The long and winding road....

10:35 pm Saturday - Pearson International Airport - waiting for the overnight flight to Buenos Aires.

It is extraordinary to watch NHL playoff hockey in an airport, particularly Toronto’s airport, when everyone in the bar is dying as the Montreal Canadiens blow a 4-2 lead in the third period, eventually losing in overtime to Washington 6-5. GAH! Being away for three weeks means I will come back mid-way into the second round. Half the teams now playing will be gone, and we should have a much better idea who could take the Cup than we do currently, when it seems no one really wants it.

Checking in at Edmonton was surreal - normally, on a Saturday afternoon, it would be packed with people travelling east to make evening overseas connections. The security line can run 30 or 40 minutes, minimum. But today, thanks to an Icelandic volcano, I walked right up to the wicket, no lineup at Air Canada. While the attendant could not upgrade me to the sold-out business class (with the awesome-looking lie flat pods), she did manage to put me in a row near the back with three empty seats across. So I hope to be able to at least sleep a bit on the plane. We leave Toronto at 10 to midnight, and do not arrive in BA until nearly 3 in the afternoon. It is a very long flight.

Of course, there is always someone who apparently never listens to, or reads, the news. As I was checking my seating options, a breathless woman in her 30s rushed up to the adjacent wicket, and actually let out a howl when the attendant told her her flight to Rome had been cancelled. “Check again,” she implored - just in case the volcano had made an exception, just for her. Seriously - flights to Europe have been cancelled for days, and she doesn’t know that? Embarrassing.

Perhaps owing to the slow day at security, the new people were receiving extra training. I, the epitome of racial profiling in action, was selected for random further screening by a very pleasant young woman who looked like she belonged in high school. She dutifully explained each step in the process, and gave me a thorough “pat down” only slightly less intensive than my annual mammogram. She apologized before moving to each stage of the process, ending with an ankle massage and a look at the soles of my feet. I am pleased to say both of us passed our test, and her instructor seemed particularly happy with how we had both conducted ourselves.

The flight from Edmonton, on an Embraer 190, was smooth and fast - less than 4 hours gate to gate. I managed to catch up on recent movies - it only seemed appropriate to watch “Up in the Air” while flying myself. Despite all the awards, and the heightened expectations I therefore had, the movie was great and thoroughly enjoyable. I particularly recommend a scene partway through the film where George Clooney is sitting in a hotel lounge with his impossibly young co-worker, Anna Kendrick, and his paramour, Vera Farmiga, discussing their changing expectations in partners as they age. Hysterical.

The flight to Buenos Aires is close to full, with perhaps 15 empty seats on the whole plane. My first sign that this flight would not be like other international flights? Being served a full hot supper at 12:30 am. Only on a flight to South America would one presume folks are going to eat now, and perhaps nap around 4. I did get my three seats across, which totalled about 4.5 linear feet. Which is about a foot shorter than I am, which made for an intriguing several hours of trying to contort myself into a pretzel that could still balance on less than deep cushions. I got some rest, but I doubt Day 1 in BA is going to be terribly eventful!

After 10.5 hours in flight, we stopover in Santiago. Security is quite something. In Toronto, there were two extra checkpoints I needed to be scanned through, after I cleared general security, and in Santiago, where we changed planes and crews, there was another security point, where our carry-on luggage was inspected anew, and we were wanded. Keep in mind none of us ever left the secured transfer zone. Why all the extra security suddenly is a mystery, but I now feel very, very protected.

The approach to Santiago is a bit unnerving - the plane comes down a channel between two ranges in the Andes. Looking out the windows on each side of the plane and seeing only mountains, and not from above, but at eye-level, is a bit unnerving. Perhaps they should have timed the flight so this part would happen under cover of darkness, and not late morning.

Disappointingly, the first thing one sees in the Santiago airport proper, once you’ve cleared the security point, is a Starbucks. Across the hall from a Dunkin Donuts. En espanol, but still.

Anyway, it is a hot, humid day threatening rain, so the mountain views are a bit hazy, but here’s the first shot from this vacation:

 

Update: Sunday, 4:34 pm I have now arrived in BA and have checked into my apartment hotel. It is lovely. I will post pictures tomorrow, once I recover from the flight, the heat and humidity.

Only in Canada

When I travel, I like to look for the quirky things that other people might not notice, or comment upon.

I am overnighting in Edmonton on my way to Buenos Aires tommorrow (well, actually, I only arrive Sunday afternoon, but I don't know how to describe a flight that crosses into a second day - is there a word for that?)

I got here around supper time. I checked into my hotel, Varscona on Whyte. For those of you unfamiliar with Edmonton, Whyte Avenue is the hip place to be, where all the fashionable young things in five inch silver lame heels totter down the sidewalks between $14 martinis. The neighbourhood is full of trendy nightspots, overpriced restaurants, and fantastically odd shops. But there are still holdouts from before the gentrification, and those juxtapositions make walking around a lot of fun. Antique shops, funky bookstores, tattered banks cheek-by-jowl with yoga stores and cigar shops. And a bar named Filthy McNasty's. Classy and the not so much, side-by-side.

I was skirting around, looking for a place to eat that would not sneer at my jeans and hiking boots when I suddenly realized I was approaching a crowd of bikers. Not the Tour de France kind, the chopper kind. A large crowd, probably 55 or 60 of them, both sexes, clad head to foot in black leather. A couple of the older guys were chatting quite aimiably with a pair of City beat cops off near a parking meter. As I got closer, I could see probably 40 tricked out bikes parked neatly side by side in an off road parking lot. Obviously, they were making plans for an excellent Friday night to enjoy the nice spring weather (21 degrees, sunny). Nobody looked particularly threatening, so I kept walking towards them - they were between me and the hotel, after all.

And then I realized almost every single one of them had a cup in their hand. A brown paper cup. They were milling about in a Tim Horton's parking lot.

You can't make stuff like this up.

Oops

Looks like I'm getting ready to go on another vacation without really having posted much about the previous two last year. I'm going to try and remedy that over the summer, but first, I am seriously thinking about shifting the focus of this blog to more travel-oriented pursuits (not that the blog has previously had much focus, but you know what I mean).

Thoughts?

In the meantime, I am taking a netbook with me on my next trip, to Argentina and Uruguay, and my intention, at least, is to blog from the road. We'll see if I'm any better with that than writing about the trip upon my return!

C'mon already. Eh?

Sometimes, we can make fun of ourselves and everybody else all at the same time. Best closing ever.

Promise? Fulfilled

I was nine the first time I watched Canada play on an international stage -it was September 1972, and Canada was playing a best of eight game series with the Soviets, what would come to be called the Summit Series. Everyone, whether they were actually alive to witness it or not, remembers Paul Henderson's goal in the dying seconds of game 8, which clinched the series for Canada. What far fewer people remember however, is the wildly uneven road Canada took to game 8, and the tangible possibility we would lose, at our own game, when everyone on the planet was watching us.

During the intermission before the overtime period in today's Olympic gold medal game, I couldn't help but think of the Summit Series, which was the first time I remember being aware of how hard it was for Canada to win, even though we thought it should be a lot easier.

We are raised, skating on ponds and rinks in every nook and corner of this country, our ears filled with the notion hockey is "Canada's game", and we are stuffed full of the mythology that we dominate our sport in the global arena. That alleged dominance took a pounding in 1972, and it hasn't ever really recovered, even though we tell ourselves every chance we get that this time, gold is obviously ours. We are, after all, the favorites - at least in our own minds.

The Summit Series was split, 4 games played in Canada, 4 in the USSR. Russia took the first game 7-3 at the Montreal Forum (while ghosts wept), lost 4-1 in Toronto, and the teams played to a 4 all tie in Winnipeg. By the time Team Canada dropped game 4 5-3 in Vancouver, it was booed off the ice and we seemed on the verge of perpetual international embarrassment and a national group meltdown. The Soviets took game 5 in Moscow before Canada rallied to take three consecutive one goal games and the series, 4 wins to 3.

The Series was such a significant moment in the country's young history that I remember my elementary school, like hundreds across the country, ushering us out of classrooms and into the auditorium to huddle around the TV, so we could watch the games from Moscow live. It was my first communal experience of the power of sport to unite and unify a country.

All these professional observers who have been going on and on in the media from Vancouver about the "new" Canadian pride evidently weren't around in 1972. It seemed for a month that our entire purpose on earth was to play, and win, these hockey games, to show those Soviets that while they might play our game, they couldn't win our game. Certainly not against our best NHL players. We were then, as we are now, wrapped in our flag and proud of our country, our history, and our place in the world. Those who seem surprised at the outpouring of national pride during these Olympics don't remember how empty our streets were on game night in 1972. For nearly a month, the country held its breath, not at all sure anymore that our best would be good enough. In an era before satellites, DVRs, cable and internet, you had to be at home in front of the TV (or, if unfortunately elsewhere, with a transistor radio in hand) to share the experience, to follow the game as it unfolded. And we did on more than one occasion, hold our breath.

Today, giving up a tying goal to the U.S. team with 24 seconds to go, after several minutes of panicked scrambling around in our own end, seemed like 1972 all over again. And like 1972, Team Canada found some way to rally and close out a nailbiter with a key goal at a key moment.

During the opening ceremonies, Yellowknife poet Shane Koyczan performed his poem, "We Are More", which in hindsight was quite prescient about the view Canadians have of themselves, and how that is seldom the understanding the outside world has of us. Much of the national pride that we have seen play out across the country in millions of individuals these past couple of weeks is contained in the lines of the poem, which includes my favorite phrase, "We are an idea in the process of being realized". Today, with a men's hockey gold medal in hand, Canada's 14th overall of these Games, we have fulfilled the promise contained in that one line. No other country - not the U.S.A., not the U.S.S.R. - has ever done as well in a single Winter Olympiad. That we have now done something so momentous, in our own country, proves if nothing else that, as a country, we have left our awkward adolescence behind and are now fully exploring our confident young-adulthood. Long may we reign.

Well, that's it then

Civilization is officially OVER. From today's New York Times:

"Ruth Eldredge, 49, said she had decided on her dream ticket for 2012: Mitt Romney for President and Scott Brown for vice-president, with a promise that they'd make Sarah Palin secretary of state. "They'd be so good-looking that people would just love us," she said, meaning Republicans. "They're beautiful!"

Because beauty is the ultimate criterion for anything in the U.S.

Every 50 years or so...

We manage to beat the Russians at the Olympics.

Oh sure, we face and beat them semi-regularly at the World Juniors, the World Championships, and various invitation/staged events like the Canada Cup, or the 1972 Canada-USSR best of eight series. But the last time we faced and beat them at the Olympics, it was 1960 in Squaw Valley, California, again in a quarter-final matchup, and we had our ass handed to us 8-5. Tonight, everything that needed to come together finally did, building on the glimmers of teamwork pushing to the surface in the elimination round against Germany. Perhaps we can do this after all. They'll play a semi-final against the winner of Sweden-Slovakia (on right now), and with the Americans beating the Swiss 2-0 to also advance to a semi against Finland, there's a potential Canada - U.S.A. final on the weekend. That will give Canada the chance to redeem itself and crack Ryan Miller, who was really the only reason we didn't beat the U.S. in the round-robin play, considering how well Team Canada played for most of the game (why, oh why, couldn't Switzerland be the spoiler today?)

Onwards!

Now comes the fun part

The last time - nay, the only time - Canada won an Olympic medal in ice dancing, Scott Moir was five months old. His partner, Tessa Virtue, wouldn't come along for another 15 months. That medal too was an indelible performance on Canadian ice, when Rob McCall and Tracy Wilson took bronze in Calgary.

Usually in figure skating, skaters spend years slowly climbing out of obscurity, inching up the standings in tiny increments, season in, season out. Longevity and perseverance are rewarded almost as much as talent and athleticism. What makes Virtue and Moir's championship performance tonight so stellar is that they have come, if not exactly out of nowhere, then certainly a lot farther than we had any right to expect at this point in their young careers, considering they first placed a toe on the world stage in 2007.

By the time folks win at the Olympics, they've usually picked up some World championship placings, some national titles, and while they are presumably happy to win at the Olympics, they have long since learned to be disciplined, at least in public.

No such worries here. The sheer exuberance and delight on display from both Virtue and Moir the moment they realized they had won the gold was exceptional, both for the rarity of such overt emotion in the figure skating world and the uncluttered joy of attaining that pinnacle at home. Eleven thousand fans sang O Canada to them as the flag was raised and the official anthem played after the medal presentation - what must that feel like ?

And to win, not only with an exceptional program, but also by accepting the challenge laid down by training partners and friends Charlie White and Meryl Davis of the U.S.team, who had skated a flawless program a bit earlier in the evening. If you really want it, show us, they said - beat this. And so they did, by a score so high, it wasn't even close, leaving the Americans to polish their silver medals one rung below on the podium.

But here's the really fun, exciting part - Virtue & Moir, White & Davis, are only in their early 20s. They should have been trying for top 10 finishes at this point in their careers, not taking the top two spots. They train together and push each other, and the results of that daily competition are obvious on the ice. Not since Torvill and Dean took on a passel of Russian teams in the early to mid 1980s has the sport of ice dance stood to gain so much from professional rivalry. Barring catastrophic injury, we as an audience can expect to see these four jockeying for position on podiums around the planet for probably the next decade - including a couple more Olympics. It promises to be a developmentally rich experience as well, as each team will have to keep raising the bar in creative and dynamic ways to stay ahead of the other. As lovers of the sport, we can all be thankful for that. My only hope is that the Canadians continue to enjoy their success as much as they have tonight, and that we are never faced with a ceremony where they stand atop the podium looking as if it's just been another day at the office.

4:57:00

Sunrise: 10:08 a.m.
Sunset: 15:05 p.m.

It's all uphill from here.

Farewell, my friend

This has been a hard week. It opened with news that one of our dear friends had passed away, and closed with the emotional conviction and sentencing of a cop killer. I don't want to dwell on the latter, but I do want to say something about the passing of my friend, Greg Nearing. This is my column from the November issue of the Law Society newsletter:

I first met Greg in court when I was a reporter in the early 1990s. Greg was an exceptional criminal defence lawyer, and while he often had the higher profile cases on the docket, he was just as ready to go full bore for someone accused of a simple assault or shoplifting. He was a passionate believer in legal aid, and for a time served on the F/P/T working group on legal aid while he was with the Legal Services Board of the NWT.

Born in Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, Greg was a proud X-man who earned a BA from St. F/X in 1982, and graduated Dalhousie School of Law in May, 1986. He moved to Yellowknife shortly thereafter to article at what was then Richard, Vertes, Peterson & Schuler under his principal, Ted Richard, and swore his Oath to become a member of the Law Society on September 11, 1987 before Justice de Weerdt.

His career would eventually take him to both Departments of Justice here, although the bulk of his time was spent with Legal Aid, where he eventually became Executive Director. In 2002, he returned to private practice, moving to Nunavut when his wife Diane was offered a position with the Nunavut government.

Service to the profession was a big part of who Greg was. He was President of the CBA NWT branch in 1996-97, Treasurer of the Law Society in 1998, and President in 1999. He was also a loyal member of the discipline committee in 2001-2002, and even ended up chairing the social committee in 2001, when he was the only volunteer (until Linda donated the services of that year’s articling crop to help out). After moving east, Greg continued to serve the profession as Treasurer of the Law Society of Nunavut in 2004-2005. As our Law Society President, Greg holds the record for chairing the shortest AGM, at 45 minutes, in 1999. It is likely a feat that will never be repeated.

Greg was a complicated guy who faced a lot of challenges in his life, but when he was on, no one was quicker on his feet or more fun to be around. I never had an opportunity to run a file or do a circuit with Greg, but I got to know him in social contexts, him with his omnipresent diet cola in hand, always foraging around for snacks. While it was impossible for him to sit through an entire movie without taking at least one break to go play videogames in the lobby, he somehow amassed an encyclopaedic knowledge of film. In the ‘90s, Diane and I took sailing lessons together one summer, and got in the habit thereafter of renting a sailboat on weekends to putter around the bay. Greg was a constant presence, frequently called upon to assemble lunch below decks or haul on some rope to hoist a sail. He was unfailingly good humoured about his role on these excursions, and together as we drifted past Dettah, we would often comment on the hounds baying at the morning sun.

For my birthday in 1996, Greg arrived at the party with cards he had created listing out a couple dozen suitable topics for dinner conversation. Alongside the serious - the link between individualism and the disintegration of American society (such as it is) – were more fanciful subjects, like the role of underwear in safety consciousness, memories of grade 4, and the colour yellow. I have kept a copy of that card framed in my home office ever since, and every time I read it, it makes me laugh. It was an awesome gift and so totally Greg.

A couple of years later, during my first year of law school, Greg and Karan Shaner were in Montreal for meetings and called upon me to show them around the city. What followed was a wild afternoon and evening involving haunted houses, bakeries, cobblestoned streets, a strip bar, and a bank security guard alarmed at our use of Greg’s newfangled digital camera (pre-9/11, you could alarm a security guard without being thrown in jail). For obvious reasons, I’m adopting a “what happens on the road stays on the road” approach to the details, but suffice to say it is one of my fondest memories of spending time with Greg.

Gregory Charles Nearing was 48 when he died unexpectedly.

He will be missed.