How it all Began

I’d say I was probably born with wanderlust. When I was ten years old, my parents were divorced and my Dad took a transfer to Bermuda. My younger brother moved there with him and would tell me all about this strange and magical place he was now living in. The island was only one mile wide, he said. Well, in the United States, that’s the length of some people’s driveways! And thirty-six miles long, I think he said. Well, that’s not much – only to the next town! He told me it was an island surrounded by ocean (“wow!” I thought.) and there were coconut trees and everything! Having grown up in freezing cold Minneapolis, I could only imagine what a coconut tree looked like. This place, Bermuda, must be truly magical. He said that he and Dad went sailing every weekend (another “wow!”)

and that there were near-zero cars in Bermuda. This, to me, was unfathomable. If there were no cars, how did the people get about? How did they go to the store to buy their groceries? How did they go to school and work? My brother said that everyone had either a bicycle or a moped. My Dad explained that because the island is so small, there is no room for big cars on it and that since the weather is generally nice, mopeds work just fine for people. I was amazed. This little place surrounded by lots of ocean and having no cars sounded truly wondrous. And then my brother blew my mind. He told me that he was the only white kid in his school.

Tilt. If the kids aren’t white, what are they? I thought Martians only existed in fiction! He said all the kids in his school had black skin and that he was the only white kid.

Having grown up in white, suburban America, up until that point in my childhood I’m not sure I’d ever seen a black kid before. And now my brother is telling me he attends an entire school full of them! What an incredible place this must be! I wanted to jump on a plane and go right there and then!

Sadly, I never got the chance. I think my mom was afraid that if she let me go, I wouldn’t want to come back. This place sounded so magical, that she was probably right.

However, I did have the opportunity to travel very soon after that, when my Dad then took a job in Ottawa, Canada. By now my brother was back home with my mother and I, but during the school holidays (vacation), we were put on a plane to go spend the summers (3 full months!) with our Dad. Every year I looked forward to this with great adventure. And Canada never disappointed me.

The stewardess always seated my brother and I in the bulkhead, where she could keep an eye on us. From there we could take a sneaky peek at the cockpit and the pilot flying the plane. My brother thought that was well-cool. We would look out the window and marvel at how the cars looked like my brother’s Hot Wheels and the houses looked too small for my Barbies.

Upon landing, we had our first taste of Customs. To a wide-eyed innocent child, the interrogation of the Customs Official was intimidating and strange.

“Are you carrying any produce?” he asked in an ominous tone.

“What’s that?”

“Fruits and vegetables.”

Suddenly I felt sick because I’d eaten an apple on the plane and I knew now that I was going to get in trouble for bringing it into Canada. I just stared at my shoes while I waited for the police to come and take me away and throw me in prison. Luckily, my brother said, “No”, and the Customs Official let us pass.

Although my brother and I had three months off school, my Dad still had to work during part of this time. Go figure. Some days we would stay at his girlfriend’s house and some days we would find our own amusement.

The first time we stayed with my Dad’s girlfriend, I remember she told my brother and I to put on our “runners” and go outside to play. Hmmmm. I knew that we were supposed to play outside, but I was a bit confused about what we were supposed to do before that. I looked at my brother who just gave me a wide-eyed shrug. So, we sat and waited for a clue to fall from the sky into our laps. When we didn’t move, Sandy again suggested that we should put on our runners and go outside. The only “runners” I knew were the carpets in the hallway and the long strips of cloth on dining tables. I was pretty sure she didn’t mean to put these on, so I was still confused. Upon asking, she laughed and explained that “runners” were tennis shoes, track shoes, Nikes.

Another day, as my Dad was leaving for work, he left some money on the dining table for us and said that if we wanted to, we could get a pizza-to-go and eat it on the beach across the street. My Dad lived in a beautiful flat overlooking the Rideau Canal and Mooney’s Bay.

So at lunchtime, we ventured out onto the street and walked down the road to Cicero’s Pizza. We asked the gentleman for a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. He looked at us strange and asked, “what?”

“Canadian bacon and pineapple”, we said.

“There’s no such thing as Canadian bacon.”

We were taken aback. “Yes there is! We eat it all the time!”

“Then what is it?” he asked defiantly.

I giggle to myself now as I remember two little kids trying to describe Canadian bacon to the pizza dude. “It’s a little round meat”, we said.

He held up a piece of every round-shaped meat he had.

“No. That’s pepperoni!” “And that’s salami.”

“Wait! It’s that one!” we yelled and pointed as he brought another tray out of the cooler.

“That’s back bacon”, he said matter-of-factly.

And I knew then that this Canada was a cool and different place.

I’ve had the travel bug ever since.