no guarantee that this Niro would still be there. The other customer was still negotiating with his salesperson, and we were told that the Niros don't usually stay in stock for more than a couple of days.
That's okay, we said, if this one was sold before we could make a decision, we'd order another.
"I can't guarantee that we'll be able to get in another 2019," our salesperson said. "The 2020s are now out. And if I can't get a 2019, I won't be able to sell you a 2020 at this price."
DW, my friend, and I saw this as a heavy sales tactic and were ready to leave, but then DW spoke up, surprising me. "What if we go for this," she said.
Now, DW has been telling me for years that she felt I had pressured her into buying the Focus, even though we had driven several competing cars and had decided that the Ford was in our top two. All things being equal, I liked the look of the Focus over all of the other cars we drove: Civic, Elantra, Matrix. Because the manager of the Ford store was a friend of my fathers, who had also sold cars for decades, we got about $7,000 off the list price, and the interior had a limited black-and-white leather that I really liked.
I was the one who pulled the trigger on the Focus, and DW reminded me of that every time something went wrong with the car.
"You want to do this?" I asked DW.
Earlier, when we were driving around the city, searching other dealerships, DW and I said that if we were going to move to a hybrid, we might not just want to find a replacement for the Focus, which is what the Ionic was going to do. We thought that we might want something a bit bigger: not as big as our CR-V but something that offered more cargo space. On our test drive, we discovered that the Niro had ridiculously large rear-seat passenger space. Both DW and Alex commented on the ample leg room and head clearance. But the cargo space was significantly larger than what the Ionic offered.
"This vehicle has the space we want but is still not a big vehicle." DW knows that I like cars, rather than SUVs, and I like being lower to the ground.
We had also eyed the Hyundai Kona but were looking at the full EV model. We had knocked it off our list when we crunched the numbers, and it didn't offer a hybrid version.
Essentially, it was the Ionic or the Niro, and we were staring at a pretty good deal.
Now, there was a part of us that wondered if the other customer was actually a ploy, another salesperson who was pretending to be interested to add more pressure on us to make a swift decision. But one thing was clear: this was the model and trim level we wanted. It was in my second choice for colour (black) but we learned that my first choice (red) wasn't available for the Premium EX.
And this one was right here.
We signed the papers and our salesperson placed a Sold sign on the windscreen.
One year ago today.
I have to say that I have enjoyed the Niro far more than I thought I would. It drives very nicely and has more bells and whistles than I know what to do with. The fuel economy is amazing, letting me drive about 800 kilometres on a 45-litre tank. It's comfortable and roomy.
And while it's not the best looking car I've ever had, it's growing on me (especially when DW and I have our kayaks strapped on top).
We've had no regrets, and that makes the swift purchase worthwhile.
So, today, Ottawa moves from being in a COVID red zone to an orange one, and some restrictions will be lifted. But just because the decision-makers have allowed this doesn't mean we have to let our guards down.
I know that restaurant servers are suffering during this pandemic and I feel for them. But if you really want to support the restaurant, order takeout or have it delivered to your door (preferably, directly from the restaurant owners, rather than delivery services like Skip The Dishes). If you can, tip generously.
Just don't dine in the restaurant.
Lifted restrictions also means that Ottawans can have a maximum of 10 people in their homes. And for the life of me, I can't think of why I'd want six or seven people in my house. Don't get me wrong: I miss my extended family and my friends, but I want to be able to hug them and share laughs freely, without masks.
Just don't have guests over.
Without restrictions, we're simply prolonging this pandemic. I've often said that if we had locked everything down and ordered people to stay at home for six to eight weeks, we likely would have stopped the spread and ended this pandemic. I'm sure that this is a very simplistic look, but I am certain that enough strict rules would have put a stop to the pandemic.
Look at New Zealand.
Sadly, our provincial leaders aren't interested in doing what needs to be done, and so we're now 11 months into this crisis, with no end in sight.
Remember, this virus wants to survive and will do whatever it can to keep going. It doesn't take holidays into account. It doesn't make exceptions. It doesn't rest.
Do yourself a favour. Take control of ending this pandemic. Put our recovery into your own hands. Don't dine in restaurants. Don't invite people into your homes. Stay in your own home and only go out for absolute essentials. When you're out, wear a mask and keep your distance.
Lifting restrictions means that this pandemic isn't going to end anytime soon. So just don't.
I'm neither evil nor possessed, but I just thought I would leave this here:
I must admit, I've been holding at following 666 people ever since I had noticed that I reached this number. Every time I want to follow someone new on Twitter, I go through the list of people that I'm already following and drop someone before I click the Follow button on the new person.
The persons that I have dropped are those with accounts that haven't seen activity in more than a year. It's best to make room for those who are actively tweeting.
But when I hit 1,300 followers, the 13 stood out for me. (And, BTW, while its true that I don't have a lot of followers, I'm thankful for every one of them—as long as there aren't any bots.)
I love numbers. Good or bad.
Berlin: June 2, 1988
Friedrichstrasse intersected the wide boulevard that was the old main street of a unified Berlin, Unter den Linden. More than twice the width of the street that I had just walked, with young, bare trees that had only just started to bud. The stately buildings seemed in better shape than those on the road that led me up from Checkpoint Charlie, and I could see a few shops that ran along the street level. It seemed brighter. Indeed, a small clearing in the otherwise overcast day reminded me that I was wearing extra layers. Thankfully, it appeared as though the sunshine was only going to last a few minutes.
I spied what looked like an ice cream shop, and with the sweat starting to run down my chest and underneath the fat suit, I decided to get a cone, with the intention of cooling off. Nothing out of the ordinary for an overweight twenty-something-year-old to get a sweet treat before lunch hour, was there?
“Ein Eistüte bitte,” I asked the middle-aged shop keeper, having consulted my tourist booklet before entering the establishment.
“Es ist eine, nicht ein,” the shop keeper corrected me. I had pronounced the German word for one without saying the final e, like ah. I paid the man with the small, thin paper currency and received coins with my change. The metal was so thin that I was sure that I could bend it with my bare hands, but refrained from doing so, lest it be an offense that would be worse than my pronunciation, and cause the shop owner to call the police. I took my small cone with a “Danke,” making sure to pronounce the final vowel, and stepped back into the street, where the sun had once again hidden behind the clouds.
Standing on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden, I looked to the west and could see the tall columns that were the Brandenburg Gate. The horse-drawn chariot was the colour of corroded copper. Though I was several blocks away, I could see what appeared to be an angel in the chariot and a winged banner rising above all. I was tempted to go in that direction but I wanted to avoid the wall, and I wanted to head to where the upcoming mission was going to go down.
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| © Ross Brown |
The square of Alexanderplatz was massive and wide open, with little place to hide. I could see the red-bricked building of the East Berlin City Hall, the Rathaus, mostly covered by scaffolding and tarps. It’s central clock tower, the only part left bare, showed that the time was nearing noon. It had taken me longer to reach this part of the city than I had planned. I was due back at my hotel for 3:00.
More photos, with the medieval church juxtaposed the modern TV tower, the old brick clock tower, and the Soviet-era block of concrete that made nondescript buildings that could either be tenements or government offices. Continuing on, I strode down Spandauer Strasse and into a small neighbourhood that could have been its own quaint medieval German town, with its terra cotta-coloured roofs with peaked lines. At the center was the towering old church of St. Nicholas. I stood on the corner of Nikolaikirchplatz and Propststrasse, near an old street lamp that looked as though, at one point in time, it was lit by gas, and snapped a photo of the church. Surveying the area around me, there were very few people. My eyes searched for anyone who may have been following me, but saw only people going about their business. If someone was tailing me, they were good.
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| © Ross Brown |
To be sure, I doubled back several times, moving with purpose from the church, toward the Spree, then changing directions and heading back toward the Rathaus, only to turn around and go behind city hall, along Grunerstrasse, and toward the train station at Alexanderplatz. When I reached the World Time Clock, I snapped more photos and casually looked at the crowds around me. No one seemed familiar from the neighbourhood around Nikolaikirche. If people were following me, they were good.
The Weltzeituhr was where Charles Townsend wanted me to reach. He wanted me to make myself familiar with the surrounding area, the Bahnhof, and Alexanderplatz to the northeast. I was to memorize the names of the streets of Dircksenstrasse, Bundesstrasse, Rathausstrasse, and Spandauer Strasse, and all of the side streets that fed from them. Observe where the entrances to the Bahnhof ran to Dirckenstrasse. When I had a good layout of the area, I was to head back to West Berlin.
Before turning back, there was something else that Charles asked me to do. Sitting on a bench near St. Mary’s Church, I casually crossed my legs, bringing my left foot to my right knee, and rubbing my ankle. As I did so, I slid the remaining East German coins and paper money into my shoe, sliding them under my foot. Though any unused currency was supposed to be returned at the checkpoint, I was to smuggle mine back.
Back at the Soviet side of Checkpoint Charlie, the line was equally long for those wanting to cross into the West. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds, which were dissipating and clearing away.
“It’s going to be a nice afternoon, after all,” came the woman’s voice from behind me. I turned to see a blond woman, about my age, waiting in line. Her round face was smiling, showing gapped teeth.
“Seems so.” Remembering that I was still Alexander James Carson, I applied my best East London accent.
“God, I thought we’d have rain into the evening.”
“Luckily, the rain’s held off for most of the day.” I could see that she was alone but looked like an experienced traveller. Sensible walking shoes, light clothing, and a day bag that didn’t seem stuffed. A small pin on one of the shoulder straps showed the American flag. “Was today your first time in East Berlin?”
“First and only time,” she said. “I’ve been in West Berlin for three days and I wasn’t sure if I would cross over, but I thought, I didn’t come all this way not to see how the Communists live.”
“Have you been anywhere else in Germany?”
“Heck, ya. I spent some time in Munich and along the Rhein—it’s beautiful. I’m Gwen, by the way. I’m going to spend my summer seeing all of Europe but thought I’d start in Germany and work my way counter-clockwise. Next is the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Spain, Portugal, and then I’ll swing back to Italy and Greece before moving up to Austria and Switzerland.”
“That’s quite the trip,” I said. “And doing it alone?”
“I have some friends who will join me in Paris, others who will meet me in Rome and go with me to the Greek Islands, but I like to be on my own timetable.” Gwen eyed my camera bag and asked, “How about you? You travelling alone.”
“All on my own,” I said. “Berlin’s my first stop.” I didn’t really want to continue the conversation, as I knew that I’d have to start making things up. I’d have to try to remember where other cities in this country were in relation to one another, and German geography was not something that they taught me in school. Luckily, my turn to go through the customs desks came up, and I bid the American safe travels.
The man at the customs counter was an older man, in his mid to late forties, and didn’t seem to care about receipts or even ask about the East German currency. He retrieved the slip of paper that was stuck in my passport, stamped it, and waved me through.
Standing at the American hut on the western side of the wall, I took one final snapshot of the East German station before deciding my best way back to the Kurfürstendamm. My American friend was close on my heels and seemed to be thinking something similar.
“Where y’all stayin’?” Gwen asked as I was looking at a short line of taxi cabs.
“Oh, not far from the Bahnhof Zoo.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” she said, “I’m in a small hotel on Kantstrasse, just a few blocks from the station. Want to share a ride?”
Alarm bells went off in my head. Getting into a cab with a stranger was not a good idea, especially in my fat suit. In close quarters, she would likely notice the disguise. I looked toward the taxis and could see a sign on a building that read It Happened at the Wall and Museum.
“I’d like to, but I was thinking that I’d check out the Berlin Wall museum.” I pointed to the building for emphasis.
“That looks interesting.”
“Listen, I don’t mean to sound rude but I don’t know you. I like to explore on my own.”
Her eyes went from lively to sad, as though she had accidentally let a balloon slip from her fingers and was watching it, helplessly, as it floated out of sight. “Oh, I just thought, since we’re both travelling alone.”
“Alone,” I said, “operating word. Enjoy your travels.” I turned and headed to the museum, making a point not to turn around, lest she was still standing there, waiting for me to change my mind and call for her to join me.
I looked at my watch. It was nearing two. I had just enough time to quickly visit the museum before hailing a taxi back to my pension. Having used this diversion as an excuse for losing the American girl, I felt I should follow through. If anything, Alexander James Carson was no liar.
DW and I have begun watching travel shows and videos again, and I think that's a mistake. It's awoken the travel bug within me.
Currently, we're virtually travelling. We've been doing the Camino de Santiago virtual challenge for more than five weeks, and we've begun watching videos of the areas we've 'visited.' While I know that I don't have the feet to actually walk the 773.9 kilometres of this pilgrimage, there are some cities that I knew very little about before I started my virtual journey but now want to visit.
Because Rioja is one of DW's and my favourite wine regions, we just might make that trip someday.
DW and I had our 2020 travel plans dashed because of COVID-19 but we still want to visit Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. And while 2021 does not look promising—we haven't even attempted to make plans, we're hopeful that 2022 is the year that we head to Europe.
But DW and I haven't been watching travel shows about these three countries. We have a well-detailed itinerary from last year, complete with hotels. When the time comes, we hope that the accommodations that we had reserved will still be available, and that the only thing that will have changed in our plans is the year.
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| Edinburgh, 2010 (© Ross Brown) |
DW and I love our kayaks, and when we saw a Rick Steves show of Glasgow and the surrounding area, we saw the Falkirk swing locks. I was curious to see where this canal system ran and was delighted to learn that it ran from Glasgow to Edinburgh. It's an 87-km trek.
"We could easily do that in three days," I told DW. If we were really ambitious, we could do it in two, but that would be really pushing ourselves, and it's no fun to end a day too exhausted to enjoy anything beyond a bed.
I've started looking into this trip, in earnest. We would spend a day or two in Glasgow, and then set out in rented kayaks. We would plan to spend a good part of a day in Falkirk. We would also spend a few days in Edinburgh—with a day trip to North Berwick, of course—before hitting the Scottish Highlands (which I have never seen).
Of course, these plans are preliminary and are subject to change. There are some canals through various lochs in the highlands, and those are also an option.
The pandemic has put a damper on travelling in 2020 and 2021. But looking ahead to the next couple of years, I can't wait to set out again.
I know that I can't go to my barber because we are still in a pandemic lockdown, but even if I could go, I don't think that I'd want to.
First and foremost, the leader of my province is inept and has shown throughout this pandemic that he's more interested in keeping businesses open than he is in conquering the virus. But I will continue to stay home, except for essential shopping, and a haircut is certainly non-essential.
But I've also had a bad feeling ever since I had my last haircut, more than two months ago. As some of you might remember, my barber and I had a conversation about Christmas and how we planned to celebrate that day. I said I was staying home and that no one was coming over: he said that his wife wanted to have his entire extended family over because it was their Christmas tradition.
I tried to talk him out of that idea and left the shop believing that I had gotten through to him about how that was such a bad idea. But there was no guarantee that he actually cancelled his Christmas plans, especially because he told me that his wife was set on doing it.
The thought of that does not sit well with me.
Also, while he has done a decent job on my haircuts in the past, I've never left the shop thinking, wow, that's a great haircut. He's fine, but so is First Choice and I don't like to go there, either.
I did have a great barber a while ago, but she moved downtown and it became inconvenient for me to see her. I'm starting to think, though, that when things go back to "normal," I may seek her out again. She had me walking out after an appointment thinking, wow, that's a great haircut.
In the meantime, I find myself without a barber to cut my hair.
Last spring, as the first wave of COVID kept barber shops closed, and after months without a haircut, I got my young daughter to cut my hair. It wasn't bad but she felt a lot of pressure in doing it, and doesn't want to do it again.
DW thought that my two-plus months without a cut looked good, but I hated it. And so, on Sunday, I took matters into my own hands. For the first time, ever, I picked up our electric trimmer, slapped a number-3 guard on it, and went to town on my head.
There will be no full-on selfies of myself for a few weeks. And I now have another reason to stay indoors.
"You know how people say the COVID test is an unpleasant experience?" asked DW.
"That's what I've heard," was my response.
"Well, they're right."
On Friday, DW went to one of the Ottawa Public Health sites to have a test for COVID-19. Apparently, pink eye can be a sign of coronavirus.
Earlier last week, on the evening of a winter storm, DW asked me to drive to one of our local drug stores to get drops for what she believed to be pink eye. I wasn't happy to venture out on the dark, slippery roads, but one of her eyes was highly irritated, red, and goopy. So I went to the nearest Shoppers Drug Mart and asked the pharmacist for the best non-prescription treatment for this ailment.
In the meantime, DW researched conjunctivitis on the Internet.
"How could I have caught this?" DW asked.
"Um... Finn?" I replied.
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| Finn, recovering (and being cute). |
We were already dealing with a case of it in our home, but not from one of the resident humans. One of our young kittens, Finn, had been receiving eyedrops twice a day since the previous Friday. Luckily, none of the other cats had caught it from him.
In her research, DW learned that with her presumed pink eye, it was recommended that she be tested for coronavirus, as this can be a symptom. An appointment was made, though I was a bit skeptical. While our other cats could easily contract the conjunctivitis from Finn—especially, his sister, Cece—I didn't know if it could be passed onto us. But the fact that DW contracted pink eye so soon after Finn had it, compounded by the fact that he loves to rub his face against ours, makes me think he's the likely source, especially since we have been out of the house so infrequently.
On return from having the test, DW said that OPH had told her to remain in the house until the results were known, somewhere within 24 to 48 hours. This also meant that DD17 and I were also confined to the house.
That was fine with me. I have only left the house a few times in the past couple of weeks, anyway. I was content to remain in place.
The results came back on Saturday morning, and DW doesn't have COVID. But I can't help think that if she had contracted the virus, how that would affect the household. DD17 had only returned to school on Monday: if the virus had been passed onto her, how many of her classmates would have contracted it before DW had had the test?
This is a strong argument to stay home if you can. By the time someone has a test, the virus could have already spread around.
Let's all behave as though we have the virus, and stay home. Stay away from others. Stay safe.
I don't mean to do it but I'm guilty of ignoring this building or, at the very least, not giving it the attention that it's due.
After all, it is the oldest stone building in Ottawa. It's been there since 1827.
It truly is one of the most beautiful settings in our city, if not the world.
Perhaps it's because the Commissariat Building is now a museum, one that I had visited often as a child, on school trips, that I dismiss it now. Been there, seen that.
But it deserves our respect. It deserves some focus.
So, on the last day in January, I dusted off my neglected camera gear and headed downtown, with one objective: to capture this building.
The Commissariat Building was built as a depot for supplying provisions to various construction sites along the northern part of the canal. It was also used as office and residential space for officials who were overseeing the supplies. Colonel John By, who commissioned the construction of the canal, likely paid the Commissariat Building a visit.
The building is now home to the Bytown Museum (Bytown was the original name of Ottawa).
Though I don't get many comments from my readers, I do love to hear from you. If you like a post, hate a post, or want to add your thoughts, I welcome you to fill out that little box, below, and click Publish.
What I don't like are the comments that are occasionally left by bots—I assume that they're bots because they are structured alike, spelling mistakes and all. These comments usually thank me for the post, tell me that my blog is full of all kinds of useful information (this is the big giveaway—there's not very much useful information in The Brown Knowser), and that the writer of the comment has learned so much.
And then that comment ends with a link to another site.
Now, I really don't like links added to comments because I don't trust where the link is going to take me or anybody who reads the comment. Ninety-nine percent of comments that include links get deleted once I learn about the comment.
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| Photo: European Denture Centre |
And what gets me is that these comments aren't written on these blog posts. These comments are sent to seemingly random posts, often posts that were published many years ago.
As I said, I receive notifications when someone has left a comment, but I've now started regulating posts, so that the comment isn't published until I approve of it. I don't like to do this because I want my readers to feel that they can share their thoughts without having to wait for me to say, "Yup, that's great," and hit the Approve button.
Whether I agree with your comment or not won't keep me from posting it to my blog unless your post promotes hate to other people (you can hate me all you want—but then, why are you even reading my blog??).
Adding links to a comment is tricky. If I can't clearly see where the link is going or there is no context to the link, or if the link is there to promote a business, I'll likely delete the comment. But there have been a few comments where the link is legit, and I've let them stand.
I don't need dentures. I have all the ringtones I need. Please don't try to advertise either.
With the latest lockdown, paired with the cold weather, I really haven't felt like going out with my camera to capture images. That may change over the course of this month, but in the meantime, I've been drawn to looking at old photos and seeing if I can improve or change the original images with the new software that I received in December.
If you saw last Friday's post or if you follow me on Instagram, you've seen what I've been doing with some of my model-meetup photos.
So, starting today, I'm going to post images on days that I don't have much to say. On these days, I may explain the photo (like I do on Photo Fridays); on other days, I may not write anything at all with the photo (like I do on Wordless Wednesdays).
Some of the photos may not differ much than the original photos: others may look incredibly different or may defy reality—I'd like to experiment with fantasy photography.
I have no idea how long I'll post these photos, but let's just start with February and see where it goes, starting right here...
Four weeks ago today, DW and I set out on a trek that, were we to do it in real life, it would have never happened.
I just don't have the feet for it.
Last month, I shared how DW and I were virtually participating in the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, from the south of France to the northwest coast of Spain. It's a 773.9-kilometre trek that crosses several mountain ranges and fords flat plains, linking up with countless villages, towns, and cities.
I'm combining the distances that I cover by simply walking around the house or around my neighbourhood, and I'm also getting on my spin bike as well. DW has pledged to walk at least 10,000 steps each day, plus she occasionally gets on the spin bike, though not that often.
We also have a couple of friends who have joined the community that we've created, the Bytown Blazers. DW and our friends are largely sticking together, seldom being more than five kilometres apart from one another (though, in reality, confined to their own homes). As of Sunday evening, the three of them have covered 30 percent of the trek.
Because I primarily use my spin bike, I've peeled ahead of the group. As of Sunday evening, I have completed 52 percent of my journey, which is 402.57 kms. By this Wednesday evening, I expect to reach the 60-percent mark, which will take me to the city of León.
Initially, DW and I set our goal to finish the trek in 16 weeks. After a couple of weeks, when I pulled ahead by about 100 kms, I changed my goal timeframe to 10 weeks. A red marker, which represents a pace car for the goal that I set, was still falling further behind, so last weekend I changed my timeframe to eight weeks. If all goes well, I should reach Santiago de Compostela by March 2, if not sooner.
Each day, I look at the journey ahead of me, and set a goal of the first town that falls within 20 to 25 kilometres. About an hour before dinner, I calculate the number of steps I've taken already, estimate how many more I'll complete by the end of the day, and subtract that amount by the distance to that town. I then get on the spin bike and cover that distance.
At the end of the day, before I get into bed, I see how much farther I need to cover to reach my daily destination. If I still have more steps to cover, I'll walk around the house until I cover that distance. If I've overshot that distance, I enter the required kilometres into the app and just imagine the extra steps as me, exploring the town, but not adding to the required distance to complete the trek.
The app allows me to virtually wander the streets, through Google Maps' street view. I've seen some fabulous plazas, cathedrals, and historic sites. So far, my favourite stops include Pamplona, Estella, Logroño, and especially Burgos. I'm looking forward to reaching León.
Even when DW and I were going to the gym, before the pandemic, we didn't exercise this much. We're getting a workout every single day.
It's a win-win situation. And it's the only way that I would get to see this part of the world. While it's no problem for me to walk around the house or my neighbourhood, while my spin bike gives me a good workout while I cover 20 or so kilometres a day, my feet would never allow me to cover these distances, day in and day out, for weeks on end.
My virtual treks are the only treks my body can safely handle.
For the most part, when I form a friendship, I form it for life.
My friends and I may not see each other for a long time. We may not even reach out, through e-mail or phone call, for several years. But when we do get together, we pick up where we left off, as though time has stood still.
Some of my oldest friendships go back to elementary school. There are those who I feel privileged to remain close to, who I feel lucky to call friend, from as far back as the third grade. These are people, who, if they were ever in need, I would drop what I was doing to lend a hand, to offer support.
Recently, a friend of my distant past has returned to my present and, since his return, has occupied a lot of my thoughts. With your indulgence, I thought I would share some of those thoughts.
It was an unlikely friendship: he was two grades ahead of me in school and seemed more mature than those years had lent, and we never hung out together on the school grounds. But we lived a couple of doors away from each other and would spend hours together after school and on weekends, mostly in his basement, where his stereo system played the music that would shape my life.
It was music that brought us together. When I turned 8, my father took me to a record store and let me choose an album for myself. I think he expected me to choose a children's record but I went straight to the New Releases stacks and picked an album that drew my attention.
It was Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy.
Keith introduced me to other music: Alice Cooper, Yes, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, and so many others. To this day, I credit him with helping me form my music appreciation.
Halfway through grade 6, my family and I moved to the Gatineau Hills and I became separated from my friends in Parkwood Hills. In the two and a half years that we lived just north of Chelsea, I saw Keith and my other friends only a handful of times. And by the time that we moved back to Parkwood Hills, when I began grade 9, these friends had formed bonds with other classmates, and I felt alienated from those with whom I used to know so well.
Those who were my age, who were still in classes with me when I returned, eventually rekindled our relationship. And while Keith and I would still remain friends, the age gap, combined with the different circles in which we lived our daily lives, didn't keep us as close as we had been before the move.
One thing that still held us together was our love of music. I remember one afternoon when I invited Keith to my house and we pulled out my album collection, Keith went through every album I had. When he came to my collection of Peter Gabriel records, he exclaimed, "Good choice! This man is God to me!"
To this day, I still refer to Peter Gabriel as God.
Keith was also happy to find my collection of Ultravox albums, pulling out Quartet and urging me to put it on the turntable. I remember feeling honoured to have earned Keith's approval of my entire album collection.
To this day, when I discover a new artist, I often wonder what Keith would think of him or her, or whether this artist or band would reside in his own collection. Even now, his musical opinion is important to me.
Keith and I lost touch after he graduated from high school and went to university, in Toronto. It wouldn't be until several years later that we would be reunited, and it was because of music.
When I was in my second year of university, I moved into an apartment with a fellow student, Peter. He and I had a mutual love of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and every Saturday he and I would sit in front of the television to watch the newest episode, and afterwards we would discuss the show, how it worked into Star Trek cannon and would make predictions about where a particular storyline would go.
Peter also made a great comparison between the U.S.S. Enterprise of the original series and TNG, and Ottawa's old Museum of Nature (previously called the Museum of Man) and the Museum of Civilization, on the Gatineau side of the Ottawa River: the angular original Enterprise and Museum of nature; the curvaceous Enterprise-D and Museum of Civilization. "Where no man has gone before," versus "Where no one has gone before," and Museum of Man versus Museum of Civilization.
Loads more comparisons, but that's another discussion.
Peter also loved my music collection, and I would often arrive at the apartment to find him spinning one of my records. We would spend hours, simply sitting in the living room, in silence, simply enjoying the music.
One day, we started talking about my record collection while I was playing First Base, by Babe Ruth (the band, not the baseball legend), and Peter told me that my musical taste was similar to his best friend's.
"Have you ever heard of the band, Strawbs?" Peter asked.
"Yes," I said, "an old friend loved them but I never got into them. It's probably the only band that he liked and I didn't. His name is Keith."
"Keith?" exclaimed Peter, literally jumping out of his chair. "Keith H—?"
"Yes! How do you..."
"He's my best friend!" Peter immediately picked up the phone and called Keith. When Keith answered the phone, Peter held the receiver close to one of the speakers, then said, "You'll never guess who this album belongs to. I'm sitting with my roommate, listening to his records."
Keith answered correctly. Peter handed the phone to me, and Keith and I chatted as though time had never passed.
A month or so later, Keith returned to Ottawa and came over to Peter's and my apartment for an evening where we played vinyl while catching up. I asked Keith if he wanted me to put on a Led Zeppelin album, to which he responded, "Sure, if you like, though I associate listening to Led Zeppelin with visiting my grandparents: I do it because I feel I have to."
It was the last time that I ever saw my friend. At the end of that school year, Peter moved into an apartment with his girlfriend and my girlfriend—now DW—moved into mine. Peter and I lost touch, and with him, so did Keith and I.
But a few years ago, I received an invitation to connect with Keith through LinkedIn. I accepted the connection and reached out, but I didn't hear back from him. In fact, there was very little activity and almost no information about him from his account profile, so I assumed that he had created his account but never got into the habit of using it.
In truth, I don't really use my LinkedIn account very much, either.
Keith has never left my thoughts. A few years ago, I remembered an accident that I had when I was young, and how Keith had been there to help me. I wrote a blog post about it, remembering how he had remained calm throughout the ordeal, though I was bleeding profusely.
A couple of weeks ago, I received a LinkedIn notification from Keith. He told me that he had been following The Brown Knowser through the automated notifications that I post on that social-media site and that he wanted to reach out to me, providing his e-mail address in the message. I responded immediately, gave him my phone number, and told him to reach out to me any time.
He called about a week later.
The phone call was short, as Keith had another obligation that evening. But we did speak for about a half an hour. I felt like I had blathered on and feared that I'd never hear from him again. But when we spoke to each other, if felt as though time hadn't moved—though, in reality, it had been almost 30 years since we had heard each others' voices.
I look forward to more conversations.
As I said at the start of this post, when I make friends, it's a lifelong commitment.
