Onwards, through the fog: Part 3 of my Canadian visitation

When we last left me, I was gettin' on that plane – leaving Toronto, but more precisely Burlington, and even more accurately, Donny's Bar & Grill (DBG).

Destination: Vancouver. And the last planned stop on my scheme to visit some old Canadian pals, after returning to Canada in June for my dad John's funeral.

The most memorable AND absurd moment of gettin' on that plane at Pearson International in Toronto? Well aside from it being a cheap-as and low-rent POS deal (more on this is a sec) ... there was this guy who did his level-best impersonation of a terrorist I'd ever witnessed, in person.

So my ass was firmly in my horrible, cheap, no-legroom ghetto seat on something called Sun Tour Air. At least I think it was called Sun Tour. Sun Torture, more like it ... sure, it was the cheapest deal

While this wasn't exactly my plane ... from the inside, it sure
felt like it looked like this.  

going for a one-way flight from T.O. to Vancouver. I reckoned I could handle 5 or so hours of cheapness. I'd make up for it on the big flight back to Wellington (or so I told myself).

We were still on the tarmac. The plane was chockers (or 'jointed', as my Irish pal Mike says) – proving that it was the cheapest deal going. I at least had an aisle seat – which isn't much improvement over being wedged in the middle, or against the window. I could stick one leg out in the aisle, if I wanted to enjoy getting my prosthetic foot smashed into every :20 seconds by trolly-dollies beetling up and down the aisle. (My fake feet getting stomped or smashed doesn't hurt me, but it sure does cause trolly-dollies to trip and stumble a lot!) So I tried not to cause too many stewardess pile-ups.

So, the terrorist guy! We're still on the tarmac, haven't even begun to taxi ... but, the plane is buttoned up, we're ready to rock. I'm sitting there, untangling my headphones in preparation for watching whatever they tossed up on the screen, when I hear the unmistakable sound of someone running up the aisle, from the back of the plane – and the gasps of more than a few passengers.

I turn my head in time to see this young-ish looking (mid 20s) dude bee-lining for the stewardess at the front. He's clearly determined to do something, as he's running. And for a brief shining moment I thought: "Hmm, don't deranged terrorists wait until the plane is way up in the sky to blow it to smithereens?"

This was pretty much the face
I saw running from the back
of the plane ...

The stewardess seemed pretty calm, all things considered, as this dude rocked up to her and started babbling really fast. In a minute I determined the guy was having some kind of panic attack about being on a plane full of people ... which is a lot better than, say, the guy shouting: "I have a bomb in my shoe, and I want ALL the things! Allah Akbar!"

Kudos to the stewardess for being super cool, and getting the dude calmed down quickly. The guy thought maybe he should get off the plane, but he also said he really needed to get to Vancouver. So she talked him down, and got him sitting in a seat near her, saying she would look after him. You can imagine the palpable and sheer PANIC that was ensuing amongst the other passengers (and me!) up to that point.

He sat down and his rabid babbling simmered to a slow boil ... and in a few minutes, he seemed relatively normal again. As normal as someone prone to panic attacks, then deciding to get on a big airliner, might be ... I suppose.

The flight went OK – I arrived alive. There was something foisted on me that the trolly-dolly claimed was "food". I managed to hold it down. I had a beer. The hours ticked by ... and finally, as we taxied in after landing, I perked up, knowing fun would soon be afoot; my mate Steve H. was meeting me at the airport, and we'd get me checked in to a nearby "no-tell motel" and then have some beers.

This part of the plan went aces! Steve was there, and here were two good pals who hadn't seen each other in 15 or so years. His first comment, on seeing me on my prosthetic legs, and a tad shorter than he remembered me (as I'm now 'height adjustable'): "Whoa, it's weird seeing you NOT taller than me!"

We mosied over to the motel, with a short tiki-tour thrown in to show me (in the darkness of night) a few changes that had happened to this part of Vancouver. We knocked back some beers, shot the shit for a while, and then realised it was well past midnight ... so we made plans to meet later the next day – Steve had to work, and so would link up with me and our good mate, Richard.

This fine classic beast was our mighty steed during
all our Vancouver travels!

Richard picked me up the next day, and there was more "Wow it's been FIFTEEN YEARS!?", and shaking of hands, and then we tooled around sunny, warm Vancouver in his fine classic convertible Mercedes. Then we stopped for lunch and drinks.

'The Brothers Grimm' head out into the Vancouver sunshine on Day 1!
Richard (right) treated me (grinning loon, left) to a great tour
 of the city I hadn't seen in 15 years.
Then, it was time for drinks ... rinse, repeat!

And it was here Richard's liver let out an audible groan ... it knew the next week was going to be a hard slog.

Now let's see if I can get the chronological order of where and when we toured around to ... you see, it's been 6+ months since I finally pulled finger and sat down to write about this. And there WERE lots of beverages of the fun variety consumed. It was so warm, sunny and clear that we often got completely distracted by visions of beauty and awesomeness as we drove around – oh and there was the geography too – the mountains and ocean and such! [Hint to Don, Glenn and the boys: this means there were a lot of attractive women walking around!]

Indoors at Meraloma - two TVs, no waiting!

We meandered over to the excellent Meraloma Cricket & Rugby club (Richard's a member), and I met some of the stalwart fellows there. We ate BBQ in the sun and drank some top local beer, and watched some of the women's football world cup ... and of course, traded tales and had many laughs.

Outside the mighty Meraloma club. 

As would be our modus operandi every evening, for the duration of my visit (to inflict damage on Richard, Steve and Dale's livers), we would end up for dinner and drinks at Kitsilano's fine establishment, the Sunset Grill. I'd frequented "The Grill" many times when I lived in Vancouver.
It quickly became clear that Richard had ceaselessly continued to valiantly carry the flag onto the patio to seize seating there since I'd been gone.

The Grill patio. A block off Kits Beach
and home to many fine things to
stuff into your face!

The food and drink was excellent! We bobbed and weaved our way through craft beer, local wine, and well-made cocktails. And of course we ate. I ensured I hoovered down on a few meals of local BC salmon. Also, any other sea life that happened to be on the menu. No swimming thing was safe ... nor were shelled things. Or even things with multiple limbs, like squid.

Oh yes. Besides beer, wine, and cocktails,
we also sampled some excellent
single-malt scotch at The Grill.

Joining us on the patio was of course Steve H., who got me from the airport – and another great mate, Dale Z. It occurred to me at one point: I was the only one of our quartet who did NOT possess guitar playing skills.

These three lads really are great players!

The next montage of photos incorporates many successive days of us amassing on the Grill's patio ...

Many shenanigans occurred on the Grill's patio; Richard made sure I met some friends (top left);
and one of our many fine waitresses (bottom left). Richard and Steve H. yuk it up
over something (top right),  & Dale and Steve look longingly into the bar, awaiting their next drinks (bottom right). 

Each morning was an exercise in how quickly we could banish the demons that seemed to somehow sneak in to Richard's place, get cleaned up, and get back on the road.

A particularly fine day was spent driving the 90 minutes up the Sea To Sky Highway, to the fantastic Whistler resort. Once again, my 15 years away demonstrated to me how much this place had grown, expanded, and flourished. The drive up from Vancouver is one of the most sensationally awe-inspiring views in the world ... I'll let the photos do the talking here, too!

Zooming along out of Vancouver, and the 90-minute drive to Whistler resort! Scooting through Stanley Park
(top left); Passing over the Lions Gate Bridge and looking at the North Shore mountains (bottom left);
Snowcapped glacier peaks on the Sea To Sky Highway (top right); and more of the fantastic
highway (bottom right). It's hard to take photos in a vehicle moving at warp speed ... 

Once in Whistler, we of course hit the sun-drenched Longhorn patio, enjoyed some sustenance, and took in the views up one of the main chairlifts. Loads of people were screaming down the hill on mountain bikes, and many more were just walking around enjoying the fine day!

The two right-hand photos (top and bottom, yellow umbrellas) are the view at the Longhorn patio.
The two on the left were taken in the middle of the square at the older part of Whistler Village – I reckoned a tropical
cocktail was just the ticket for this scorching hot summer day!

It was just a day-trip to Whistler, and so we whipped back down to Vancouver at day's end. Enroute, I got a snap of the Squamish Chief, a huge rock-climbing attraction for many (not me, though). Note to Don: The Howe Sound Brewery is just to the right of us here!

Rock-climbing heaven for many here at the Squamish Chief! The Howe Sound Brewery is just off to our right.

We knew we were heading to the Grill once again for some dinner ... but no one can drive past the beach at English Bay on a sunny day and NOT take a photo! I used to live right close to here:

English Bay beach. Turn around 180º from where I took this, and you see part of downtown
Vancouver's West End! Hotels, bars and restaurants galore down here, of course ... with a view like this,
it'd be pretty nuts NOT to have things like that here!

Once again, some moaning and complaining ensued as we chased the hangover demons out of Richard's apartment the next morning ... and of course, another day's road trip was in order. This time we were off to nearby Steveston Village, and a cool little seaside bar/café that was one of Richard's favourites for seafood! And here's why!

"Hooked", indeed! This nifty little café/bar right on the sea in Steveston has some dynamite food
and frosty cold beverages! Steveston was the first fishing village in the Vancouver area.

The reverse view, from where we were sitting at "Hooked".  It was hard to leave here ... 

A more panoramic view from our seats at "Hooked". Richard takes a moment to check important messages –
like, when should we be heading to the Grill later on?

... but leave we did. And this time, for a change
of pace, we had an early dinner at a fantastic
Greek restaurant in my other old neighbourhood,
Kitsalino. We made pigs of ourselves ...
... because, why not?! Of course, we hit the Grill
immediately afterwards, for some aperitifs. 

It was also easy to see why folks who lived near this bar loved it.

We beetled on out of there just before the worker-bees finished their shifts for the day, and before it got crazy-busy there.

And it was off to some fine Greek cuisine at an old favourite place in Kits, near where I also used to live: DD Pizza! [Note to Don: No, not THAT kind of double-D!]

As well as excellent pizza, the DD also serves up some amazingly awesome Greek food.

There was one more place I needed to re-visit in Vancouver, a place where I spent many long hours after a bike ride around the UBC trails – the Jericho Beach Sailing Club.

Luckily, Richard was a fan too.

And so once again after some demon-purging, we struck out for this really cool and low-key place out on Vancouver's West Side.

This place features fairly inexpensive storage for smaller sailboats, lessons, boat rentals, and most importantly – an excellent little bar, facing the sea, on the 2nd level of the building!

It was also the crime scene (um, I mean, site) of some REALLY great beach parties in bygone days! Live bands, total fun, right by the sea!

Needless to say, however .... we weren't going to be doing any sailing that day ..

We were quick to snag a great seat on the Jericho Sailing Club patio! Pretty rough views here, but we
soldiered on ... I used to bike out to UBC (going out to the left of where we're drinking here) and then upon
returning, I'd stop in here for an ale or three. You can see downtown Vancouver way over there to the
right of this panoramic shot. Since the last time I was here 15 years ago, it was great to see the Club had
incorporated a number of crafty local beers on tap! And the nachos and things were excellent too!

Here's a bit more of a clearer view of the sea and beach directly under the 2nd level patio of the
Jericho Sailing Club bar.  I actually stood up to take this shot. And of course ... nearly fell in.

And there's one of those crafty beers I mentioned! (There were others ...)

As the saying goes, all good things have to come to an end ... or at the very least, they get told to settle down and move along, and then you take that good time "on location", set it up again, and continue the fun!

It was also time I let Richard, Steve and Dale's besieged livers up from the mat. They'd been saying "Uncle!" for a while now ... And, it was time to head home to Wellington.

I initially decided, way back when I started this trek to Canada in late May/early June, that it might behoove me to avoid flying into, or out of, L.A. Not that I hold any animosity for the place. But I reckoned having to endure bigger crowds AND the longer checks by the TSA would not be anything close to the kind of fun I was looking for.

However – after enduring the insufferably bad Air Canada flight from Sydney to Vancouver coming TO Canada (the long flight in the mix), I decided it was WORSE to have to put up with Air Canada out of Vancouver again. And that seemed like my only option.

So I bit the bullet, and organised a flight from Vancouver to LAX, where I would get on to an Air New Zealand plane directly to Auckland (and then, a one-hour hop home to Welly). This turned out to be a fantastic choice, for a few reasons ...

LAX wasn't the cesspool of hell I thought it might be. I whipped through the check-in, in fact, mostly due to my gimp-ness. It turns out I qualify to go thru the VERY short (if any) line for gimped-up people (like wheelchair people, or people in iron lungs, or totally hungover messes who spent too much time in Vegas and missed their flights ... right, Don?) I got bumped up to a better seat (something called "Premium Economy"? Not quite Bid-Ness, but way better than Moo Steerage!)

Me in the Air NZ seat on the way home from LAX.
Kinda tired, but in a GOOD way – fun was had!
Oh, that shirt? I bought it at the LAX terminal, as
I'd sweat profusely on my short stroll to connect
to my flight home. And if you look closely ...
you will notice I neglected to take off the
"size" sticker running down between the E and L
of "Angeles". Ha ha. That's a good look for
going thru a bag-check and getting on the plane.

And as I settled in for the really top-notch Air New Zealand service all the way back to New Zealand, the fact that I somehow managed to spill a glass of wine on the poor lady next to me didn't even phase me.

(Hey, those little rubber placemats they give you for your glass? They stick to glasses, and then easily fall off as you lift the glass up to drink, and then you put your glass down on the plastic tray and ... whoopsie!)

The excellent waiter immediately got the poor lady tidied up, while simultaneously obtaining me a new wine AND a new rubber mat. Now that's class!

Sure I was tired – see photo to the left!

But it was the GOOD kind of tired. It had been an excellent trip, overall. It began on a sombre note, as a tribute to my dad John passing away.

And then thanks to some clever planning, it blossomed into some long-overdo meet-ups with old high-school pals near my old home town, college mates in and around Burlington, and top-flight boozehound friends in Vancouver.

Next time we all need to meet somewhere central ... like maybe ... VEGAS, BABY!?


Oh and ...Happy New Year, y'all!

A return to the old Canadian stomping grounds: Part 2

All righty then – six months isn't too long between integral parts of a strange and wonderful three-part travelogue. Is it?

Yeah, it is. So what happened to me?

Eaten by bears?

Suddenly and mysteriously conscripted by the CIA to become a crucial and dynamic part of a big spy operation?

Abducted by pikeys?

No. Nothing so dramatic.

I'm lazy. And I moved again. So I didn't write anything.

Mostly, it was due to complete and utter slackness.

Providing I finish this Part 2 of my big trip back to Canada in less than two days, we'll keep this gap to six months ... and the same year. I think I can do this. I'm in ... The Zone. Or not as Zoned Out as usual? Yeah, that's it.

Who knows ... I may even get Part 3 (Vancouver! And the wanton destruction of my pal Richard's liver!) finished before 2016 too!

So where were we? Here's the Rumpus:

I'd returned to Canada for my dad John's funeral. That was in June. In the last blog (Part 1), I was leaving Napanee and heading back to Beer Bro Don's place in Burlington, for a proper, extended catch-up (translation: more beer drinking days) ... with him, and as many old Humber College pals as could be dragged out of the cedar chest, with mothballs successfully shaken off. The concept here: once in the air and off to another place, it's ideal and the most fun to try and stop and see everyone you know along the way. And so, here I was close to where I went to College, and, some of the people I knew so well during those fun, foggy, fantastic days!

Once again Don met me at Pearson Airport in T.O., after my short flight from Kingston.  I particularly enjoyed a total Bruce-Willis-In-Die-Hard-2 moment when I got off the one-hour flight, when a sharp-eyed lady at the terminal watched me slowly negotiate the (tiny made-for-midgets) steps for getting off the (miniature, shrunken-Mattel-toy-sized) plane – and asked if I'd like a ride to the baggage claim via cart.

Hells to the yes I would!

My cart driver arrived quickly after the kindly lady radioed for same. As he pulled up, I noticed he had a bit of a wild-eyed look about him, and I thought: "Well you know, driving a cart around the airport to ferry gimps like me around must get boring ... I wonder how he has fun ... ?"

This photo may be a slightly embellished representation of my golf-cart
trip through Toronto's airport. Bruce may or may not have been with
me on the cart. But I sure was ... as was the wild-eyed driver. This is,
clearly, how these driver guys have fun – speeding along,  narrowly missing
loads of people in our way (um, I mean, folks walking ...)

I got my answer to that question immediately. Like the airport maintenance man did for Bruce Willis at the end of Die Hard 2, my driver stomped on the accelerator, and we were off – at top speed. UNSAFE speed, actually.

But hell ... it was fun! 

We narrowly missed small herds of meandering people as they shambled about the airport ... also, we mostly avoided signs and other things scattered about the aisles. The actual cart had a flashing light on it, but I soon realised that didn't do much good for the people walking in the same direction we were – they'd only see the flashing light after we'd gone by ... or it would have been the last thing they'd glimpse as they lay quivering and bloodied, consciousness fading, on the aisle tiles.

My excellent driver (hey – excellence for some people is "he got me there safe and sound". For me, 'excellence' means "he got me there FAST, with a HUGE grin on my face, and, my hair was STRAIGHT BACK!") got me next to the luggage carousel WAY ahead of everyone else who was on my flight. After I got my balance back, I quickly snagged my bag.

Don was on the case, as usual, and waiting for me (in the designated spot where people mill around, waiting for people to shuffle off planes). But of course, the laughs were already well under way ... as you know how lots of people will hold up signs for their off-loading compatriots/family members, so they're easier to spot?

A dramatic re-enactment of the crucial
"Don holding the Chinese sign" moment
at the T.O. airport. You can tell that's
not Don, because this guy is wearing
a tie. Also, that's not real
Chinese text ... 

Well, Don had picked up a sign that was, moments before, being held by a Chinese family (with Chinese text on it).  Don was grinning and brandishing it for me to see. I snorted so hard I almost fell over ... again ...

And once again, we were off ... well, truth be told – not quite. We weren't "off" until well after a prolonged search for where Don's car actually was, in the airport parkade ... hey, it's a big place, with lots of levels, and they all look the same. And, there is no hi-tech gizmo on the beast to make it easily found via SmartPhone. Also, it was Don who had just parked it ...

... and meanwhile, I rather enjoyed sitting there watching Don dart about the parkade level, like Pac-Man, after those magic pills. Or like a mouse being chased by a really big cat.

Anyway, sort of soon, I was in the shotgun seat of the car, chilly-bin / cooler of beery fun in the back seat, ice cold IPA in hand! Much in the same fashion as when I first arrived two weeks prior ... big silly grin firmly affixed to my face.

Only this time, instead of just having one night of boozy high-speed catchup – we knew we had plenty of time to plan. Of course, the tempo would continue to be of the "alarming" variety.

And, as there was ample time to really enjoy several consecutive sunrise/sunsets of "day drinking" (a most noble thing to do when all concerned don't need to be anywhere to make sense, or important decisions).

There were some briefly-mulled concepts of other potential activities, like taking a brewery tour of nearby Nicklebrook. But, we soon realised that nothing short of a house fire, marauding dinosaurs, or attacking terrorists were going to prod us off of the patio at Donny's Bar & Grill (DBG).

You know the scene ... it was summer, warm, and there were no mozzies. There were chairs and a table upon which to rest asses and drinks, respectively. A BBQ lurked, with the promise of hot tasty grilled meat, in one corner. The trek from couch to patio was, at the slowest/drunkest/most hungover possible wobble – :02 seconds.

The famous Man-Eating Lazy Boy Chair, mere inches from the equally
famous DBG Patio. Don's interior design is best called "Feng Schwill"–
everything within easy reach. Especially drinks.

And the fridge was right there. And so was one of the two toilets. Besides, we could easily "virtually tour" Nicklebrook by drinking the many, many litres of their fine product already in Don's fridge. And, we could look at photos of the magnificent Nicklebrook operation on the net. And, being really keen Greenies ... we vowed like hell to make sure all the recycled Nicklebrook IPA got in the toilet when we were done processing it. (Well, most of it).

One exceptionally good plan we concocted was almost TOO good, however – as it had little chance of failing, because it didn't involve either of us needing to move off the DBG balcony. As well, it was a simple one: all and sundry friends and former Humber classmates who were available were to show up and have fun at DBG, any time on the Thursday (at least we thought it was Thursday – it was a day with a "y" in it, that much we were sure of!)

And so, Thursday arrived! The weather cooperated! Amigos/amig-ettes amassed as planned! Humber journo-pal Ann Cavanaugh was one of the first to arrive, as was the lovely Jen Jackson, partner of our (recently deceased and much-missed) great mate Pete Bell. As the afternoon progressed, Beer Bro Glenn Hendry and "Mr." Steve Pecar showed up.

The Photographic Evidence – The
Humber journalists unite! Headline:
Beer good; Old friends excellent!

Don and "Upstairs Amy" pretending to like each other.

Glenn (left) and Mr. Pecar opine knowledgeably on the
right-royal mess of drinks and food on the table.

Darkness settles in, and somehow Glenn's hi-viz vest
has been replaced with a red shirt. I blame pikeys.

The photographer (me?) catches Don in mid-list;
Mr. Pecar looks on in bemusement.

The photographer (clearly NOT me) has Glenn and I
boondoggled and vexed as to where the camera
actually is. Maybe ... over there?

Don receives yet another shirt. Apparently
words like "Beer" and the name "Redmond"
appear with alarming regularity on
shirts and things. Often, together.

Ann C. leans in to get a closer look at
the awesomeness that is my most excellent
purple Hawaiian shirt.

Of course, the locals also wandered in –  "Upstairs Amy" and son "Wee James", along with best pal Sandi materialised (hard NOT to do, as Amy, Wee James, hubby Simon, and Sandi often wander in to Don's pad, in true TV SitCom fashion – only here, it's the normal neighbours coming to Kramer, and not Kramer [Don] sliding maniacally in to their apartments).

To say that much of my stay at Don's was a "blur" would be watering down what actually transpired. "Blur" is usually a term deployed when some things are remembered. I'm not entirely sure what we can call this particular event.

Overall, though, it seemed (by photographic evidence) that we had a blast. Can't speak for Don's neighbours though ...

There was that enormous apple pie Mr. Pecar brought. Glenn was always easily spotted due to his hi-viz vest, until he changed rapidly and surreptitiously into a red t-shirt. (Damn pikeys!) Big smiles on everyone's faces also helped to lend evidence to some serious fun ensuing.

Most fun must eventually end ... or at the very least, it's told to calm down and move along. I knew I had to ultimately wend my way westward, to Vancouver, for another "visitation" with old friends there – enroute to a return flight to Wellington. So the fun wouldn't really end ... it would just relocate. "On location", as it were.

Sadly though, the centre of All Things Fun in Ontario (DBG) had to be abandoned, by me ... but not before a trek to Don's favourite crafty bar, Ribeye Jack's, to meet the good people there – who regularly look after (and medicate) Don when he's not either at work, or at DBG's.  "Upstairs Amy" and "Wee James" proved once again why they're the bestest characters in this sitcom (of the ones who keep Don out of jail and rehab, anyway!), as Amy drove us to the bar ... because of course we started the morning with more beer! Once there, Beer Technician Kylie kept us well hydrated with superior IPA-ness ...

... and when it finally came time to catch that plane west, Amy transported everyone (including me and my luggage) to the airport to catch what turned out to be my cheapest AND worst flight yet!

More on that shortly ... as Part 3 (and the last part) of this travelin' saga will soon unfold – I hit Vancouver, and proceed to slowly and methodically help my pals Richard, Steve and Dale destroy their livers!

Until then, I've been

Too long in exile!

Well, self-imposed exile, really. And more really – I haven't posted a 5'19" in a while, due to being lazy and distracted. And a bit sore.

I had to look back into the dusty archives to see when last I did post ... it was almost a year ago.

Lots has happened since then! Many absurd things. Lots of good things, too. I will have to do an all-encompassing catch-up post soon, detailing some of those absurdities.

But today, it's all about a journey. A necessary trip.

Most recently, I had the sudden and sad need to embark on a meandering trail back to the homeland, the old stomping grounds ... to Ontario, Canada, to fête and memorialise my dad, John.
Dad was taken by cancer at age 85. It was a long and full life for dad, but still – even at 85, cancer is a filthy, demeaning, unnecessary, and rat-bastard way to be forced to bow out early.

The cover slide for a presentation slide show I made
for the memorial service. Dad is relaxing here, with his
trademark mile-wide grin. 

Some photos from across the decades. My mom Sally there with dad, top left. My
bro Dave and his wife Deb next to my dad, 2nd left, top. Various fish who
gallantly gave their lives for our bellies ... me age 5 or so on my dad's
lap (bottom left). Mom and dad all dressed to the nines, late '50s, bottom right.

Both my sister Kim and I had some extensive traveling to do when we found out dad was sick. Kim was coming from her home in Penticton, BC. I had a fair bit further to fly. And there was no way to make my journey from New Zealand to Canada a fast one – the Concorde is out of service now, and I don't know any military pilots willing to chauffeur my 'No way you're fitting that massive Wookie body into a military jet!' self, supersonically, around the planet.

And so began my experiences on various commercial airlines for (ideally) as short and painless a trip possible back to Ontario.

Such a journey involves visiting a few former homesteads ... the Gananoque, Ontario area where I grew up from age 12. Toronto, where I went to college in '78, then lived and worked for a few years until 1986 ... and Vancouver, where I spent 15 years prior to moving to Wellington, New Zealand.

And while it was a sombre and emotional reason to be firing myself across the many time zones in a jet-propelled metal tube (to honour and say farewell to my dad, in the fun-loving style my dad was so famous and loved for) ... I also logically plotted and planned to spend time with some of the important people in my life who are still above ground.

Mark Kennedy and I in a Napanee joint called
Shoeless Joe's. It's well past last call, but
we determined the secret to getting bars to stay open
a bit longer ... keep ordering!

As I began this blog post, I realised I have some great stories to tell from all stages of the trek – so this might be best posted in parts (a-la Peter Jackson's modus operandus for making monstrous movie mountains out of mole-hill sized books!)

I originally envisioned the first part of my trip to Canada to be one-way, to start – as when my bro Dave alerted Kim and I to the spiralling health status of dad, I thought there was a good chance I'd make it back while dad was still alive .... and booking a round-trip with a 'caste in stone' return date wouldn't allow for any time required to be on hand for a miraculous recovery, or even time spent with dad while he was still breathing. I'd work out a return flight later.

Some observations on long-haul flights (my first big one since coming to New Zealand in 2001) – There are lots of great airlines providing top-notch service for lengthy international flights. And then there is Air Canada ... a punkass pretender in the game.

Sure, they have planes that fly the distance, and you get to where you're going 'alive'. But compared to the excellence of airlines like Air New Zealand and Qantas, Air Canada is ... a polyester pretender in the world of fine wool, cotton and silk.
It's the wobbly rented mule, the evil, red-headed stepchild in the attic, the cheap Walmart knockoff. Suffice to say: if given the choice, fly proper airlines, and give Air Canada a miss.

In this "Part 1" of the adventure, I'm compelled to note how much hard work and emotional stress my bro Dave and his wife Deb undertook to handle all aspects of this tragic event ... from making sure my dad got to initial medical appointments, to taking him in to their home when his health rapidly declined, to nursing him as best they could as the cancer ruthlessly and rapidly seized him and spiralled him down ... and ultimately, to dealing with dad dying there in their home when the end came, far too soon.

Kudos to both of you,guys. On top of all that, you had your own jobs and families and lives to contend with. You also had our mom's needs to wrangle, in the care home, as Alzheimer's and Dementia took her mind away from us far too early. Dave and Deb also stepped up and managed dad's financial dealings, his house, and truck ... they organised the funeral home, the memorial service ... the EVERYTHING. Well done.

The memorial service and funeral for my dad was classy and well executed. We eschewed any religious connotations, and 

steered the overall theme to what Dad (and the rest of us) are all about. It went directly to the heart and soul of my dad: his love of life, family, and friends. His honesty and his 'good guy' ethic. How much he was loved and respected by anyone who knew him. There were tears a-plenty during the memorial service (and more Kudos to bro Dave for giving a speech a go,

amid the torrent of emotions) ... and the funeral shortly after, where a ceremonial portion of dad's cremated ashes were planted in Willowbank Cemetery near Gananoque.

Guitar maestro Ed Keaney (left), bro Dave and  whiz kid Jackson
collaborate for some great music at the Gan Legion.

What followed immediately after was much joy in the session at the Gananoque Legion, where my bro Dave was joined by cousins, friends (and a grandson!) on guitars. Many fine renditions of excellent songs were performed in dad's honour.

Just the way he would have wanted it.

It was an excellent, calm sunny day at Charleston Lake. Dave and Kim are out there on the dock, right ...
as we prepare to send Dad's ashes into the fishing spot Dad loved so much. 

Dave quietly sends Dad off for a final swim in his favourite lake.
That's Dad in the upper left there, the smallish brown cloud. 

Dave, Kim and I followed up with a nice moment the next day – setting dad's remaining ashes free in Charleston Lake, dad's favourite fishing spot (and mine!) It was a beautiful warm sunny day as we sent dad into to the beautiful lake. 

As I already mentioned, the trip also included catch-ups with old friends and relatives. I saw many rellies at the funeral home the day of the service. A few longtime mates were on hand, too – Heinz Stucke and Rick Phillips were at the wake and the Legion. Mark Kennedy drove up to spend an evening with me a couple of days later (he drove in from Peterborough to where Kim and I were staying in Napanee, near my bro Dave's house).

Kim and Dave at the excellent riverside pub in Napanee.

The patio table we chose as our HQ was right next to the river.
Peaceful, with various ducks and geese paddling by. 

It'd been nigh-on 16 or more years since I'd seen any of these guys! So it was good fun to catch up, as well as comparing notes on lost parents – all of the aforementioned friends and I have now officially have gone through that. On a plus note: I'd never been to Napanee before (nor had Heinz, or Mark!) and we were all well impressed by that little town – especially the pub/patio on the river. We had excellent weather, and the patio table next to the river was a great impromptu HQ for catching up with everyone.

Cousins! Almost all the clan from my mom's side of the
family showed up. Great to see you all!

I did jump ahead a bit there, chronologically, with the steps (flights) taken to get me from my home in Wellington, NZ, to Napanee, Ontario.

I spent a bit of time attempting to streamline my flights based on two priorities: 1) No super long layovers at the connection points enroute, and 2) No flying into the USA. The first one was obvious – nobody wants to spend needless hours cooling their heels (or in my case, my fake plastic psueudo-heels!) in connecting airports.

So I aimed for connecting times of about 2-3 hours at most (allowing for potential late arrivals/bad weather causing flight delays) ... and the whole "nyet to the USA" thing was to avoid the ridiculous and mostly pointlessly LONG security checks, courtesy of the TSA (demonstrating how the terrorists won, because they drove the USA into total, blind, mindless, crazy, needless panic).

This I managed by flying in to Vancouver from Sydney, Australia. (I learned that my fears of the USA were unfounded, on my return trip) – when I organised my flight on Air New Zealand, to avoid Air Canada, I had to accept a stopover at LAX , to connect to a direct flight to Auckland – that one of the many, many bonuses about not having both lower legs any more is: I rapidly and immediately shoot to the front of the (long, slow, agonising, needless) line when it comes to incredibly stupid queues in airports!

I'm now officially a gimp in the eyes of airports and airlines ... and gimps get preferred service! Which is sweet-AS!

My cunning plan worked precisely as hoped! I even managed to only need to wake up super early for one flight ... the first one (Welly to Sydney, Australia, 6:30 a.m. departure ... meaning my ass needed to be at Welly airport at 5 a.m. – thank you Gillian Topping for getting me there so early and on time!)

The rest of the flights were at relatively civilised hours ... as the crow looks at his stolen shiny watch, anyway ... but considering my sense of time, space and reality was already right-royally skewed the moment I took off from Welly, it really didn't matter what time the connecting flights took off. My brain was elsewhere, likely orbiting Pluto.

But I somehow managed to wrangle an 8 pm (Toronto time) arrival into Pearson Airport, to avoid rush-hour traffic, where my mate (and fellow Humberite) and cohort (and fellow rabid IPA beer-loving fool), Don Redmond, would scoop me up upon arrival.

And that's where the crafty-beer-fuelled fun began in earnest ...

Don agreed to 'collect me' (as the UK/Aussie/NZ expression goes), and ferry us back to his Burlington pad (with a nice collection of chilled, crafty IPAs in a cooler in the back seat for me!) And fun ensued ... once we persevered through a demanding night of "science"*, Don drove us both down to Napanee the following day, to meet the rest of my amassing family. (Kim would be getting into Napanee that first night).

Now, about that first evening where some science* went down – the testing of a collection of fine New Zealand beers I brought for Don (*as the TV Mythbusters say: the difference between science, and just screwing around? Write down the crazy stuff you do!)

Shouting beer notes into a smartphone's
audio recorder? Scientific brilliance!

While Don didn't precisely "write down" our tasting notes on these amazing beers, he did deploy the more modern, hi-tech version of this activity (that I suggested he deploy) – using the voice recorder on his smart phone to shout notes and observations on said beers as we progressed. And shout we did!

(You see, this makes jotting down sciencey notes about beers unnecessary, as the old pen/paper method tends to get ... illegible ... and damp ... as more sciencey samples are consumed. And, listening to the increasingly crazy shouting that ensued into the smart phone's recorder the next day? Priceless!)

That was a night of high-octane fun for us (and we even somehow managed to save – untouched! – 3 of the beers intended for Don's beer technician friend at Rib Eye Jack's, the lovely Kylie!)
It is worthy to note here that I have a supplementary

The New Zealand motherlode of god-like elixer!
Don, Kylie and I indulged ... and soon, Glenn will too!

mission to complete, now that I'm home again – to compile a collection of said beers for fellow Beer Musketeer and Humber Journalism compadré Glenn Hendry. He sadly missed out on the elixers of the NZ beer gods I brought ... or we just greedily swilled them. Or something. The notes and shouting weren't entirely clear on what happened there. I blamed gypsies and pikeys. And the Dutch.

We did manage to leave for the 3+ hour drive to Napanee the next day at a fairly (and surprisingly) reasonable time – putting us in to the sleepy little town on the Napanee River about 4 pm-ish. The hangover demons had remarkably left us alone, so the trip was a fun and painless one.

Don stayed overnight in our 'stylish' motel (no, it wasn't stylish ... in fact, it was grim to the point of hilarious, that someone so "eclectic" would be put in charge of designing the rooms – but, it was cheap!), and joined in that night's fun – the first official catchup at the River Pub HQ Patio, which involved an impressive number of tasty local crafty beer being "scientifically tested" (I'm certain someone wrote, or shouted something down, or into, a phone!)

Now we've bounced back to the point where my dad's memorial service had come and gone, dad's ashes were joined with the mighty Charleston Lake, all mates still living in the area had been met and had fun with ... and now, it was time to target my ass into organising my return journey to NZ. It was going to involve a couple of stopovers, though ....

I'd been slowly plotting the trek (which was made extremely easy due to catch-all websites like WebJet). Job one: return to Don's place in Burlington for a few more days, to meet up with some other old friends and college pals who live in the area ... to meet beer technician Kylie ... and to take stock of how many peanuts the local chipmunks had eaten. (More science ...)

Planes for midgets! I put this one on and flew to T.O. ....

This time I opted for the one-hour flying option, a short hop in a VERY tiny plane (I didn't so much board the thing, as I put it on) from Kingston to Toronto airport. Once again Don scooped me up (cooler of hoppy ales in the back seat, at the ready again!) and we began 4 or possibly 5 days of more beer science, bbq'ing, lazing about on his funky patio in the warm summer sun, and general shenanigans and tomfoolery – including one officially planned gathering where the old college mates and pals could amass for one semi-organised night of ... testing ... yeah, that's it!

And that, folks, is what Part 2 of this travelogue will be all about! First and foremost, the times and fun had at Don's in Burlington ... the Humber gang ... new friends from Don's work and his apartment complex.

Then, coming soon, after, to a FacePlant post near you – Part 3, where I inspect Vancouver (and the many and varied changes therein), Whistler, Steveston, and launch myself at the wilful, shameless and unbridled destruction of my mates' Richard and Steve's livers. Oh, and Dale's too.