A Streetcar Named Desire.

A $1.25 time machine.

New Orleans, LA – The wooden car clatters over the tracks like a toy you find under the tree on Christmas morning.

Its gaping windows frame the stately heritage homes of the Garden District, which have been dressed in their holiday fineries: intricate iron fences, wraparound porches and carved doors have been festooned with ribbons and lights signalling the time of year.

Stepping onto the olive green St. Charles line streetcar, in other words, is like taking a step into history, which, in many ways it is. In operation since 1835, it’s the longest continuously operating streetcar line in the world.

A stroll down memory lane.

The cars continue to roll down a grass-lined median, hugged by gnarled southern live oaks and dotted by a splash of colour from a smattering of citrus trees. Aromas of jasmine and sweet olive hang in the humidity.

Stepping out through the louvered doors, we’re reminded of a more modern New Orleans: large tangles of beads hang from the branches – a metallic glint offering a wink to the stories that have been told here.

This is the New Orleans I wanted to see.

Vignettes from the Deck II: Feeling Blue.

Blue-light special.

Gulf of Mexico – The horizon doesn’t change: a block of blue meets one of a darker hue.

It’s as though we’re not moving, until a shapeless cloud flutters by with a wave.

No more land: just the open sea.

No more time: just the memories of blue on blue, unmoving.

I, the same.

Vignettes from the Deck I: Throngs and Thongs.

The sign in Belize was prescient.

Gulf of Mexico – Because it’s 1972, the ship still has a ‘Queen of the Seas’ contest, where eight women strut and dirty dance around the pool for four male judges.

A buxom blonde plays to the hooting throngs; another claims to have not had enough alcohol to carry-through with the task. She changes the song and suddenly has no issues thrusting her hips to the beat.

A child, meanwhile, cannonballs into the pool.

Sitting poolside, I suddenly feel a rear end twerking against my back as the latest contestant ups the ante.

Last up, an older Portuguese woman with well-lotioned wrinkles that shimmer like the sea doffs her top to the judges. The ship’s contest director jokes it has gained him a trip home tomorrow.

Naturally, she wins.

Swinging By.

Christmas in Cozumel.

Cozumel, Mexico – “But amigo, you can drink and drive,” I’m told by the dune buggy rental tout on the main drag.

Knowing that, I’ll definitely stay off the roads, thanks.

Cozumel is a vibrant tourist town, where techno meets mariachi, and where concrete dust from all the construction fills your lungs. As ever, we’re greeted by trinkets and entreaties to visit any number of stores – perhaps even more than at other stops.

Even when it’s obvious you’ve said 'no' 16 consecutive times, everyone feels they’ll be lucky number 17 to elicit a ‘yes.’ It’s a lively spot.

We amble up the coast past a ship run aground and past rocky beaches that have drawn a few snorkelers bobbing in the surf. Languid palm trees curve over bright hibiscus bushes.

Painted into a corner.

Down a quieter back street filled with restaurants and quaint hotels, the air is filled with aromas of baking bread. The sun, meanwhile, has begun to heat up with the intensity of a bucket of chili peppers.

Stopping by Habaneros Bar & Grill, we sidle up to the bar, and onto swings suspended from the ceiling. The beer is cold, and the habanero sauce accompanying the guacamole is hot. Perfect, in other words.

Today, I’ll stick to swinging, rather than driving.

Can You Belize It?

Shabby chic.

Belize City, Belize – Following a 20-minute tender to shore, we are greeted by the storm-beaten planks of tilted houses, bleached and encrusted in salt.

Others are brightly painted masks of the evident poverty. As is so often the case, the port is a party, the town, a separate world.

But then, a large bank of clouds breaks into a smile.

It would be the same from the locals.

A country with a porpoise.

A former policeman points us to where we should explore at the back side of town. Another, sporting a curly beard, spouts local history, hoping to take us on a tour and share his evident knowledge. Prince Charles Perez is apparently a local fixture and goodwill ambassador for Belize, a fact later confirmed online.

A shopkeeper drops the price on a couple local Belikin beers as he lifts the tops for us, and we spend a half hour speaking with a very talkative woman in a spice shop.

Despite the country’s reputation for violent crime, this has easily been the friendliest stop on the trip.

Town and Country.

All around the world, Coke is it.

Santo Tomas de Castilla, Guatemala – Lacy mist hangs over the hills as the sun rises in hazy oranges.

Pelicans flock around small fishing boats, their shovels at the ready.

Walking into town, we are faced by green hills, crowned in white, towering over brightly painted, low-slung buildings that could, from a distance, appear to be flowers painted into the foliage. The greasy air, however, smells of fry oil.

As we wind through town and into the country, we’re regularly greeted by the more Italian-than-Spanish “Buon Dia,” and a tour from the ship rumbles by in a trolley. They wave, later expressing surprise we had ventured out on foot. Why wouldn’t we?

Perro, in peril.

Taxi horns punch the air, seeking fares as motorcycle after motorcycle rattles past; on one, a toddler stands between her parents. Catch-all shops, still barred at this hour, keep us from 1980s-vintage casino kiosks, while young women make tortillas over steel drums set alongside the road. It’s breakfast time in Guatemala.

Walking through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles of the local market, we fold ourselves into booths whose windows are dressed with second-hand clothes, vegetables, sausage links and other fresh cuts of meat. Not a square inch is wasted, as roosters peck under woven baskets underfoot. The air is ripe, but it doesn’t make me hungry.

It was an experience, however, for which I had a thirst: it has been nice to get out from the cruise crowd and its affliction with trinkets and Bubba mugs of rum.

It was a good morning.

Leave a Tender Moment Alone.

The tiny sliver of Honduras we saw.

Roátan, Honduras – Roátan’s green hills lie just beyond our reach.

Instead, we’re stuck in the ship’s atrium, watching the bulbous characters of Wii bowling awkwardly swing their arms on the big screen. Christmas decorations and tropical renditions of carols – Auld Lang Syne on xylophone, anyone? – stand out against the morning heat.

The swells are wreaking havoc with the lifeboats that are to serve as our tenders because another ship beat us to port. Safety trumps all, as it should. And, we're on vacation.

Now we wait, having stood in line for 90 minutes for a pass to disembark today.

We still ended up with only the fourth boat.

We have nothing booked, so it’s not a big deal for us, although we had talked about taking a taxi to Bananarama Dive & Beach Resort to snorkel the barrier reef. Time is too short at this point.

Oh well, the deck attendant keeps coming by to take drink orders.

A Ray of Sunshine.

Hey, I'm Ray.

Georgetown, Cayman Islands – Waves rise, unique like the snowflakes falling back home.

Just like these moments, they shift and are gone, never to be repeated.

We had to tender to shore this morning, but only received a pass for the eighth boat – we should have lined up earlier. Snorkels in hand, we talked our way onto an earlier tender as we didn’t want to miss the one excursion we had booked.

Especially to Stingray City.

Pulling toward shore in Grand Cayman, it is easy to get lost in the sea of jewelry before us: bands of jade and turquoise spread as far as the eye can see as depths of the crystal waters vary.

Something fishy going on; where are my friends?

Beneath the waves, a neon disco comes to life as the brightest-coloured fish dance past. Dark ones with thin blue stripes down their backs appear as if under black light as I climb down into the brain coral and sea fans. Swirls of orange, yellow and purple pirouette past my mask, which serves as a window into a new world. This is my kind of party.

A large leopard-spotted grouper tucks itself away into a crack, too large to conceal itself completely.

A massive female stingray glides past at the sandbar, gracefully displacing the water around her –  such a ballerina of the seas. More arrive, sploshing themselves onto my hip as I offer squid. Eventually, more than 25 of them flop against us like rubbery wetsuits, their long stingers trailing harmlessly behind. After a kiss and a rub, they slide back to the shimmering sea floor.

I always wrestle with the ethics of experiences like these, which alter the animals’ habits and habitats. But it was a blast.

And I’m reminded of how much I love the sea: silence and beauty.

Mayan Ruins.

"I'm searching for the lesser-known Mexican Buddha."

Costa Maya, Mexico – The sea air, brined in salinity, lightens. The tickle of a breeze offers a whisper against the heat.

Our first port is the purpose-built town of Costa Maya. Build it, and the cruise ships will come, apparently.

It doesn’t mean they should.

The port itself is a theme park of manufactured culture and Chinese trinkets that try to nod to history and to tourist dollars alike: shelves are filled with Mayan masks and sugar skulls.

All are emblazoned with American sports team logos.

It’s almost as though this is the only way we could possibly appreciate another culture. In the distance rests what appears to be a Mayan temple. Water slides protrude from all angles like octopus arms.

Meanwhile, three ships of bleached and beached tourists converge upon the pool at the village's centre, tall plastic palm trees of alcohol in hand. Bars are set all around.

It’s just like being on the ship.

Engulfed.

Making waves.

Gulf of Mexico – The sea rolls by like a reel.

Fishermen, too.

The wind winds in waves as we wake in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, the sun rising in the colour of flamingo wings. It’s warmer, but gusty.

Hypnotic waves follow the churn behind the ship, dissolving into turquoise set against an endless horizon of blue. I keep waiting for dolphins.

And, I'm left thinking of the snow-crowned conifers from one of the absolute best days of my life, 16 years ago today: happy birthday to my favourite young lady. This day's weather is quite a contrast.

Pulling forward, clouds become tinted by our chimney stacks, leaving them yellowed like nicotine-stained teeth. It’s hard not to think of the environmental price of my relaxation.

As waves scatter like static, the beauty in isolation, however, is astounding: we are but a ripple in a giant blotter of blue.

Afloat.

Works for me.

New Orleans, LA – Night oozes over the Mississippi like an oil spill, the shore twinkling like a string of Mardi Gras beads.

With it, a chill, despite only being 5 p.m.

Our ship was 90 minutes late leaving port due to traffic on the river, but we’re finally underway. Naturally, we arrived painfully early to climb aboard.

At least we have a glass of sparkling wine.

Morning in New Orleans was about decisions: The Ruby Slipper Café is known for its eggs Benedict, prepared several ways. The Peacemaker came to the rescue: one biscuit covered in Applewood smoked pork, another in fried chicken. And, naturally, buttery Hollandaise sauce, which is usually something of which I’m not a fan. So smooth, and so rich.

New Orleans is about eating, isn’t it?

“Laissez les bons temps rouler” goes the local expression – roller bags clacking over the broken pavement, we do just that.

Ships ahoy.

Hola, NOLA.

Dancing in the streets.

New Orleans, LA – “Braaap!”

We’re greeted by blasts of brass horn and a storm of powdered sugar as we arrive in the French Quarter.

It turns out visiting the famous Café du Monde offers a far different whiteout from what we experienced during yesterday’s drive. Tables and chairs are slicked by remnants of confectioners’ sugar peaked onto still-warm beignets and subsequently caught on the breeze.

Fattened crows, pecking at the ground of the outdoor café, are thrilled.

Stepping into the elegant Omni Royal Orleans is like stepping into history, as is anywhere in the French Quarter, where ornate iron railings and wrap-around balconies frame art galleries and bars – lots of bars. These days, it seems some of this history has been perverted by neon and cheap Chinese trinkets, but beauty lies behind the troubling evidence of rampant addiction and homelessness.

On cue(s), a man staggers by as if he has wooden legs. It's still early.

But, N’awlins is known for its soul, expressed through food, art and music.

VooDoo like to come in?

Brass bands fill the squares, kept in tune by the rat-a-tat-tat of snares, as we tuck into the back of the Erin Rose and into a one-table room with the trappings of many years of bartending: an old Miller High Life sign rests in a retired brick fireplace. Something tells me it’s not the only thing lit in here.

But the grilled shrimp po’ boy sold under the flag of Killer Po’ Boys – logo: skull and crossed baguettes – is tremendous.

Later, neon catches fire as we wander down Bourbon Street, and into the famed Carousel Bar, which installed an operational merry-go-round in 1949. At least I can blame the rotating bar seats for my world spinning.

The stars, meanwhile, have been replaced by the twinkle of tiny white Christmas lights wound through the trees and over the balconies. One is festooned with "Peace, Y'all."

In the distance, a trumpet sounds mournfully.

Monochrome.

White-knuckle driving.

Romulus, MI – Wolf eyes flash red on the bone-bleached horizon as winds curl in crystals over the vacant fields.

Winter has struck.

With better lighting, I’d imagine the air hanging over the highway would make a dazzling chandelier. Instead, the speed limit sign reads like the bottom line of an optometrist’s visit.

Still, shivering branches reach through the ghosts, beckoning us toward our vacation. The sun, however, is but a button, muted, as I whistle along to St. Vincent.

Starting tomorrow, some colour.

Clothed for the Season.

No beach bums today.

Vancouver, BC – The shiver set in as my bones chattered, my eyelashes long with drops.

The rain hasn’t stopped all day.

We rented a car and headed across the city to the University of British Columbia, which is perched atop a hill. Thunderbird is certainly an appropriate mascot.

I had planned to find a comfortable spot to sit with a coffee, but opted instead to open the curtains of the storm. Wandering first through the Mall, I decided I couldn’t resist taking the trek down 500 leaf- and pine-needle-strewn steps, slick from the morning's deluge.

After all, how many university campuses have nude beaches on their fringes?

Wreck Beach is not only Canada’s busiest beach, it’s North America’s largest naturist beach. The university campus peeks over the hill with a half-closed eye at bathers below.

Not today – not with this chill.

A lone, grey heron stands at the shore, feathers slicked, before evaporating into the mist.

I can’t wait to get these wet clothes off.

Just not here.

Ashore Thing.

Bet you didn't see the hard place.

Vancouver, BC – The sea comes to bear on the land, beneath clouds seemingly low enough to fleece: swatches curl in broad strokes as the sea roils.

The air is briny – pickled and punctuated by pungent wet cedar. If only I could bottle this moment as a cologne. Still, the Stanley Park Rose Garden bursts with end-of-season colour and, with a whistle of wind, spruce-tipped mountains unveil themselves to us.

As we return to the Stanley Park Seawall, blue washes over the sky. White caps, however, continue to gnash at our feet. The day's breath lurks coolly in the shade, melting in sunlight.

Nearby, a rainbow forms in front of Lions Gate Bridge.

It's thirty-thousand steps around the park before curtained skies welcome us back from the edge of nature and the heart of bliss.

And, inadvertently, onto to the set of the television show, iZombie.

No, I’ve never heard of it.

Two Vans.

You seem to be missing a W, Internet.

Vancouver, BC – Near Hastings and Cambie, artists set blue tarps against the drizzle.

Most is much less art than it is livelihood.

Tired chain link, unlinked, leans before moping gardens, the morning grey only mildly resisting the haphazard curls of spray cans.

Ashen faces are etched hollow by addiction. Many barely conceal their activities: a man, hunched over in a wheelchair, shudders with his hand outstretched.

Instead of coins, pills offered fall into it.

And yet, here I sit, tucking into a delicious Ruben Eggs Benedict at Jam Café. Delicious, but a reminder of my good fortune. Around the corner, the Gastown steam clock – one of the few remaining in the world – spouts a merry tune.

My journey carries me to Chinatown, where colours are both visual and olfactory: neon – although not what it once was, apparently – blends into dried seafood, lemongrass and fry oil. With an incense chaser.

Heading home, people and buildings alike are missing teeth, their makeup spray-painted. Reaching the west side a couple blocks away, I'm struck again by the contrast: high cheekbones set in glass.

Two Vancouvers.

Falling for Vancouver.

Pick your Flights.

Vancouver, BC – Free in the greyness of a silent morning, the sea air provides enough of a wake-up coffee.

I’ve always loved mountains and the ocean, even if my affinity for Vancouver hasn’t aligned. Heading toward The Seawall in Stanley Park, however, I am left to my own thoughts, slowly breaking like the day. Bliss.

Set against a sky cross-hatched by sailboat masts, the sun rises in golden shards. Leaves lay like stained glass: seasons shattered in my palm.

Past the totem poles and under Lions Gate Bridge, where the corn chip crunch of barnacles and banana peel viscosity of kelp welcome my footfalls. It smells of past-due pumpkin. On to Prospect Point and Slhx̱i7lsh, where the land melts into the vast expanse of the sea, dotted by bulking freightliners.

As I make my way over the bridge to Granville Island, the sun puts up its dukes against the morning chill. The sun, dare I say, has made it hot. Could this day get any better?

Such peace in beauty; such beauty in peace.

An Abridged Version.

Suspension of Disbelief.

Vancouver, BC – Even with a translucent mist brushed over the hills, Lions Gate Bridge opens her maw to a majestic view of the ocean as we emerge from Stanley Park. The weather offers a simple reminder we are entering a rainforest.


The driver of our free shuttle to Capilano Suspension Bridge Park maintains a steady patter, punctuated by oddball humour that keeps us giddy. It may just be the lack of sleep.


Making fun of unaware pedestrians, he exhorts us to stay off our phones, and to obey bike lanes, which are plentiful throughout the city: “I saw this crash with a cyclist, and it wasn’t funny. Well, it was funny to see the pedestrian’s arm all caught up in the spokes.” We shouldn’t laugh.


But.



Natural Light.

Capilano feels like an overpriced theme park ($45), despite its natural beauty, famous suspension bridge and cliff walk. Connected bridges throughout the canopy make me feel like an Ewok. Mammoth, 200-foot Douglas firs, meanwhile, loom like dinosaur femurs, bark bleached and topped by a fistful of branches.


From below, the bridge resembles a spine that connects both shores shouldering the Capilano River. Tourists sway across it.


Back in the city, sailboats stand sentry before mountains smoked in by dusk as we amble toward dinner at Lift with a couple colleagues. My mind, craving sleep, has come to resemble the rattle of crisp, fall leaves overhead.


Having awoken at 3 a.m., the three-hour change in time zones has by now rolled in with the tide.

On Track. (And Not.)

An abridged version.

New York City, New York – The humid air is heavy like my lids.

In fairness, it’s nearly midnight and it took us more than five hours to get out of Manhattan. Next, we take Berlin.

We spent the morning casually strolling down the High Line, where exhausted train tracks stitch together a series of gardens in the elevated park. It provides a new vantage to the city: vistas framed by tall grasses sashaying in the whisper of a breeze.

The sun, however, continued to bear down, casting long shadows over artworks dotting the path.

A hard turn across lower Manhattan, where we passed brunching actor, Josh Charles, and onto the Brooklyn Bridge – once the world’s largest suspension bridge. Today, it was filled with runners raising money for juvenile diabetes.

Festival fare.

Up through Chinatown, which has spread into Little Italy. We had, of course, picked the hottest fall day on record to amble through a street festival – the 91st annual Feast of San Gennaro – on Mulberry Street, which was awash in colour and the aromas of onions, peppers and sausages snapping on the grill. Other vendors had cannoli the size of my forearm.

I couldn’t even count the steps I sewed into the city's streets today. Thankfully, my pedometer did: more than 35-thousand.

Back up Broadway to gather our bags, and on to Grand Central Station to catch our shuttle once we grabbed a fun Cambodian sandwich at Num Pang.

Alas, two hours into our trip, we had gone just three blocks, surrounded by blinking lights and blaring horns – it was as if Studio 54 had taken to Manhattan’s streets. The tunnel was blocked, siphoning traffic toward the 57th street bridge. Several panicked passengers leapt off, fearful of missing their planes.

They immediately discovered subways also weren't running.

Complicating matters further, our driver decided to get into a battle of wills with an SUV. Their tires were locked in a stalemate, his studded rims hopelessly wound into hers. We wouldn’t be going anywhere until a new shuttle arrived. Finally, five hours after our initial departure: John F. Kennedy International Airport.

It’s the one time I’ve ever been happy to be told I have a multiple-hour flight delay.

Still, we won't get home until 5:30 a.m.

The workday looms far closer than I’d prefer.

No Words.

Times, Squared.

The times, they are a-changin'.

New York City, New York – The colours shimmer, even with eyes shuttered. They blink in spasms, blending with guttural hurls from below.

Falling asleep, the light show is reminiscent of shelling over Normandy.

At all hours, angry New Yorkers carry out conversations over car-horn blasts, but it’s the jackhammers that finally split my sleep with finality. It’s good to have an urban rooster. We have been staying at the Night Hotel Times Square – close enough to tan by the light of giant television screens, but far enough to still be able to get in the front door.

I feel so alive, despite not normally liking cities.

Flat light.

Filled by a fancy breakfast on the patio at Sarabeth’s overlooking Central Park, we dive back into the crowd, which flows like a school of fish: always moving and stuck together until one gets confused. A young lady in black nylons, micro shorts and a derby hat flashes a smile and hands us a paper fan emblazoned with graphics announcing the musical, Chicago. It will be useful in the 32-degree heat.

A roar rises from the other end of the square. Like a bowl of colourful, plump jujubes, it seems sports fans don very different costumes. It's Saturday morning and a set for ESPN’s College GameDay has attracted raucous football fans who stab signs into the air and chant on demand for the cameras.

A wave of cheers, and another commercial break.

We opted to line up for discount Broadway tickets as a kaleidoscope of light cascaded over the streets. While we had no plan for what to see, the fan was prescient. Half-price tickets: sixth row at the Ambassador Theater.

Just another benefit of attending one of the longest-running shows in Broadway history.

State of Mind.

Same spot, different shot.

New York City, New York – The balloon pops – the gunshots – are silent now.

But, they still reflect off the concrete like dull hammers in my mind.

It has been more than 20 years since I last visited the Empire State Building. Twenty years since an aggrieved Palestinian teacher stood beside me in a tan trench coat – short, dark hairs bristling at the nape of his neck – and opened fire into the crowd on the 86th floor, leaving a young Danish musician doubled over, fatally shot.

Others fell around him, seriously wounded.

He then put a bullet into his own head as I lay below: the slow melt of a crimson puddle at my feet in those seconds-that-felt-like-minutes has stained my memory – likely forever. Time had stopped.

For some, literally.

Twenty years to return to this place, where life was a fleeting flash for some, fortune for others. Where falling, rising and falling again held the key to future stories and the ability to make memories anew. The key to return, even after 20 years.

Same spot, then.

Where one photo is all I had to distance me from nightmares. Or clutch me to its bosom. Rest in peace, Christoffer Burmeister, who did not have that opportunity.

I had, presciently, become nauseous moments before the shooting began. The feeling returned as I took a tentative first step onto the windy deck, unsure if memory lurked around the corner, now filled by unknowing visitors.

It did, but was gentle with me.

The blood is now scrubbed away, but the memory permanent. Oddly, the spot the shooter fell still appears to be traced by an abundance of sand. Even 20 years later, the deck seems to haunt me. But I am free.

Add to this day the hollow shells of melted fire trucks and ambulances stuck between twisted steel rising like gnarled fingers at the 9/11 memorial and museum, and a visit to Ellis Island, and it has been a really heavy day.

But one to remember.

In a positive light.

Plead the Fifth.

In-spired.

New York City, NY – Morning was born early.

Mourning will come later.

The day’s grey may have been caused by clouds, or by concrete buildings reflected in the tinted sunglasses of security detail perched on every corner. Despite furtive glances, officers’ bird-like neck gestures don’t appear to make them inconspicuous.

The United Nations is in session and roads are gridlocked by long lines of NYPD cars, bikes and tow trucks framing similar convoys of blacked-out luxury vehicles. An African General in dress whites stands in contrast, a gleam of medals bursting from his ample chest.

Much like when we were in Washington D.C., Turkish security has decided to physically attack protestors. Somehow, impunity in the U.S.A.

Isn't that what travel is about?

Given heightened security, sights like the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty are apparently closed to visitors, so we wandered through Times Square, Grace’s eyes lighting up like the screens themselves. Her excitement as a first-time visitor was as easy to read.

Tracing a journey through the Art Deco line art of Rockefeller Center, we visited Saks Fifth Avenue and wound our way around Central Park. The Strawberry Fields memorial for John Lennon continues to carry with it a pall, despite a never-ending line of visitors jumping onto it for photographs.

The 30-degree heat grows hazy, yet still serves as a magnet to activity as runners blend into those sporting cardboard boxes from Waffles and Dinges sitting on park benches hyphenating the park. Bicycle touts compete for business with horse carriages as pigeons flock into buckets of feed placed before some nonplussed mares.

Around the corner, carnival music pumps from the 145-year-old carousel.

Suddenly, the day has some colour.

The Road Less Travelled.

What came first: the chicken or racism?

London, ON – The fog hangs like a veil as we drive like an arrow through the nothingness.

Having been here before, I know tremendous beauty lies behind it; we must only move beyond this early hour.

Three baby turkeys make us slalom more than the roads’ hips as we make our way past parted-out car hoods propped against crooked trees. They have been spray-painted with slogans like “Make America Great Again” and “TRUMP!” Looking at the industries folded into many of these valleys, it’s easy to see these are areas most vulnerable to some of the current government’s policies.

I can only hang my head.

A church sign, meanwhile, says it represents “a separation between church and hate,” but it’s a message missed by too many these days. Still, it restores a modicum of hope.

Beyond the 10-hour drive home, we still need to pick up our car in downtown Toronto and return the rental to Pearson International Airport, 30 minutes away. Again, thanks, Porter.

Naturally, we have arrived in Toronto just in time to be greeted by roads clogged like pipes as traffic pours into the city for the afternoon’s Blue Jays baseball game.

So tired. So much for vacation.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours, five minutes
• Distance: 782.6 kms
• Weather: Foggy, breaking to sun, with intermittent sprinkles of rain
• States/Province: Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
• Wildlife: None

Porter Fail.

Religion tends to be a little fuzzy for me.

Breezewood, PA – The peak-lined sky shimmers, translucent like vellum, layered and folded-over in Pennsylvania’s mountains, adding a depth to the panorama rising before us.

At the corners, the sky narrows in, smudging in depths of charcoal.

It’s a surreal evening on the roads.

That’s right: the roads.

After a week in D.C., we received an email alert two hours prior to our Porter Airlines flight home we had been cancelled until Monday. Yes, two-and-a-half days from now. No explanation: just cancelled. Hotels in the American capital aren’t cheap.

Looking for answers, we called the long-distance number, which doesn’t appear to work in the U.S., despite the airline servicing several American cities. Still no explanation.

Do I look angry?

We had gone for one last wander through the city – up to Embassy Row, and to Washington National Cathedral, which suffered more than $34 million in damages from a 2011 earthquake that affected the eastern seaboard – but now found ourselves on our way to Reagan National Airport to rent a car.

Our taxi driver repeatedly got lost, and twice nearly had his tires spiked trying to navigate the parking garage. I watched the clock tock toward six o’clock, thinking of the road ahead.

Meanwhile, neo-Nazis clashed with protesters two hours away, leaving a woman and two police officers dead. Get me out of this country.

We had debated driving through the night, but with the skyline’s teeth now melted into black, the winding tape before us whispering to be prudent.

Hello, unexpectedly, Pennsylvania.

Thank you for having us.

Vitals:

• Time: Two hours, six minutes.
• Distance: 200.8 kms
• Weather: Sun, rain, fog, nightfall.
• States: Washington D.C., Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

No Words.

Duck, Duck, USA.

Memorial Day.

Washington D.C. – Cicadas rub wings to their legs, adding a sonic electricity to the lush gardens serving as feather boas to the grand dames of historic houses surrounding historic Dupont Circle.

It’s a liveliness lost for most of a day spent reflective, awed and as silent as the marble and stone memorials dotting the city. Emerging at an angle from the earth, the Vietnam Memorial reads like the black pages of a phone book. Such gravitas: so many names and so much youth lost in the jungles of a country where I made very different memories.

Later, bells ring out over Arlington National Cemetery, which gleams like a perfectly arranged smile in the early morning light. A single red bouquet breaks up the repetition, like having something stuck between its teeth.

Changing of the guard has taken place here since 1937, and sentinels’ boots now clack with precision in the pin-drop silence facing the tomb of the unknown soldier.

Lincoln, Martin Luther King, FDR, Jefferson. The National Korean War Monument, with its ghost-like sculptures of faces haggard by war, seem to seep through the foliage. It’s one of the most evocative memorials I’ve experienced.

Finally, the Holocaust Museum and the Air and Space Museum.

I’ve taken more than 41,000 steps today and have still seen more memorials than I’ve taken steps.

No doubt I’ll remember both tomorrow.

I, Spy.

When the museum itself is art.

Washington D.C. – A light rain falls like a cooling mister (when the missus is away). It’s a welcome break from D.C.’s typical August heat.

In fact, the air along Massachusetts Avenue is filled with pungent aromas that whisk you away to the tropics. While the humidity has not yet awoken, you know it’s not far off. And yet, much of yesterday’s yoga gear and running shorts have been replaced by finely tailored Brooks Brothers suits and patterned dresses. For many, it’s back to the work week.

Arriving at the International Spy Museum, I’m tasked with remembering a cover identify as I slink between exhibits of ciphers, poison pens and props from the James Bond franchise: spies, real and imagined, surround us in the city most notorious for them in the world.

I passed the exit interview, but have no illusions: I would not make a good spy.

(Or would I?)

Making my way to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery after a veggie burger at City Tap House, the rains rise, smelling like a violent sea. Between an exhibit of glossy images of John F. Kennedy hang gritty portraits of war by Tim Hetherington. Folk art toys dance with plastic-wrapped arcade games ready to be unveiled for a future exhibit. Should they still be operational, the noise in these gilded halls will be deafening.

Sculptures appear to dissolve into the air. The artist breathed essence into breasts, soft in life, yet hardened in marble. Youth has been captured for an eternity: she is, as then, unknown – not aged, but unforgotten.

Around a corner, Sylvia Plath’s childhood ponytail wraps around sheets of her words and sketches in ink, bled onto pink paper. Never a fan, I become one.

Following the pixelated path home through the sky’s deceit, homeless men rise from blankets tucked into the corners, tapping on smart phones nicer than mine.

This is a connected era. Plath’s typewriter absorbed enough pain.

D.C. in Silence.

Give me a 'capitol' W.

Washington D.C. – The streets remain dormant on Sunday morning: my only companion is the fetid stench of trash day as I make my way down Connecticut Avenue.

It’s early, though, and the pavement of this historic city is as yet unpainted by footsteps. That will soon change.

It’s like President Trump (which still feels strange to type) has taken everyone with him on his 17-day vacation. (Or, they’ve run away, exhausted by the early days of his tenure.)

Or, perhaps everyone is at church – apart from those less fortunate, lying supine on benches lining the parks’ boundaries. While it’s still comfortable out, you know the humidity is parked around the corner, engine running.

The National Museum of American History, hit at the heat of day with crowds of cellphones snapping, is a bit of a disappointment. I must have missed some of the most interesting exhibits. Perhaps I had just tired of no longer having solitude.

At the Newseum, however, silence.

Visitors stare at the antenna that stood atop the north tower of the World Trade Center prior to 9/11. Only the tinny, looped newscast echoes, replaying the horrors of the day.

So ingrained, they do anyway.

Signs of a Road Trip.

Casey Rocks, Big Time.

London, Ontario – Cruising through Illinois, the billboard proclaimed: “If you lived in Greenville, you would be home by now.”

It was, unfortunately, placed directly in front of a prison.

We had awoken early to a cool morning, having spent the night at a converted, centuries-old barn outside St. Louis. The smell of wet peat hung in the air and wispy fog clung to the trees before sinking into the valley. It was a gorgeous day for the route home.

Farther east, signs called for us to stop in Casey, Illinois, which bills itself as being home to “big things in a small town.” True to its word, we soon came upon a 56-foot-tall wooden rocking chair and a functioning 54-foot-tall wind chime. Naturally, we gave it a ring, sending a deep baritone cascading down Main street.

Friendly townspeople appear to take pride in their quirky town, pointing us on to the next “big thing.” It’s home to seven world’s-largest items – including mailbox, wooden shoes and golf tee – which have all been manufactured in Casey. In all, there are 13 ‘big’ attractions to see.

It’s a road trip – when faced with a 10-hour drive through the prairies, how can you not stop to see the world’s-largest anything?

After 3,772.7 kilometres, home.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours, 15 minutes
• Distance: 1,124.5 kms
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• States/Province: Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario
• Wildlife: Deer

Deep 66ed.

Film at Eleven.

Eureka, Missouri – Chasing an unknown nostalgia past parted-out cars, Art Deco motels and an old drive-in theatre, we attempted to trace some of historic Route 66 through Missouri this morning.

It was an unanticipated detour, but part of the fun.

Having not planned it, however, we ended up heading west, held up behind a pod of bicycles who appeared to know far better where they were headed. Just not quickly.

Today, the route consists of several broken stretches of the old highway, making the coloured lines on our not-to-scale map as useful as a scattered pile of Pick Up Sticks. Chasing ghosts can be like that.

We had spent our time in Tulsa visiting the Center of the Universe, admiring the Art Deco architecture, stopping in on the Golden Driller – the fifth-tallest statue in the United States – and enjoying some extremely good food and beer at Prairie Artisan Ales. Somehow, we turned down the opportunity to stay for a beer and music festival put on by Hanson. Mmmhops, anybody?

Instead, we are homeward bound. You could tell the delirium of being on the road this long was hitting us when, as day’s end approached, we saw signs advertising the Uranus Fudge Factory.

The small complex alongside Route 66 – inexplicably composed of a tattoo studio, general store, gun shop and burlesque hall – is reminiscent of a much smaller, yet equally irreverent Wall Drug in South Dakota. “Uranus is expanding. Please excuse the mess,” read the sign on the door.

These utterly random encounters are the moments for which road trips are made.

Vitals:

• Time: 7.5 hours
• Distance: 649.8 kms
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• States/Province: Oklahoma, Missouri
• Wildlife: None

Sooner or Later.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not...Oh, wait, yes we are."

Tulsa, Oklahoma – Rugged Kansas hills form the strong jawline of the farming community. Leaning barns with crooked slats, meanwhile, appear to grin with mouths of jagged teeth.

The journey was far greener, and hilly, than I had expected.

It was a peaceful day cruising along a single-lane road into an endless sky flecked with fluffy white clouds that tapered into infinity. Flipped-up reflectors lined the centre of the dark asphalt like Post-it Notes. Knocked loose, many lay scattered across the road as though a gambler had flipped a giant table full of shiny cards.

Juiced-up pickup trucks spat gravel at a middle-of-nowhere gas station, pulling out of the parking lot with a shudder. I couldn’t compete with a young lad’s belt buckle, which was large enough to serve a Thanksgiving turkey.

Heading toward Oklahoma, tall iron gates marked the entrance to vast farms spotted with cows. Scattered between, small oil derricks nodded rhythmically like rusted hobby horses, pulling liquid gold from the earth.

Typical ranch dressing.

Vitals:

• Distance: 611.3 kms
• Time: 6.5 hours
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• States: Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma
• Wildlife: None

A Journey On Track.

Training the Eye.

Kansas City, Missouri – Standing in Kansas City’s historic Union Station, you can almost hear the ghosts of steam engines rattling past.

You can almost feel the bustle of tweed-capped travelers and of soldiers heading to war. It’s easy to get lost imagining the story behind the scuffs and nicks in the marble floors.

Built in 1914, the Beaux-Arts structure was the second-largest train station in the United States at the time. It is now mostly an event, education and community space, having mercifully been rescued from the scrap heap during the 1990s after being abandoned a decade previously.

It was here in 1933 infamous bank robber Frank Nash and four law enforcement agents died in a hail of bullets in what would become known as the Kansas City Massacre. As a result, all FBI agents would be armed for the first time.

The train bells now? They come from a room full of model trains of all sizes, which wind their way through a variety of landscapes framed by lit buildings and the trappings of rural towns.

The Great Hall’s towering 95-foot ceilings, however, continue to swallow visitors. There’s an irony in something so grand now housing something so small.

But, at least it still allows the past to whisper.

Archievement Unlocked.

I MI-SS-I-SS-I-PP-I See You!

Columbia, Missouri – Tornado warnings swirl through the verdant hills around the University of Missouri.

Wisely, we've pulled over for the day.

Earlier, though, it was the murky waters of the Mississippi that twisted beneath us as we played tourist on one of St. Louis’s riverboats – its large wheel turning languidly in the midday heat. The muddy depths are currently 20 feet deeper than normal, leaving most of the Riverfront Trail submerged.

Tom Sawyer is reputed to have said "The Mississippi is too thick to drink, but too thin to plow." There isn't much to see on it around this area, either – unless watching industrial barges being filled is your thing. Still, there's something majestic about floating on the majestic river and returning to port, framed by the glint from the Gateway Arch.

In the backdrop, you can see the Civil War-era courthouse, which would hear the Dred Scott case in 1846 and the Virginia Minor trial that upheld male-only voting rights.

This is the St. Louis I came to see.

The burnt ends sandwich I enjoyed for lunch at Bogart’s was the St. Louis I came to eat.

Vitals:

• Distance: 234.3 kms
• Time: 2.5 hours
• Weather: Sunny and hot, with thunderstorms at the end of the day.
• States: Missouri
• Wildlife: Armadillo roadkill

Off the Wagon.

Checking Lincoln's Logs.

St. Louis, Missouri – As we pulled onto the highway this morning, spotted sparrows kicked up in the dust, backlit against the dawn. A light rain made a kaleidoscope of the windshield.

Soon, though, the day's swelling humidity melted the clouds, dripping them onto our skin. It would eventually reach 32.5 degrees as we threaded across middle America.

We found ourselves distracted by a billboard for Boom Donuts in Kalamazooo, Michigan, but couldn’t find it. Even Google comes up short. Other roadside placards duelled for space, offering fireworks and star-pricked galaxies crossed out with a giant red X. "God Created. Period."

Welcome to the heartland.

Soon, we found ourselves perfectly timed for the opening of 3 Floyds – one of the world's top-rated craft breweries. On tap, the highly sought-after Dark Lord – a big, rich, viscous stout. Good lord. Paired with fried cheese curds and a house-cured meat plate, lunch shaped up well.

It seems I soon will, too.

The terrain around us grew as flat as the songs rolling from our tongues. But, pitted roads frequently jarred us into focus. Like ants in a line, we would end up deciding to cut across the grass median to avoid a massive traffic backup near Lincoln, Illinois. Alongside, transport trailers reversed up the on-ramps. We would save ourselves 90 minutes.

Serendipity: a detour on historic Highway 66, and a chance to see the world's largest covered wagon. Would life have been complete any other way?

With the end of the day upon us, the sun glistened off the Gateway Arch in St. Louis.

Missouri: a new state for me to explore.

Vitals:

• Time: 13.5 hours
• Distance: 1,152.8 kms
• Weather: Rain, giving way to sun and heat
• Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri
• Wildlife: None