Another Brick in the Wall.

Teach a man to fish.

Basseterre, Saint Kitts – The low-slung brick wall sports a message: “No nastiness.”

As we wade through the mild humidity past downtown – where faded British phone boxes stand barren, in an apt metaphor for the former colonial state – and into the community, many walls carry similar slogans.

They call for unity, for the elimination of gender-based and sexual violence, and decry crime with crudely scrawled guns and knives. The city has the highest murder rate of any country’s capital.

Interspersed are gang tags and RIPs to fallen comrades like ‘Beat Boy.’ Like billboards to poverty, the street is filled with the disassembled jigsaw puzzles of rusty vehicles. Many of the pieces are missing, never again to be found.

Back downtown, more memories of the slow fade of colonialism and a traffic officer, who barks at me about jaywalking at an uncertain intersection.

It’s supposed to be a $500 fine. But, I get a pass.

No nastiness today.

Psalms and Palms.

Arch nemesis.

Castries, Saint Lucia – Like most, it’s a palm Sunday in Saint Lucia.

The streets are predominantly shuttered and even the steel sheet-covered Castries Market and Vendors Arcade, built in 1891, has fallen silent, apart from a few scattered tables of clothes and trinkets. The central fountain, sporting a lion's head and a mosaic basin, bears a large sign announcing "No smoking. No Spitting."

Hymns from the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, meanwhile, sway through the breeze in their best Sunday dresses.

They carry with them the colour of the islands.

All that remains is the palms, bent at the waist, sharp leaves like combs, rattling against the blue sky: nature’s percussion.

A Common Wealth.

A tasty tree-t.

Bridgetown, Barbados – The rains have come, ghosting hills that once hid buccaneers argh-mateying through the islands.

The shades of grey are a far cry from the rainbow palettes we’ve seen thus far.

Bridgetown is also one of the few ports we’ve found with a free beach nearby: pink-hued talc, a pillow under toes, ushering in the clearest aquamarine lolling to shore.

This morning, though, we wandered through the historic garrison district amidst women shelling peas and cobblers hammering shoes on cobblestone streets. Small shacks sell beer. It’s a stitch in time.

Christmas trees representing all Commonwealth nations have been sewn into the scene with lazily swaying palms. They’ve been decorated with relevant ornaments made by the island’s primary school children. Styrofoam snowmen, Mounties and hockey sticks cling to Canada’s tree.

Obviously.

For some unexplained reason, China and USA are also represented.

Yes, the latter is covered in footballs and hot dogs.

A Grave Situation.

Things are looking up.

St. John’s, Antigua – We’re greeted by steel drums, snackettes and open sewers that threaten to ensnare unaware tourists.

A few shorebirds salute lazily between equally paced clouds.

Looming above the city, perched on a central hill, stands St. John’s Cathedral – also known as St. John the Divine. Its third incarnation, built in 1847, is immediately recognizable for the two tall towers rising from its roof.

The Cathedral hangs there like a weather-beaten halo.

Over the years, its face has been pockmarked by repeated storms and earthquakes. Windows wink with missing panes.

Broken pieces lay wrinkled on the lawn: doors, shutters and marble tombstones have been stacked like jagged teeth forcibly knocked out. Most are so old family likely no longer visits.

The building’s pain is obvious, and testament to nature usually winning, regardless of faith. Crossing the threshold, however, we’re greeted by rib after rib of light wood pew in high polish.

Despite the punishment the building has endured, its heart is obviously strong.

As the Rooster Crows.

Painting the town.

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, USVI – Green bumps rise from the turquoise carpet.

They’re jewelled like Christmas trees by brightly coloured houses scattered through the hills with large, rounded storm doors.

The roads, meanwhile, are filled with so many chickens a local brewery has begun naming beers after them. Twenty or so peck around  an alley filled with grain.

It’s conveniently located next to a restaurant called the Chicken Fry.

Shop air conditioning breathes a chill into narrow alleys filled with jewellery stores sparkling with diamonds and other precious stones. They employ a variety of tactics to get you to visit.

“Did you read the news article about wearing open-toed shoes on the island?” one shopkeeper asks, striking a tone of mild alarm. A pause before we realize he’s hoping to create twinkle toes.

“Well-played,” I chuckle. But, not well enough to get me to go in.

Heading back to the ship, a mural outside a housing complex calls to save the reefs.

In what’s likely an apt metaphor, it’s peeling away, too.

In Waves.

The sea is sick.

Sargasso Sea – Blackness heaves beneath us as mountains collapse and re-form with a snarl.

We cleave through 14.5-foot waves, bringing angry exclamations in sprays of turquoise and diamonds that shatter all around.

Beauty lurks in the deep darkness, birthed from violence.

Shipping Out.

Time to alight.

New York City, New York – Setting out from the foot of the Queensboro Bridge, the pigeons are the noisiest thing breaking the morning’s silence.

Compared to yesterday, it's like biscotti crumbs falling into coffee. Sunday is our driver’s favourite to work and it’s obvious why as he careens through the empty streets like a hot knife through butter.

Yesterday’s madness around Rockefeller Center, too, has subsided, finally allowing us to get a clearer look at the window displays. It’s an easy walk across town to the terminal in the sharp cold.

Manhattan really isn’t that wide.

Climbing aboard the Norwegian Escape, however, thousands of people are suddenly compressed into limited space, luggage in tow. It’s as though we brought yesterday’s crowds aboard with us.

The dining room is enough to make an introvert’s head explode.

Leaving New York, the stars fall into the city: millions of pinpricks jointly lighting up the darkness.

With distance, the unknown begins to absorb the day-to-day, land melting into black.

Fairytale of New York.

Ready, Set, Action!

New York City, New York – An entire subway car filled with jolly Santas screeches past in a blur of red. Parents of young children will have some serious explaining to do.

On Ted! On Julie! On Marcus!

It’s the city’s official Santa Crawl and the F train in Queens is a subterranean silver sleigh carrying revellers to the gifts of the day. Above ground, brake lights melt into the decorations shining from the trees.

Fake Fendi bags have been flung across the pavement with care for those traipsing down Fifth Avenue, but unable to step inside for the real thing.

Stores have all unfurled their finery for the season: the windows at Bergdorf Goodman provide a psychedelic kaleidoscope of peppermint and cotton candy. A robot of famous robin egg blue boxes holds up the clock at Tiffany & Co. Saks adds a flourish of garland.

Christmas carriages of all varieties.

A live violinist performs in a lingerie shop window, while other stores provide passers-by with an opportunity to sing Christmas carol karaoke into microphones protruding like bird necks through the glass. A woman dressed as a toy solider stands guard outside F.A.O. Schwartz.

It’s the fathers who line up to pose for photos with her.

Across the road, saxophones echo in the archways of Central Park, clasped hands welcoming you with the smell of roasted chestnuts warmed under lightbulbs. A model poses, shivering in her whispy summer dress as the photographer waits for the right light.

Christmas season is a particular draw to Manhattan, as people seek out the romance of the city portrayed in so many Christmas movies. Between the store displays, the Rockefeller Center tree and the Rockettes show at Radio City Music Hall, however, it takes us an hour to walk a block.

Somehow, it’s always quiet in the movies.

Foul.

A monumental homerun.

Washington, D.C. – I’m greeted by the fetid smells of a humid city on trash day.

It seems I’ve been here enough the past couple years to fall into the city’s rhythms and to navigate the bustle of the off-to-work crowd and the heat alike. To know the roads well enough to know the ‘do not cross’ signal is a mere suggestion.

But, to watch out at roundabouts.

To find coffee, food and good beer (best of the lot: Churchkey).

It still doesn’t prepare me for how large my peppered salmon bagel from Bethesda Bagels is going to be – the thing must be four inches thick. Naturally, this is the one time I’ve forgotten to grab some napkins.

At least the pigeons, pecking around me with a suspicious and eager eye, will love me as I clumsily eat it in installments, first at a tiny pocket park at Dupont Circle, then at the Washington Monument. It does, however, fuel my six-mile walk to the ballpark, where I find myself surrounded by the snap of ball-to-glove and square-shaped fans clutching tall cans.

I must be getting old: I’ve opted for shade over proximity to the field of play. As the day drags on, the usher pushes the crowd farther back and under the overhang. Then, a storm brews in the distance.

For the moment, however, the only brews at the game wear jerseys like Budweiser and Shock Top. So much for the craft beer invasion.

I may have found my rhythm, but it turns out it doesn’t matter what city you’re in: baseball is still boring.

Heated.

No lower cases tried here.

Washington, DC – Sweat beads on my arm in shapes that seem to spell out how hot it is, even early in the morning.

It’s not long before I drip with a clatter against the pavement – noises lost to the sounds of the city.

Crossing the road, a man carries a half-eaten banana, a box of cookies and another freshly pressed shirt. He knows the one he’s wearing won’t make it.

A line of men with the same idea follows – this must be a drycleaner’s dream.

The city’s past, meanwhile, is reflected in countless glass structures being erected in the southern sector of the city. An old red-brick church stands forlornly, temporarily displaced into the middle of the street.

It’s hard to imagine it’s the only thing being displaced during this period of rapid gentrification.

I venture down to the East Capitol Street area, one of the district’s oldest and priciest neighbourhoods. Flowering trees form awnings over the sidewalks, but I preferred gawking at the homes in Georgetown.

As I make my way back behind the Capitol Building, though, I’m struck by how much – even with my distaste for the politics – this building, and this area, are awe-inspiring.

Quite a Row.

I flagged in the heat, too.

Washington, D.C. – Even in the full force of heat, gas lamps dance in daylight – exclamation marks framing monied porch stoops.

You can almost imagine the buxom trees surrounding them to shed $100 bills onto the walkway.

Wandering through Embassy Row and on to Georgetown is a wonder for architecture lovers, even amateur ones. There’s a history told in these pillars, alcoves and archways.

Some of these buildings are so old and tied to intrigue their stories only come out in whispers.

Many are dressed in fresh coats of paint and with modern numbers or open concept interiors that allow the timepiece to shift somewhat, but they retain the beauty of their neo-classical and beaux-arts styles.

Turning toward Georgetown, under the university’s towering structures atop the hill, a group of jovial homeless people tucked into a theatre entranceway spin conspiracy yarns about declassified CIA files. Some things never change.

I’m grateful for the canopies of foliage that shield me from some of the brooding heat. My path is drawn by closely cropped waxy greens and buckled red bricks, crooked like misplaced teeth.

Centuries of roots laid down are now trying to surface.

There’s a parallel to be found in today’s political climate in the U.S., of course.

Fin.

The heat got to this place, too.

London, ON – Much of the morning's drive through Kentucky was like climbing into a Bob Ross painting: happy little clouds dancing over green hills.

It helped we were able to make the final push home with leftovers from Memphis's famous Gibson's Tastee Donuts and from The Stillery in Nashville.

It turns out Brussels sprouts are an underrated pizza ingredient.

One province and eight states, including one new one (Arkansas), and a great time in Memphis. Down to four contiguous U.S. states I've yet to visit.

But, the car still smelled of beer.

Vitals:

• Time: 8.5 hours
• Distance: 641.9 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot (Detroit, the hottest point on the trip: 34.5 degrees), with a brief storm
• States: Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan
• Wildlife: None

The Can Can't.

How hot was it? Hot enough for Nashville Hot Chicken.

Louisville, KY – The first let loose with a crack that shot across the parking lot.
Then, another.

And another.

It's a wonder nobody ducked for cover.

How hot is it? Well, upon opening the trunk in the parking lot of a random Nashville McDonald's, four cans of beer exploded all over me, spinning on the ground in pinwheels of sweet and sticky spray.

We had wondered for several miles about the aluminum clicking sound coming from behind us.

It was as though we had pulled the pins and tossed grenades that soon rolled under the adjacent car. The kid inside must have wondered what was going on.

The car and I reeked like we were on a week-long bender.

Fourth of July fireworks, it seems, had come early.

Vitals:

• Time: 8 hours
• Distance: 641.9 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot
• States: Tennessee, Kentucky
• Wildlife: None

Memph Is Absurd.

I know I passed through Cairo yesterday, but?

Memphis, TN – Yesterday was about history.

Today, it seems, more about a theatre of the absurd.

It began with a trip out to a massive reflective glass pyramid tucked into a concrete pretzel of intersecting highways and a bridge to Arkansas.

Naturally, it's a Bass Pro Shop.

Inside, there are large pools of fish and ducks. And, of course, alligators. You can even stay in a hotel ringing the upper levels if you really can't get enough of the swamp. Don't worry: there's a bowling alley should you tire of shopping.

It's actually one of the world's 10-largest pyramids, and former home to the NBA's Memphis Grizzlies. But, it's still incredibly odd. Really, who needs a six-basket fryer with their camping gear?

Land of the Rising Sun.

We carried on to the Peabody Hotel for its twice-daily duck march. (I told you the day was absurd, no?)

At exactly 11 a.m., four ducks were escorted from their $200K penthouse (again, absurd, right?) by a duckmaster – and two honorary duckmasters, bronze duck-head canes in hand – out the elevators, over a red carpet and into the central lobby fountain. The drake didn't show today.

They'll enjoy an afternoon spent circling the marble sculptures to an adoring crowd before ducking out in the same ceremony, in rewind, at 5 p.m.

I proceeded to tuck into a shrimp po' boy at Trolley Stop Market and visit the birthplace of rock-and-roll, Sun Music, before venturing down a rapidly improving Monroe Avenue dressed with neat historical sidewalk signs describing businesses that had previously occupied the buildings.

The old Wonder Bread factory is currently being surgically rebuilt into something modern, saws sending sparks dancing into the sky.

Yesterday's history is welcoming rebirth.

Even if some of it is absurd.

Stuck in Time.

Putting the tacks in tacky, at Graceland.

Memphis, TN – There could be absolutely no question.

The day had to begin with Paul Simon's controversial classic, Graceland.

It would end, however, with live music reverberating from every corner of Memphis's legendary Beale Street. Home of the blues.

Given some of the city's history, the blues make absolute sense.

We spent the morning at Elvis's former home, sweat dribbling down my brow. Graceland is surprisingly modest in size – but in nothing else. Bedecked by green shag carpet and folded fabric ceilings, gold taps and plush white leather sofas, the house is a faded Polaroid of seventies kitsch.

But, you can't got to Memphis and not visit once.

Just incredible. Nothing witty to say about this.

By contrast, we visited the Lorraine Motel  – and the attached National Civil Rights Museum – where Martin Luther King Jr. took his last breaths in 1958. It's similarly locked in a time warp, with an old Dodge and Cadillac standing sentry beneath the balcony where he was shot. You could take a photo in black and white and few would know it was from today.

The museum visit also includes a visit to the room from which James Earl Ray took the shot that fateful day. In terms of museum concepts, it's breathtaking.

It seems I always end up at the heavy sort of museum that makes you reflect. Given how little things seem to have changed in this day and age, that may not a bad thing.

At night, live music pours out every doorway along Beale Street. So does the beer.

Snare drums of cicadas fill the trees as sighs of brass horns rattle through the humidity.

Beale Street may not be the longest, but its neon-clad bars have been witness to a disproportionate amount of music history.

It's the home of the blues in a gritty city that has seen its share of heartache.

Vitals:

• Time: 1.5 hours
• Distance: 177.4 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot
• States: Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee
• Wildlife: None

Blues & Suede Shoes.

Graceland, graced.

Hayti, MO – After an early start, we rattled along Michigan’s bone-jarring highways, zebra-striped by countless tar repairs.

To our left, a mosaic-stained hot air balloon slumped in the heat, dropping over a red barn.

It would be the prettiest thing we’d see all day.

But, not the best.

That distinction was reserved for our pit stop at the 3 Floyds Brewpub in Munster, IN, which offered tempura-fried cheese curds, brisket steam buns and Buffalo pretzel knots that had greasy bleu cheese sliding into every nook. The Battle Priest American wild ale, too, was tremendous.

We’re off to Memphis, TN, to Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum. And, maybe – just maybe – some barbeque. The city is usually described as one of the regional epicenters (with North Carolina, South Carolina, Kansas City, East and South Texas – and sometimes Alabama) of America’s love affair with barbeque.

And, I'm okay with eating them all.

As we dropped farther south, the temperature continued to climb, hitting a pre-humidex 34.5. Approaching Cairo, IL, even the clouds started to sweat.

After all these years, the gravelly voice and the mournful mouth harp of the open road continue to draw us onto these journeys.

Every bend in the road remains a question mark.

•     Time: 14.5 hours
•     Distance: 1,345.2 kms
•     Weather: Sunny and increasingly hot, with a brief rain shower
•     Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri
•     Wildlife: None

SW-Sees-Seals.

Ice cubes.

Howe Sound, BC – The cold smacks like an electric shock as we flop into the waters of Howe Sound.

Pulling away, our Sea Dragon Charters vessel belches a tobacco-like puff of smoke that tints the air before circling back with the next group of swimmers. Howe Sound may be one of Canada’s southernmost fjords, but it’s April and the water’s still only 10 degrees.

I’m thankful for the wetsuit, even as my hands begin to curl from the chill.

We’re eyed by black oystercatchers, whose long red beaks peck at the mollusk-encrusted shore. Others caw their warnings as two bald eagles drop from their perch with a thunderclap. It’s obvious a couple minutes later some form of prey didn’t heed the warning.

By now sharply awake, we glide around the corner of the rock with a gentle flick of our flippers. Countless purple, orange and white sea stars cling to surfaces above and below the water. Kelp sways into tangles at our feet.

With a splash, we’ve been spotted.

Seal's-eye view.

A herd of harbour seals shimmies awkwardly over the rock, barrelling into the sea in a series of thud-like splashes. The quake leaves a wake.

On land, these animals will never be confused as graceful; in the water, however, they’re definitely balletic.

Spotted white, brown and grey babies scamper on their bellies, unsure of where to flee the sudden intrusion. Their family members spread out into a security perimeter around us, heads bobbing in and out of the waves like maritime prairie dogs.

We bob the same, watchers being watched, all taken by the same beauty of nature: animals in an ocean playground untainted by development – just jagged, prehistoric rock scarred by the season’s snows, set against a cool blue sky.

Majestic.

Not to be Cowed.

Ben & Jerry's: eat your face off.

Waterbury, VT – After days of rain, the sun shone over the white steeple at the main crossroads in Stowe, the melt making it a treacherous walk along the river.

But, even at two degrees, the sun brought out the short sleeves.

We took a short drive to nearby Waterbury, home to Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. It may have been short-sleeve weather, but the frozen treat was a little too reminiscent of the snow still scooped over the hills.

Throughout our brief tour, the guide endlessly cracked one-liners and bad cow puns. “Let’s moove along, now,” was a common quip.

The young woman had obviously led groups more than a few times. And, may have consumed some sugar.

At the end of the tour, she explained staff receives unlimited samples and can, at the end of each shift, take home three pints. Every day.

“As full-time, we also get gym memberships and twice-annual cholesterol checks.”

The crowd chuckled.

For once, she wasn’t joking.

It's a Trapp!

In a rut.

Stowe, VT – A few intrepid birds dot the grey sky as we wake to aromas of wood smoke and mountain air. There’s a chill in the crispness as we pour ourselves coffee and stare out the large picture window overlooking the mountains.

After feasting on Dutch pancakes filled with roast chicken, apple and cheddar at the Grey Fox Inn, we bank through the mountains, fog falling in sheets thick enough to obscure the rain. Patches of sunshine are like mirages, vanishing over each rise.

By this time of year, the highways have been jackhammered by the frost, and they threaten to chew the tires off the car.

We have decided to pay a visit to Hillsboro, home to Hill Farmstead Brewery, which has been named the world’s best four of the past five years.

It’s also located in the middle of nowhere.

Pulling off the pitted and cracked main highways, we skid on the hills’ silty, rutted roads. It is, once again, a reminder it’s muddy season in Vermont. 

Even behind spattered windscreens, we can see 4x4 drivers laughing at the MINI grinding past holes large enough to engulf it. Each tentative step forward is like driving on bloated worms following a rainstorm.

The trenches threaten to swallow us; in turn, we spit mud for miles.

But, as we arrive, a creamy, salted chocolate stout – on nitro – awaits. And we’re left to admire the beauty painting itself over the hills before we head to the Trapp Family Lodge for the night.

The beer is certainly better than the journey has been.

Even if it is nearly the same colour.

Frozen Heros.

It was a Heady day.

Stowe, VT – Standing in the fog, the trees seemed like seventies tweed. Brown, everywhere.

Below, soft mounds of snow clung to the crevices, a season’s receding hairline on the rocks of the Canadian Shield.

And now, the U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent, perched in his kiosk, boomed: “Welcome to the United States” with a big smile. As he offered travel tips, it quickly became apparent he hadn’t had the busiest of days.

“Ah, Vermont! I was there last week. It’s lovely.”

While the crossing is into New York, you can literally see Vermont from where he sat. I’d imagine he’s there most weeks – but, he was a riot.

Five minutes of small talk later, he actually seemed saddened to see us go.

We wove through North Hero and South Hero and on to Stowe, where it’s apparently mud season. Snow, now like smoker’s teeth, lies clumped in the bush as we pull into the historic Stowehof for the night.

But first, the real reason for visiting Vermont: beer at the Alchemist and cheese, this time in the form of Bayley Hazen Blue cheese balls at Doc Ponds.

And here I thought I couldn’t stand blue cheese.

Vitals:

• Time: 9.5 hours
• Distance: 959.3 kms
• Weather: Fog, rain.
• Provinces/States: Ontario, Quebec, New York, Vermont
• Wildlife: Deer

No Words.

'Forever Bicycles' – Ai Weiwei

Anti-Inflammatory, Please.

Austin, TX – A sting followed another.

Then, a general burn.

Individually, I could barely see them, but a blanket across my arms began to move like a hazy vision. Wandering through the beautiful University of Texas at Austin campus, I suddenly found myself covered by tiny red ants.

Fire.

Fire ants.

Apparently, they're a huge issue down here. It turns out I shouldn’t have put my bag down into the foliage to remove my shirt as it warmed.

Hook ‘em, ants?

Rock the Taco.

The nosh pit.

Austin, TX – Having ambled across the highway, we’ve arrived at an empty bar, blacked-out behind wall-to-wall curtains. A shaft of daylight from the front door creates the spotlight.

Sparse, fold-away tables make hyphens across the empty dance floor as a pair of golden balloons flutter lazily from the stage. It’s only 5 p.m.

Outside bar hours, it seems the North Door becomes a makeshift dining room for Pueblo Viejo’s customers. After a long conference day not eating, I welcome the paper baskets dressed by double-wrapped tacos al pastor, smoky refried beans, chips and guacamole.

It’s a performance for the ages.

Art of the Meal.

Half a step in, twice the steps out.

Austin, TX – Choppy fences stand, half-cocked, framing misshapen food trucks, food shacks and food trailers. With strong food and art scenes, Austin appears, at first blush, to be a city focused on both palate and palette.

The sun gleams off a large spray-can mural and a silver Gulfstream – a bullet filled with tasty treats. Fresh wood smoke, meanwhile, does olfactory battle with jasmine seeping from the trees that remain unburning. The humidity and vegetal scents remind me of being in a greenhouse on a cooler day.

Neon soon begins to seep into the encroaching dusk.

A homeless man with a tufted purple wig hikes his oversized jeans and rumbles across the road in front of us like a troll keeping Austin weird.

We have ended up at Banger's Sausage House & Beer Garden. With 106 taps of craft beer to peruse as I tuck into a fragrant south Texas antelope merguez sausage, jalapeño mac and cheese and a jar of spicy pickles, how could we not?

We haven't, however, taken them up on their offer of a free tattoo of their beer stein and sausage logo.