I was born with a biting need
to get out of my hometown in Ontario
and seek excitement elsewhere. I yearned for the unpredictable. By immersing
myself in different lands, my peripatetic nature, along with my lust for
getting lost in sometimes dangerous terrain, fulfilled me. Leaving home at the
age of 17, I realized traveling is a type of addiction: I soon was hooked. I
confess that I am an incurable travel junkie.
For me, settling down in one
place – home – grass to cut and house repairs, or battling landlords who never
fix anything – especially in Montreal (where I now live) – just isn’t for me.
Truth is, there’s a paradox in
staying in one place. Stress beings to seep in. People begin to irritate you. The
same old urban landscape burrows into your belly like an unwelcome hunk of
bacteria. So, I discovered if you keep moving, you never suffer from monotony
or acute stress. Fatique… maybe, but then there’s nothing to tie you down or
force you into a routine that demands all kinds of automatic responses that are
soul numbing.
I’ve rambled into remote
regions. Here’s a peek: I’ve endured two robberies in Mexico, been car kidnapped by a maniac in Manchester (my first day in the city as a university
student), wandered the mountains of northern Spain,
and gotten tangled up in a jungle in Columbia
(my guide took off like a cheeta when he spotted a huge yellow snake, screaming
“la amarilla”. True, it was a pretty sickeningly thick long creature that
slowly slithered in front of us, but being abandoned by him was even scarier.
Still, I made to make my way to the top of a mountain, found a bus stop to
stand at, until a taxi driver yelled at me, “Get in”. You’re being approached
by bandits.”
While hiking with my brother in a gorge in Crete with my borhter, we emt a woman who invited us for tea at her home: a cave!!!
I’ve been in a forest fire in Chios, Greece,
gotten lost on a mountain in Crete with no water left in my bottle, and felt
terribly lonely on a journalist trip in France. Ended up with my Cuba, living
in the bush on a dirt floor with a well of good water to keep me company, until
I nearly died from sun stroke, and though I had better walk to some hotel in Holguin – even if the food was a
cooked bull testicle.
Still, the incredible
experiences I’ve had in so many parts of the world, the stunning vistas that
have hypnotized me, and the shockingly kind and giving people I’ve met – I
wouldn’t change any of this to sit bored in some room staring at TV, and
counting the few bucks I have left in
the bank. No, I’d prefer to walk miles, and then stop and stare at a one-of-a
kind-scene before me – such as I did in Tangiers, when a bullfighter escorted
me to his mansion where I was treated to a tour of looking at decapitated bull
heads hanging on his wall of fame.
The only time to stand still is when you stumble upon a moment of beauty or magical absurdity – human or
otherwise – in your adventure – when you’ve found a piece of paradise that you
can open your front door to it every day, and discover that what you saw yesterday
is not there today; something new is there instead. And it’s another
breathtaking moment to file in your memory – to pull out when old age obliges
you to stand still, and hang up the backpack.
photos of Crete, Athens and Brittany taken by Nancy, except when she is in them