Breadwinner.

Slang-wich.

Ottawa, ON – Construction trucks groan through Little Italy, their bellies full.

Mine begins to rumble.

When I arrive at Sanguiccio Deli-Café, a single table is set in the sun-tinted shadow of a red umbrella. A woman taps at her laptop, framed by angular stairs leading into what appears to be a house.

It's unassuming in a way so many of the best restaurants tend to be.

This afternoon, I'm meeting Michael, a former government friend I've not seen in years. Walking through the front door, it's immediately obvious he's been here before.

And not just once.

"Now, where did I put my pen?"

We're greeted with warm handshakes from proprietor, Genio Ienzi, who comes out from behind a shallow bar brimming with fresh vegetables, kitchen utensils and a tall, steel carafe of wine. Pots and pans hang from the walls like bangles. Stacks of plastic crates hint at the jars of sauce inside.

A bowl of freshly cut tomatoes winks as though it contains rubies. 

Genio ushers us into the back room, literally showing us behind the curtain.

Jerseys, tacked to orange and blue walls. Yet more pots and pans. A plastic bag brimming with the day's order of football-sized eggplants. "Parmigiana?" I ask. That hadn't been the plan, but now will be.

Genio clears the remains of his kitchen prep from the solid dining room table that dominates the room. He gives it a thorough wipe, despite our protestations.

"Well, I do everything here," he says, eliciting a wink and chuckle from the two of us.

And a smirk and hint of mock horror from him.

Chef's Table.

He comes back to show us a massive steak he'll be preparing for guests tonight. Wood smoke has already begun twirling airily through the door. The lightly peppered slab will become Bistecca alla Fiorentina in several hours.

Tumblers of wine appear as we await grilled sausage and rapini on crusty rolls. This isn't a grab-and-go sandwich shop, which gives me and Michael a chance to weave together stories from the past few years.

No, no: everything here is homemade, and with care. 

Including the stories.

"Here, try this." A small bowl with some eggplant and mushroom.

"This, too." A couple pieces of freshly grilled lamb, with a hint of finishing salt.

Tin cups of espresso. 

For a moment, this humble sandwich shop carries me back in time, to reading some travel writer's recollection of the best sandwich he's ever eaten, down some small alley in Italy. 

Of course, it had to be down some small alley.

With a single table, set in the sun-tinted shadow of a red umbrella.

No Words.

The Other Wreck Beach.

Training to be an artist.

Whistler, BC – A deep breath of cedar, unfamiliar.

My nose wrinkles.

It's greeted by forest air painted in incongruous colours.

Aerosols drip on the slight breeze, becoming stronger as we cross the suspension bridge over the roaring blue rapids of the Cheakamus River.

There, twisted between spindly trees, lie seven abandoned boxcars – the remains of a 70-year-old train wreck. They're awash in colour, having acquired a generation of artists' fresh paint.

And apparently, new life.

Today, a class of schoolkids stencils fish onto the sides of the mangled wrecks.

It's a stark juxtaposition: serene nature, dotted by grotesque blocks of man-made steel, now covered by two-dimensional representations of fish that swim just feet away.

So often, there's joy to be found in the unique and the unexpected. 

Even after a morning spent driving along the Sea-to-Sky Highway, through the mountains to Whistler and into Shannon Falls and Brandywine Falls, it is by far the day's highlight.

After all, the extreme beauty of those sites had already been foreseen.

See Wall.

Get otter here.

Vancouver, BC – A dryer tumbles in the distance.

As the seaplane banks overhead, the sound becomes more of an air raid siren.

Regularly taking off and landing just off shore, the small commuter planes provide the city a rhythm and a pulse.

Joined by my new friend Bill, who has never been to the city, I've headed out to the Vancouver Seawall, which frames Stanley Park. The world's longest uninterrupted waterfront path is easily my favourite place to visit here.

Sea lions bob in the distance – or are they floating logs? 

We play this game until our eyes become better accustomed to the ever-shifting waves.

Definitely sea lions.

A lithe otter slithers to shore, a flounder-like fish flipped over its lip.

But today, no whales. 

Lately, pods of orca have crested like oily crescents under the Lion's Gate Bridge and people have seen a gray whale basking in English Bay. 

A man on a jet ski obviously didn't, flipping over it this morning. Both appear to have survived. 

Twenty kilometres vanish in a breath, refreshed by our opportunity to simply get lost in nature – interrupted only by the latest dryer, tumbling in the distance.

A Marathon Day.

Cramped.

Vancouver, BC – Super Mario wobbles past, a star bobbing atop his head.

A time is written on it.

More so, a target. 

With a weary grin, he raises his plush hands in victory as he approaches the finish line of the Vancouver Marathon. Level up.

Just over four hours have passed since 25,000 runners set out across the city, through the campus of the University of British Columbia and around Stanley Park – the third-largest park in North America. It's an unseasonably high 27 degrees in the sun. 

Now, in the final stretch, a din bends around the corner.

So does the tangle of runners' legs that follows.

A pace-setter holds high a paddle, marked 3:56. She has work to do to catch up to herself. And yet, pained faces push hard for the last kilometre, spurred on by cheering fans lining the roadways, holding colourful signs: "You are that bitch!!!"

Some jump and scream in excitement as their friends pass. They have far too much energy to have run the race themselves.

Then, three men slow and lock arms as they approach the finish line. Together.

Support. Camaraderie. An ovation.

It's oddly hard to not become emotional.

No Words.

Fiery fingers extend with a wave, in a wave.

Back to School.

King’s Wharf, Bermuda – The coral is over-punctuated with iridescent commas, shimmering in blues and yellows.

I'm absorbed in a swirl of calligraphy.

While the water can't be described as warm this time of year, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to take a catamaran to Harman's Bay and to immerse myself in some of Bermuda's sea life.

Snorkelling along the surface, I'm swarmed by schools of fish that appear to collectively bounce like a ball. Others are clear enough to be nearly imperceptible.

Their greetings float up in bubbles as they glide past in an effortless rhythm I can only ever hope to discover.

Nearby, an octopus scurries under a rock set beneath the delicate swish of a crop of fan coral. I float languidly along the coastline, feeling the sea move through me.

In the upper half of my goggles appear yellow-crowned night herons and Great Keskidees, which sound as beautiful as they look, their yellow bellies ruffled by the breeze.

It may not be warm, but the island is a lot quieter.

And the water is always my happy place.