Standing in a foggy miasma, I could be anywhere in the world. Anywhere, that is, atop a scattering of loose rocks and semi-large stones. Surrounded by adventure tourists, dogs, and random locals. So, honestly, this could be anywhere in Wales, or a world straight out of Ridley Scott’s imagination.
Then 2018 hit, like a ton of bricks.
Sometimes you see life coming. Sometimes you create a perfect storm of inspiration and experiences. And sometimes life sneaks up, hikes your shirt over your head, and shoves you into open air, leaving you flailing for purchase.
I’ve always liked the idea that the world sees us as a beacon of acceptance and tolerance. This is especially poignant when current prevailing opinions seem all too ready to exclude and persecute. Since becoming an immigrant myself, I’ve discovered just how true this idea is. We aren’t perfect, but everyone I meet has nothing but good things to say about Canadians as a people and a nation.
A semi-classy cocktail bar in London’s lush hive of nightlife known as Soho. Hints of nearby jazz drift in through a tentatively opened door, lazily lapping at the heels of an anxious-looking young man. Excited at its surprising change of environs, and curious as to the fresh mix of patrons laid before it, the strings of jazz drift on the cusp of the threshold. The newfound vista, however, will offer only a brief glimpse into a world beyond brass and thrummed bass origins.
Hot on the heels of a memorable Xmas in Vienna, with barely a day to drop off my gear and launder unmentionables, I’d packed my bag anew and set off for the wilds of King’s Cross and a date with a train aimed north, towards the cobbled alleyways of Edinburgh.
What do three 30-somethings do when on their own in Vienna for the holidays? After Xmas markets have been plumbed for trinkets and various forms of dough-based treats, cobbled streets have been wandered and imperial architecture has been ogled, what is next for weary holiday adventurers? The answer, of course, involves Bratislava. Our story begins, […]
I’d intended to wallow a little in self pity over the holidays. Sit around, watch Netflix, maybe start a questionable dating profile. You know, the usual jazz one gets up to when they’re bored and looking for pity. Instead I ended up eating schnitzel in a foreign city and deftly navigating the local transit system.
It feels somewhat unsettling to be writing about X-mas from the comfort of a sunny day in May … while enjoying a glass of wine … on a balcony in London … But hell, I didn’t start this blog with any adherence to chronology and it would be a shame to start worrying about that now.
One aspect I always overlook when moving is just how quickly everything novel becomes mundane. I’ve heard of theories like “The Blinking Factor”, which makes assumptions based on our brain’s ability to parse familiar data and streamline the ingestion of new information.
That’s it, when I’m done with this blog, I’m devoting my time to writing a wry adult-themed graphic novel following the adventures of a Aix: a time travelling tour guide from the 24th century, now trapped in the past. Everything he’s learned is a lie; the past isn’t some candy-coated funland with a dash of Errol Flynn, but a quagmire of savagery, greed, rock music, and ass-kicking vigilantes fighting against encroaching hordes of invaders from another dimension. Hilarity ensues.