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.

A Jewel.

Footfalls.

Niagara Falls, ON – Even as it rattles through my bones, the crash of a fifth of the world's fresh water leaves me stilled, in awe.

It's deceptive in its emerald shimmer, rolling off the lip of the falls and spitting diamonds, caught in the sunlight.

I've been coming to Niagara Falls since I was a child and it continues to amaze, even as the area balloons in kitsch to accommodate an unceasing flow of tourists. But it's all about the natural wonder: so many mouths agape, like the Horseshoe Falls themselves.

Aboard the Hornblower, we dissolve into the mist, ruby-red ponchos inflating like comic book characters. I stand humbled beneath the torrent, swirling in the power of nature. Spray blows rainbows across the bow.

For the first time, we visit the Niagara Parks Power Station. Built in 1905, it was the first major power plant built on the Canadian side of the falls. It's now a beautiful museum that wears the history of electric power on its sleeve. Drips lead to a roar as we make our way down the 2,200-foot tunnel that once carried water away from the turbines.

We emerge beneath the falls. It's a vantage I've never had.

And it's spellbinding.

Collossus of Roads.

I sell sunsets down by the seashore.

London, ON – It’s a day spent watching fresh memories, but stitched in reverse.

And at high speed.

That is, of course, until we near Toronto on Highway 401, which is always a centipede of steel and impatient engines. Trucks heave. Lowered cars with cannon-like mufflers try to slip into new lanes unnoticed.

You can feel the collective eyeroll.

Work commitments have required us to return all the way home today – what's a thousand kilometres between friends? So, for now, I tuck memories into the centre console, scribbled onto maps over coloured lines I'll likely never cross again. 

But which I'll hold with me forever.

At last: home, sweet home. 

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 1,123 kms
• Provinces: Québec, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: Hare

A Grey Time.

A blank page unfolds before me.

La Malbaie, QC – Greys slip into nothingness.

As we set out to the mainland, the air swells with pregnant fog. It's like peering through wax paper as the boat pushes into folded waves. Ripples vanish even before they form.

We've joined a group of daytrippers for a tour to Île Nue de Mingan, which sprouts with nature's flowerpots. It's a stone chessboard laid bare by high winds. Beauty, in nakedness.

Botticelli would be proud. 

It's a nice, free trip where we're somehow the only ones not sporting bright red lifejackets – until the horrified captain notices us shivering. An Indigenous member of the tour picks a stick up off the stone beach and tells us it has come from the mainland. It's been gnawed by a beaver.

And there are none here.

Unfortunately, what's gnawing at me now is that we have to cover 1,800 kilometres by the end of day tomorrow.

And we don't reach our car until near noon.

Vitals:

• Time: 8 hours
• Distance: 668.9 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, burning off into beauty
• Wildlife: Porcupine 

No Words.

Seeing the light.

The Gulf Course.

Isolated, in the best possible way.

Île aux Perroquets, QC – Far off in the water, a rock smudges the horizon.

The lighthouse atop is barely visible.

We're waiting for a yellow boat, affectionately named Moutarde, to take us there for the next couple days. A beluga spouts near shore, only increasing my excitement.

Then, the low hum of a small outboard motor.

For five kilometres, we brace ourselves against swollen waves – it has stormed the past couple days and snowed only a few weeks ago.

As we approach Île aux Perroquets, a raft of sea lions nod. Puffins and razorbills (here, "petits pingouins") whir overhead in a spectacle of rapidly shifting dots and dashes – a welcome in Morse code.

As our luck has it, we're the only guests on the island for both days.

CliffsNotes on effective takeoffs.

Our hosts are incredibly hospitable, creating delicious homemade meals from local ingredients: haskap berries, seafood and freshly baked croissants. And always, too much dessert. 

As it's part of the Mingan Archipelago National Park Reserve, tourists visit during the day. But by 4:30, it's just us. Emboldened, thousands of birds drop from the cliffs in batches, peppering the sky in a search for dinner. Sea lions bark roughly from Île Nue, slightly to the east.

Puffins extend their orange feet, fluttering furiously as they land – standing – in holes etched into the cliffs by their shell-like beaks.

With tourists gone, they've come out to play. It's a feathery fireworks finale.

And the sun sets like a flock of flamingos, aflight.

Vitals:

• Time: 35 minutes
• Distance: 51 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Overcast and cold
• Wildlife: Beluga spout, sea lions and countless birds, including puffins

Thunder Run.

The Golden Rule.

Rivière-au-Tonnerre, QC – Needles shed by windswept pines stitch together La Route des Baleines in north-eastern Québec.

Despite hours slaloming the coast, we see no whales. Nor moose, which diamond-shaped signs warn us of at regular intervals. For me, tradition holds.

It is, however, a beautiful-beyond-words drive through the jagged curves of mountains, which open their arms into countless lakes and into the St. Lawrence. Blues touch fingers with the horizon. 

I'm not sure I've taken a more stunning roadtrip east of the Rockies.

At one point, we comment about the lack of tunnels chiselled into the rock. One immediately appears around the next corner. I downshift. We try the same with moose.

Nothing.

On a roll in Sept-Îles.

Our only stop is at Casse-croûte du Pêcheur, in Sept-Îles. There, we have a lobster roll in a restaurant shaped like a giant, kitschy lobster pot. It's nicely toasted and tasty, but contains too much filler. 

Arriving at L'Escale Lam-Air is like stepping into a 1950's-era seaside motel. And I mean that in the best possible way. A Post-it note tells us our key is in the door to the room. We're well beyond cellular service and tourist season hasn't yet started – the hotel doesn't have full-time staff.

In other words: a great place for vacation.

We step off our back porch onto soft sand and over massive rocks filled with fossils, including one of a full fish. Gulls squawk, but we otherwise settle into silence before cracking a crab-flavoured beer. 

The sun set sets in glowing amber through the windows of Saint-Hippolyte church and upon a day filled with more beauty than expected.

But, still no whales.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours, 8 minutes
• Distance: 591.2 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

U-Bear Eats.

Sacré-Coeur, QC – Raindrops have been redrawn as mosquitoes.

As we make our way into the forest, a shape-shifting black cloud swallows the air in front of us. They tattoo our skin. 

It has been a pleasant day spent on a pair of ferries, including in the stunning Saguenay Fjord. Home for the night, though, is at Canopée Lit, in a cabin set high in the trees. It's equipped with a small kitchen, a separate bathroom and a birdhouse, which hangs from a rope.

Come morning, it will be hoisted up to us, holding a toolbox filled with breakfast.

But for now, we bask in the contentment of laying back and staring at the stars through the half-dome skylight, tree branches brushing gently against it like a cat. Silence and peace. 

Apart from the low, insistent buzz of one last, unseen mosquito.

Vitals: 

• Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
• Distance: 66.7 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, lifting, giving way to sun and (finally) warmth
• Wildlife: None

Signs of the Zodiac.

Between swell moments.

Rivière-du-Loup, QC – Rhythmic squawks: an alarm clock.

That and daylight spreading its wings across the sky.

It was all of 4 a.m. 

Apparently, we're far enough north to have much shorter summer nights, which is always an adjustment. It's the between times where a confused mind simultaneously seeks action and sleep.

I just want coffee.

After a sumptuous breakfast, the radio cackles. We're told the waves are too high for the boat to dock and that we'll need to be evacuated by Zodiac. Our hosts seem distressed.

We don our backpacks and rain gear, giddy with adventure.

The journey takes us through the forest, slippery with storm, and into an area otherwise closed for breeding season. The quiet cove shimmers in greens. Ferns fan our faces.

Assuming it's to take us all the way back to Rivière-du-Loup, we're surprised to see a grey, two-seat inflatable slowly rounding the corner.

I've seen bigger boats in a pool.

We immediately catch an oar in the mud and have to circle back. 

But, we soon make it to a larger boat anchored farther out in the water, grins as wide as the swells. Vanishing into the raindrops, our evacuation is complete.

Phare Away.

Alight.

Îles du Pot à l’Eau-de-Vie, QC – In the fog, the St. Lawrence fades from the page.

Imagination fills the remaining space.

Ships hurtle toward the rocky island, sailors’ faces as white as the waves. Each man tugs at a rope with raw hands, clasped in prayer, hoping the storm won't be their demise.

Ashore, the lighthouse keeper stokes triumphant flames in the broad, brick fireplace. He checks the wick burning atop the tower as a creak in the floorboards announces the arrival of additional hands. The glow grows, punching at the gloom.

Sleet hits the windows, rattling me from my reverie. The storm worsens. Winds whistle a maritime tune. 

Built in 1857, the historic red and white lighthouse we're sharing with a couple we've just met has no doubt seen its share of gales. A hundred-and-sixty-eight years later, though, it's still standing. We're told it's the only lighthouse in Canada where you can stay the night.

We climb the tower, looking across the island – now a bird sanctuary. Angry gulls pierce the clouds in slow-moving corkscrews. Razorbills skim the shifting surface of the water. It's moody.

And I can think of few places I'd rather be during a storm. 

Vitals:

• Time: 50 minutes
• Distance: 70.6 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Cloud, leading to severe storms
• Wildlife: Beluga spout; countless birds, including great blue herons, razorbills, murres and gulls

Bedeviled.

Finding this place wasn't a fluke.

Rivière-Ouelle, QC – A driftwood whale sits atop La Baleine Endiablée, bleached by the sun.

It's home for the night after more than 11 hours and nearly 1,100 kilometres on the road. The sun has finally come out at the end of a day painted in blended greys.

So has my French.

Unsurprisingly for us, the auberge hosts a nanobrewery. Out back, picnic tables overlook farm fields that roll up into the mountains,  glistening in the distance. It has been a long, but not particularly taxing day. Still, the idyllic setting is a welcome respite.

We've settled around plates of méchoui – Québecois barbeque pork – with gravy, coleslaw and spiced fries. The server arrives with a 9.5% barleywine.

In a pint glass.

The devilish whale, indeed.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours, 14 minutes
• Distance: 1,091.9 kms
• Provinces: Ontario, Québec
• Weather: Fog, cloud and rain, leading to sun
• Wildlife: None

Off the Wall.

Monopolizing Big Apple references

Asheville, NC – The entrance to Asheville’s Wall Street is wedged open by a flatiron building built in the Beaux Arts style in 1927.

A large, black statue of an iron stands firmly on the sidewalk like an oversized Monopoly piece.
 
It’s obvious the city doesn’t take itself too seriously.

The street itself is named less for the American financial mecca than for the – you guessed it – wall that lines it, keeping the infill in place. The former back alley is now home to several quirky shops – including one devoted to vintage belt buckles – and trendy restaurants.

It seems to be indicative of the city's South Slope District, which, like many gentrifying areas, clings to the past and brings with it the arts, culinary experimentation, modern culture and a more progressive attitude. 

Not to mention rising prices.

They called him Wilt.

Ghost signs trace brick buildings like faded Yellow Pages, harkening back to a time where this was the city's automotive centre. Now, strings of Edison bulbs and clay-potted plants sway over cozy patios ringed by original iron fences.

Large graffiti murals stand in bright contrast to old buildings of an eclectic mix of architectural styles.

Former garages host artisan treats like Vortex Donuts, art galleries and a glassblowing studio I lose myself to for an hour. The city is also home to the most craft breweries per capita in America, including top-rated Burial Beer Co., where we happily shiver under the patio's space heaters for big IPAs and even-bigger stouts containing adventurously unique ingredients.  

Every restaurant seems to feature a James Beard-nominated chef. 

Asheville reminds me of bit of Austin or of Deep Ellum in Dallas: progressive enclaves in states known to be stuck very much in the past –  ghost signs in and of themselves.

We hadn't planned to say, but are glad we did.

Going Whole Hog.

Dressed how you like it.

Asheville, NC – A cartoonist has drawn a bubble in our minds that Charleston may not in fact happen this time.

We’re wet and we’re cold. Moreso, we’re tired and comfortable in this surprisingly progressive enclave in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

For a moment, I exhale.

The hearty smoke of barbeque breathes stories into our noses, and we’re drawn, again, into Buxton Hall Barbeque. James Beard nominations fall from the ceiling, and onto our bills.

Here, we learn the bourbon-infused Cheerwine slushie does not actually contain wine.

The buzzing historic building in the South Slope was a roller rink in the 1930s and has seen various lives as an auto shop, a boat showroom and a paper company. Skaters chase galloping horses along the walls in a race that hasn’t ended in more than 80 years.

I chase pulled pork and brisket.

That race lasts far less time.

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.