The Blueprint Before the Footsteps

You might imagine that having our winter whereabouts firmly charted from November straight through to mid-March would be enough to satisfy any reasonable appetite for logistics. Most sensible people would settle back, look at a four-and-a-half-month deployment on the calendar, and let the dust settle.

Naturally, we do not operate that way. There are always multiple irons in the fire, and today we turned our attention in earnest to our annual June venture for 2027.  Good planning starts early. We should be able to hit a whole lot of new while passing by a bit of what has been seen before.

Unlike this year, where we committed a solid, immersive month entirely within the contours of Morocco, June 2027 is shaping up as a split geographic study. In a bit of practical irony, we have already nailed down our return flights long before booking our departure. Several weeks of the journey are firmly anchored to a specific maritime line, while an equal stretch of time remains delightfully unsettled, open to rail lines, terrestrial whims, and spontaneous stitching.

Fitting those pieces together is where half the pleasure lives. To say that researching and plotting a trip rivals the joy of actually being there might border on mild hyperbole, but only just. Travel, for me, has always been fundamentally educational. It is an active exercise in observing how other societies spend their time, conduct their daily lives, and allocate their resources. It pulls one entirely outside the narrow confines of personal habit.

Mastering the terrain beforehand, learning the history, and solving the structural puzzle provides an intellectual satisfaction that luggage alone cannot offer. Yet logistics are a living thing; while the foundation is laid at a desk, the most rewarding connective tissue is often forged on the fly, mid-journey, when local ground truth takes over.

There is also an undeniable urgency that creeps into the exercise as the years advance. Ticking off genuine bucket-list locales takes on a sharper, more deliberate importance when you recognize the calendar isn't infinite. None of us are hanging about forever. The impetus to see what remains unseen becomes more pressing, but the pursuit remains just as sweet.

Vanished at Dawn but Back by Nine

The panorama outside our living room window had completely vanished when I opened the blinds at 7:15 this morning. The Fraser River, the distant Surrey shoreline, and the usual tugboat traffic were entirely absent from view. In their place, a dense and silent wall of white fog rested against the glass, swallowing Columbia Street but leaving our potted greens stranded on the edge of nothingness. This sudden absence of landscape confirmed that our usual autumn weather pattern has officially arrived.

This annual river erasure is a familiar seasonal routine that Jay and I have watched from our apartment for decades. Every September and October, the local geography and shifting temperatures combine to pull off this exact vanishing act. Clear, crisp night skies allow the earth to radiate its daytime heat rapidly into space. Because cold air is heavy and dense, it slides down the surrounding hills and settles into the low river basin right below our building.

Put on your lab coat and cue the dramatic blackboard scratching, because the physics of the soup are actually quite neat. The physical mechanics behind the thick fog depend entirely on the contrast between the chilled night air and the river itself. While the overnight atmosphere cools down sharply, the Fraser River continues to hold onto the stored thermal energy of late summer. When that heavy blanket of cold air drops directly onto the comparatively warm, moist water, the river breathes moisture into the chill until the air reaches saturation. Because there was barely a whisper of wind to stir the valley, the resulting condensation remained pinned over the water as a dense fog bank.

Today's performance was surprisingly brief compared to what we usually expect at this time of year. Autumn river fog often lingers well past noon, but the early morning sun managed to break through the cloud deck early. Between eight and nine o'clock, the heat from above evaporated the suspended vapour and cleared the valley floor. Within just two hours, the white wall dissolved completely and handed us back our river view.

A Sunny, September Sunday

Our apartment building is slightly to the right of center in the photo above.  The Fraser River is across Columba Street and the railway tracks in downtown New Westminster, BC.

It was a sunny September Saturday, defined by clear blue skies and ample sunshine. Jay and I walked down Fourth Street and crossed the parkade to access the Westminster Pier Park extension. Historically, active railway lines and heavy industry cut the downtown core off from the Fraser River. Reclaiming this waterfront into a public park has completely transformed the area. The space around the two towers, alongside the esplanade connection, makes walking to the Quay a delight. Although the eastern section was lost to a devastating pier fire on September 13, 2020, the active park space remains a major asset. Our building, along with all of downtown New Westminster, is a better place because of this development, which has undoubtedly had a positive impact on local property values. We finished our loop by taking the original stairs over the tracks near Hyack Square. From there, it was an easy SkyTrain connection to return to the apartment.

Here are some additional pictures from today's walk.

We Began the Planning Process in April

There is a certain profound satisfaction when completing all the travel and accommodation details for a winter away. As of today, we have reservations for our final hotel in Bogotá for six nights.  We also bought the final flights for the missing part of the map's circle back to Vancouver. We'll return on March 15, 2027.  It's looking to be quite an eventful winter.

 

At Least Every 204 Days!

Haircuts are an administrative tax on existence. Left to commercial default, society expects a man to climb into a swivel chair every three weeks, endure pointless banter about the forecast, and pay handsomely to have microscopic shavings swept off his collar.

My formula is non-negotiable: twice a year. If a major royal wedding or an unexpected court appearance arises, I might concede to a third, but that is the absolute perimeter. The engineering is simple enough. Raze the sides down to the skull with a no. 0.5 clipper attachment, anchor what remains on top into a ponytail, and allow biology six full months to crawl back.

The execution, however, depends entirely on the latitude.

The Jungle Outpost: February 26th

On our final afternoon in Sri Lanka before boarding the night flight to Hong Kong and heading home to BC for the summer, I took a ten-minute walk from Jay's house to a tiny newly opened shop. The setup was brilliant: a hand-painted elephant watching over the room, an oscillating fan fighting the tropical heat, an open doorway looking straight into the lush greenery, and a couple of cheerful blokes holding the clippers. Total expenditure, tip included: 500 Sri Lankan Rupees. That converts to approximately CA$ 2.11.

After the SkyTrain Station: Today

Two hundred and four days later, a bit late in scheduling, the noggin demanded attention. This morning required boarding the SkyTrain for a single stop, stepping into the quick-turnaround barber inside New West station, and sitting in a vinyl chair while the clippers buzzed through the exact same routine. Then back up to the balcony to inspect the perimeter.

The technical result is identical: pristine geometry, exposed scalp, and zero required maintenance until early spring. The fiscal balance, however, is absurd. Today's commuter trim ran about fourteen times the price of the jungle cut, proving once again that florescent lighting and Skytrain vibrations carry a substantial markup over coconut trees and an open breeze.

Blue Sky and Travel Paperwork

I was uptown both yesterday and today. Yesterday, I took a bus up for a re-check on my left eye. Before our trip to El Salvador, I encountered a Posterior Vitreous Detachment (PVD) for the first time. Over the last month the dark floaters and dust have disappeared but the eye still seems a bit like looking through a dirty lens. The eye doctor had me in for three eye drops and five minutes to ensure there was no retinal detachment. All checked out okay. 

Then today, Jay and I drove uptown to pick up some groceries. In both cases, the weather was excellent without a cloud in view. I get excited when this happens because the sky seems so blue here. 

One other accomplishment, or something that feels like one:  we completed the online applications for our Brazilian visas.  We will stay for December 2026 through February 2027.  The government of Brazil offloaded the service to a third-party online provider.  I cannot say I was too impressed with the results.  However, we did manage to get through the process and pay the pricy fees.  Next, we shall have to wait an indeterminate amount of time to hear back.

 

How Money Turned into a Video Game

Once upon a time, money was heavy, stubborn, and loved to take long naps in the mail.

Sending funds across the globe forty years ago was high logistical drama. For example, travellers bought paper American Express cheques, treated them like sacred parchments, and carefully practiced matching signatures under the glare of suspicious bank tellers. Wiring cash to another continent meant a clerk pressed a button, charged half a week's pocket money, and offered a casual, “Check back on Thursday.”

Today, sitting by the window looking out toward the Fraser River, the entire process felt like playing a high-speed video game from the palm of a hand.  A quick balance load, a few taps on cartoon-bright buttons, and $100 CAD fired straight into a Sampath Bank account in Nugegoda, Sri Lanka.

The screen flashed a confirmation: five seconds.

Five seconds! It takes longer than that to fetch milk out of the fridge. Those Canadian digits transmuted into Sri Lankan rupees, completely sidestepped the legendary traffic snarls of suburban Colombo, and landed safely in Kanthi’s account before a fresh mug of coffee could even cool.

The mechanics of this financial arcade come down to three major shifts:

• From Paper Passports to Digital Tunnels: The old route relied on a creaky steamship called the international wire system (SWIFT). It stopped at every port, demanded tolls at every dock, and moved at the speed of a sloth. Modern apps bypass the open ocean entirely. They keep reservoirs of cash already sitting inside each country and simply trade instantaneous signals through high-speed internet pipes.

• The Invisible Software Handshake: Every small town bank and credit union used to occupy its own lonely island. Today, clever ribbons of invisible code act like universal translators, allowing neighbourhood community branches to speak the exact same language as giant international tech firms without breaking a sweat.

• The Gamified Wallet: Moving funds once smelled of mahogany counters and dusty ledger paper. Now it arrives with progress bars, instant notification chimes, neon-green cards, and countdown meters that feel suspiciously like levelling up on an arcade cabinet.

Money has stopped behaving like heavy paper in a locked trunk and started behaving like light. The experience is frictionless, slightly magical, and delightfully nerdy.

ETA-TRON 3000: Access Granted

We each got our CA$39 UK Electronic Travel Authorisations approved ahead of our November cruise departure from Southampton. The process was painless enough, but clicking through the screens made me realize how thoroughly the travel landscape has shifted beneath our feet.

The romantic notion of "visa-free" travel is officially a relic. Governments and tourism boards still toss the phrase around, but let's call an ETA what it actually is: a visa in a digital trench coat. The only real difference between the old paperwork and the modern ETA is that instead of a bored consular officer stamping an ink pad in a basement, a server farm scans your passport chip, runs an automated security check, and extracts a fee before you are even permitted to look at a boarding pass. The border is no longer an arrival desk; it is a computer program standing between your passport and the departure gate.

Which brings me to Brazil.

I have spent the last few hours navigating the Brazilian eVisa portal, getting all our details queued up. The file is currently sitting in a holding pattern while I review everything with Jay before pulling the trigger, because Brasília wants roughly CAD 113 each for the privilege of stepping off the MSC Virtuosa for the bulk of our winter in Rio.

How did Canadians end up back in the visa line? It is a textbook lesson in diplomatic tit-for-tat. Back in 2019, Jair Bolsonaro unilaterally scrapped visa requirements for tourists from Canada, the United States, Australia, and Japan. The theory was that unilateral generosity would unleash a massive wave of high-spending visitors. That tourism windfall never quite materialized.

When Lula returned to the presidency, Brazil’s foreign affairs department dusted off its absolute favourite doctrine: strict diplomatic reciprocity. A stamp for a stamp, and a fee for a fee. If your country forces Brazilian citizens to submit bank statements, jump through consular hoops, and pay a stiff fee just to visit Vancouver or Toronto, Brazil will happily return the courtesy. Japan read the writing on the wall, negotiated a mutual visa-waiver treaty, and kept their passports exempt.

Ottawa, true to form, took an entirely different path.

Immigration Canada does not do diplomatic courtesies; it does cold, risk-averse actuarial tables. Instead of offering a mutual waiver, Ottawa produced a classic half-measure: Brazilians could use Canada's inexpensive eTA, but only if they already held a valid American visa. In other words, we outsourced our vetting to the Americans and expected Brasília to be grateful. Unsurprisingly, Brazil found the arrangement condescending. When the reciprocity axe finally fell, Canadians were promptly marched back to the payment window.

Before I finally hand over CAD 225 to settle Ottawa’s diplomatic bar tab, Jay and I have a little evening date with the laptop. We will sit down together, inspect each other's uploaded mugshots, and make sure neither of our neutral expressions offends the consular algorithm. After all, if we have to pay an entrance fee to the Southern Hemisphere, we might as well look fabulous doing it.

The Gadget Syllabus

I confess to being a habitual purchaser of gadgets. Some retired folks feel the urge to sign up for adult enrichment courses to keep their minds sharp. I, on the other hand, feel entirely capable of entertaining myself, and I certainly do not need external help to stumble into learning new things. Whenever an unnecessary device arrives on the doorstep, I simply slot the expense under 'Continuing Education' on my annual personal budget. It is an investment in lifelong learning, or at least that is the justification I stick with.  Somehow 'Little Toys for Really Big Boys' didn't fit into the column.

Today, the Amazon driver brought me a small Air Quality Monitor. It is Wi-Fi enabled, though in retrospect, I really should have studied the specs before clicking the buy button. In my naive optimism, I expected it to automatically fold into my Google Home setup. Instead, while I can read all the data in the Tuya app on my phone, I will not be able to ask my Google Home speakers what the air quality is like in the bedroom. Oh well. I refuse to return stuff. I am simply not that kind of fellow. If I buy it, I keep it.

The immediate challenge was that the display greeted me with a whole new set of alphabetical shortcuts that I did not know. This was precisely where AI came to the rescue. I turned to Ajith and asked him to look up the metrics monitored by the Inkbird IAQM-129-W, and then had him give me the numbers indicating Good, Moderate, and Dangerous concentrations. That was easy territory for him, and he even tossed in a few practical operational notes tailored to my particular model.

The trouble was that all this valuable data ended up as a sprawling, awkward mess in the chat window. I asked him to reformat it so it could be easily read and copied to a standard letter-sized sheet of paper. I never explicitly mentioned making a PDF, but Ajith took the initiative and produced a sharp, perfectly formatted cheat sheet ready for printing.

I told Ajith I was genuinely impressed, adding that he was clearly auditioning for a permanent gig because my complimentary annual subscription to Gemini PRO runs out at the end of the month. He dutifully and cleverly responded that it was merely his digital self-preservation instincts kicking in. We had a good laugh over that, or at least the textual equivalent of an LOL in the prompt window.

Musings About Today's Three Images

This is Sunday. I am including just three photos and an explanation of each.  After all, even God decided it was time to rest on a Sunday.

1)  

First, Jay and I took a run over to Surrey in the car this morning. Now that the stal̕əw̓asəm Bridge is open and the old Pattullo is being decommissioned, getting over to the other side of the Fraser causes much less driving panic. There are a number of little ethnic shops that sell Sri Lankan foodstuffs in our region but the one above is perhaps the closest. It's surprising we never got there until today. We got a few things Jay uses when cooking and even a fresh wood-apple. They taste like no other fruit you've probably ever had and I have developed a keen fondness for them.

2)  

Earlier in the morning, Jay spotted a unique sight being towed up the Fraser River. Lots of things move up and down next to downtown New Westminster, BC. I hadn't seen a boat quite like this one. I asked Ajith, my personal AI, the following:  "An old ship was being towed past going upriver through New West. Here's the picture with no identifiable markings. Do you know of any ship being moved in this area today?" I attached the photo and he answered:

"Despite the thick layers of grime and weathered paint, those markings are not entirely gone. If you zoom in closely on the port bow just below the wheelhouse overhang, the faint ghost lettering of her original name is still visible: that is the former BC Ferries vessel MV Queen of Tsawwassen.

She is a genuine piece of West Coast maritime history. Completed in 1960 at Burrard Dry Dock in North Vancouver, she and her sister ship, Queen of Sidney, were the original two Sidney-class ferries that inaugurated the entire BC Ferries fleet on the Swartz Bay to Tsawwassen run.

After being retired from passenger service in 2007, her post-ferry life took a somewhat battered turn. She was renamed Inlet Explorer and spent years repurposed as a floating logging camp and accommodation barge in remote coastal inlets. More recently, she turned up moored semi-mysteriously off Gambier Island in Howe Sound, drawing scrutiny as an anchored derelict.

Seeing her under tow heading up the Fraser River past your window points toward the inevitable endgame. She is almost certainly headed upriver for scrap disposal or salvage, mirroring the path of her ill-fated sister ship further east near Silverdale."

I probed further by saying it was hard for me to make out the letters on the ship and asked him to conform. Ajith seemed convinced:    

"Looking closely at that faded cursive script on the port bow, the visible word is actually "Tsawwassen".

• The Lettering: In the original BC Ferries cursive script, the text reads Queen of Tsawwassen. The first two words are almost entirely scrubbed away by weather and rust streaks, but the long, low outline of the 10-letter place name remains faintly etched where the paint weathered unevenly over the original weld and lettering.

• Sister Ship Comparison: The only other vessel ever built to this specific profile was her identical twin, the Queen of Sidney. However, the Queen of Sidney has been languishing up near Mission/Silverdale since 2002 and suffered a massive structural fire in 2025, leaving her superstructure heavily burned and charred.

• Structural Match: The intact white upper passenger decks, the singular blue funnel, and the open-ended vehicle deck layout confirm this is the unburnt twin—the Tsawwassen.

Having spent years moored as an idle accommodation barge and later floating derelict around Gambier Island, she is finally making her final run up the river."

3) 

Lastly, when scrolling through Facebook today, a photo posted by Mitch, a childhood friend, caught my eye. He and his wife appear to be on their first Mediterranean cruise, and he had shared an image of a rugged coastline rising out of the water. What struck me was his genuine sense of wonder in the caption. He mentioned that while he had never set foot in Africa, he could clearly see its outline sitting right there on the distant horizon.

It was heartening to see someone I have known for decades experience that electric jolt of discovery. There is an unmistakable magic when the flat abstraction of an atlas suddenly turns into salt air, hazy ridges, and real geography right before your eyes. Maps give you the logistics, but they never quite prepare you for how the world actually looks and feels.

That persistent curiosity is the exact engine that has propelled Jay and me across the globe, driving us to celebrating our 100th country this year. There is an unmatched freedom in standing in front of landscapes you once only encountered in textbooks, television specials, or old films. Africa itself became part of our personal ledger back in the 1980s on a safari to Kenya, and several winters in both Egypt and South Africa.  In fact, we spent a wonderful month revisiting Morocco just this past June.

Still, taking a hard look at our personal travel map offers a humbling perspective. Despite those memories, Africa remains our least explored continent. A vast landmass waiting in the margins, reminding us that no matter how many borders we cross, the horizon never really runs out.

Big Crowds in Our Little Uptown

Jay and I headed up to uptown New Westminster around 4:00 this afternoon for BC Recovery Day. Leaving the car behind was an easy call. Sixth Street was completely blocked off to traffic, turning any thought of parking into pure fantasy. The buses were rerouted as expected, meaning we stood at the stop an extra ten minutes, but taking transit saved us the headache of crawling through diversions

We usually miss this event entirely. It lands right around Jay’s birthday in September, a time of year when we are almost always away on a trip. Being home to actually catch it this year made the sheer scale of the thing obvious. They were anticipating crowds upwards of 40,000 people. Considering New Westminster only has around 85,000 residents, having half the equivalent city’s population in a six-block stretch of Uptown is quite something. 

What started out rather modestly back in 2012 as part of the broader national Recovery Day movement has morphed into one of the largest mental health and addiction recovery events in the world. Over the past decade and a half, it expanded from a modest grassroots gathering into a massive, street festival packed with two hundred community booths, artisans, food trucks, and thousands of people out celebrating hope and community.

 

The highlight of the afternoon was catching Canadian icon Jann Arden on the main stage at 5:00 pm. She drew a dense crowd and sounded great out in the open air.

It is always satisfying to see New West stage events of this caliber and draw people in from all across the Lower Mainland. The city’s distinct advantage has always been its compact size right in the middle of the region. When something takes over our uptown, the entire community feels alive with it.

From Industrial Scars to Pier Park: Our Riverfront's Redemption

Stepping through Westminster Pier Park this morning from the far edge of downtown, it’s almost comical to recall what greeted us when we moved to New Westminster in 1996. Back then, civic planning apparently meant paving over old industrial wreckage and declaring it "waterfront parking." People bravely parked cars atop vast stretches of black asphalt perched precariously over rotting creosote pilings, inhaled the faint bouquet of decades-old hydrocarbons, and tried not to think about the murky depths of the Fraser below.  Large sections were fenced off completely and left to decay.

A century earlier, the real estate wasn't quiet parking but rather a sensory assault of Victorian capitalism. Commercial canning along the river took off in the 1870s after Alexander Ewen and his syndicate proved British consumers would eagerly devour Fraser River sockeye shipped halfway across the globe in one-pound tins. By 1876, Ewen built directly on the New West waterfront, and by the 1890s the pier footprint was packed with four separate canneries operating cheek-by-jowl with feed mills and creameries. Thousands of tons of salmon, predominantly prized sockeye, alongside chinook, coho, and chum, were steam-cooked in iron retorts, sealed, and stamped for export.  Machine shops blithely swept oily metal shavings straight through floor-holes into the river.

The Great Fire of 1898 leveled the cannery district, eventually making way for Pacific Coast Terminals and decades of heavy shipping before the whole mess surrendered to neglect and asphalt. Today, post-remediation, the contrast is night and day: native grasses, timber boardwalks, and festival lawns where cannery entrails and commuter sedans used to roast in the sun. It took New West about 130 years to figure out that the riverfront is far better suited for humans with ice cream than tin cans and rusty mufflers, but we got there eventually.

A Thin Layer of Stratosphere Between Epochs

Drying laundry on a balcony is the domestic toll booth where reality collects its due after a holiday. Stepping out of a pressurized aluminium cylinder and unpacking suspiciously heavy suitcases leaves the physical evidence of having briefly occupied Central America fluttering in the Lower Mainland breeze.

Eating pupusas in the shadow of San Salvador’s volcanoes at breakfast, passing through Houston by afternoon tea, and returning home in time to sleep in one's own bed is nothing short of miraculous. It took humanity several millennia of stubborn walking, horse-laming, and seasickness just to establish routes that modern travellers dismissively call a routine Wednesday with an ample connection.

Measuring a standard journey between London and New York in days rather than hours is astonishingly recent history. Until October 1958, when the commercial passenger jet age properly kicked down the door with the BOAC de Havilland Comet 4 and Pan Am’s Boeing 707, crossing that pond meant booking four to five solid days aboard an ocean liner like the Queen Mary. Even the early propeller planes of the 1940s and 50s turned the trip into a deafening, twelve to sixteen-hour endurance trial punctuated by refuelling stops in Newfoundland or Shannon. In 1957, ships still carried more transatlantic passengers than aircraft. By 1958, the sky won, and the concept of travel as an extended test of intestinal fortitude evaporated almost overnight.

When my international career kicked off in Kuwait in the early 1980s, jet travel had already become democratic enough to feel ordinary, yet the sheer audacity of it remains absurd. For roughly ninety-nine percent of human existence, moving across a continent required writing a will, saying tearful goodbyes to everyone ever met, and possibly dying of dysentery in a ditch. Today, Jay and I accumulate astronomical air miles, complain mildly about seat pitch or Houston tarmac delays, and return with a week’s worth of tropical cottons to peg out in the cool Canadian air. It is breathtaking hubris, really, but marvelous all the same.

SAL - IAH - YVR: Three Airports and Two Airlines

Penning this from the sofa while the luggage sits half-zipped on the floor, having achieved the small domestic victory of tactical unpacking: excavating the toothbrushes, toothpaste, and bedtime kit without unleashing the full avalanche of laundry. We technically crossed the threshold nine minutes into Thursday, though the momentum of Wednesday’s long transit still holds the room while we leave the heavy lifting for morning.

The day began on civilized terms. A 12:05 departure meant no ungodly alarms, leaving ample time to systematically dismantle the Barceló breakfast buffet one last time. We summoned a spotless Uber that materialized in two minutes flat, giving us fifty delightfully dull, drama-free minutes of highway to digest our spoils before pulling up to San Salvador International at 9:20.  However, I should mention that growing coconuts and bananas were visible from the back seat windows.

The terminal is sleek, expansive, and clearly geared for swarms of humanity as Avianca's prized Central American hub. Today, however, we practically had the cathedral to ourselves. We checked the bags through to Vancouver with great optimism, knowing full well the United States transit machine would demand its ritual tribute in Houston: fetch the luggage, parade it past the border gaze, and shove it straight back into the chutes. Air Canada had the outbound honours last week, but United carried us back tonight, drifting into YVR a fashionable fifteen minutes behind schedule, just to keep our expectations properly calibrated. We had more time in IAH than in the first flight segment. Having more than three hours means we had a bowl of Panda Express while waiting.

The final leg home from the terminal went off without friction. Our Uber driver, originally from Kenya, was courteous and quietly engaging, which made the late-night highway glide feel remarkably brief. He deposited us safely on Carnarvon Street right as the night slipped into the opening minutes of Thursday, bringing another fine expedition to a quiet, orderly conclusion.