Christmas loses it’s magic, that’s nothing new. Grown up Christmas is different in ways you can’t always define, which makes me sad for what we’ve lost and even forgotten. As an adult there is hardly anything that will make you experience even a shade of excitement that a child showers in on that ‘the big morning’.

For instance as a child I remembering thinking that this festive time of year brought the best out in everyone; people stopped to hold doors, strangers smiling on the street, or a commuter giving up his or her seat on the subway for someone who looks like they could really use a sit down. These are all perfectly fine examples of public displays of Christmas cheer.

As an adult, I do see these unprovoked festive scenarios play out from time to time, but I also see everything else that goes on, the things that happen everyday that we try our best to ignore by wearing headphones and playing on our smartphones.

I was walking down Queen Street in Toronto on Christmas eve. There at the corner of Bathurst and Queen I saw a showdown between a gaggle of homeless people versus another solo hobo. They were arguing and everyone in ear shot was making sure to watch this soapless soap opera.

Then the one girl pulled out a knife. Not a machete, but a knife that I would not want to hide in my stomach. She was trying to be discrete with it, the same way a drunk person thinks they’re being clever when executing a theatrical joke. I don’t know if anyone else saw it. I walked away and called the cops, and gave my description of the scene. When I was asked to give a description of the weapon carrier the best I could give was, “All I could see was the knife really.” The knife had cast a mist over my memory of everything else I saw for those seconds. The knife was the fuzzy sun that forces its way through an overcast day. When I was a kid I used to go sledding on Christmas eve. Not only was there no snow this year, but I saw the intro to a homeless knife fight. This was my grown up Christmas eve.

When I saw this I was on my way back from the Dollarama to buy wine bottle gift bags. One bag was green and white, the other was mostly red, and they were two for a dollar. Imagine if I had been stabbed while trying to get a two-for-one deal on wrapping supplies at a discount store. That would make for a depressing or hilarious tombstone inscription, depending on what type of mood you were in at the time.

Grown Up Christmas!

The homeless knife fight cast a bit of a shadow on my festive spirit, but then there was Christmas day, and I got a little of that childish excitement back in my life. What present was under the tree that got me frothing at the mouth like a six-year-old on the verge of laying waste to several rolls of wrapping paper, bathing in the shredded remnants of Christmas essence?

Mini mandarin oranges. I wrote a blog about how passionate I am about Clementines, and now I am on my seventh crate. I am pretty serious about my Christmas oranges, and for some reason, these oranges like no other fruit before, have made me a very happy adult. For five minutes at Christmas I melted into a man-child by the smallest oranges I have ever seen.

Now when I eat eight oranges I don’t have to feel guilty, because eight oranges are barely a handful of orange flesh. The individual orange slices are so itty bitty that each one is like a little smurf finger. This makes the whole ritual of eating each slice individually a slightly dark act. I now eat the mini mandarins in halves.

Jealous?

I don’t know why this small box of even smaller fruit made me so happy. If I knew I would try and find my mini mandarin equivalent everyday. If this is how excited kids got over the Tickle Me Elmo they discovered under the tree on Christmas morning, then I am jealous.

These oranges have stolen the show for me this Christmas, and to think, I could have gotten stabbed by a homeless woman on my way back from Dollarama. I would have never experience mini oranges and my stomach would be leaking from a stab wound. The jacket I was wearing, which I am fond of, would have likely been ruined. Christmas would have been a bit of a downer.

I will now get my gift wrapping supplies from Walmart. At least that’s worth dying for.

It's like the puppy of the orange world.

Grown up Christmas is different, there’s no denying that, but did anything under the tree turn you into a little kid this year?

Welcome to the Zellers Festive Finale restaurant review! Here I will explore and review the entire Zellers menu. I hope you’re as excited as I am…

The first menu item up for review in this series is the ‘Mile High Z Burger’. To start, some items on the Zellers menu have an over emphasized Z. This is charming… but also repetitive and obvious. Maybe they’re worried that I forgot that I’m eating in a Zellers, but trust me, I won’t forget.

Tell me this doesn't look good, I dare you.

Back on track, the Mile High Z Burger came highly recommended from my waitress. She proudly stated, “It’s the best burger we got!” I was just as excited as she was. This is my first food review, but I think you’re meant to start with the signature meal.

To some degree the Mile High is customizable with the selection of vegetables on the burger being at the discretion of the diner. I chose to go with the works; generally I seize every opportunity I can to get a serving of vegetables in my diet. As a side my options were regular fries, onion rings, or salad. I chose the regular fries.

With a feast of fries beside my ‘mile’ of meat, I dined and reviewed.

The Good:

My first impressions of this flagship sandwich were very positive. The Mile High Z burger is a harmonious medley of meat, bread, cheese, and onion rings. The onion rings on the burger were a classy touch. With regards to the title of ‘mile high’ that the burger had earned, yes it was big, but not as big as the name implies.

The Bad:

The fries had never been introduced to salt, which is a problem. Without salt, fries are just cooked potato that isn’t as unhealthy as you were hoping. In the absence of sodium, a fry leaves me asking why bother. I could put more salt on the fries myself, but what am I even paying for then?

The Ugly:

I can almost guarantee that the patty was frozen not that long before I met it. When I come to a fancy ‘sit-down’ restaurant I expect a little home-made action when it comes to my beef. That being said, as far as frozen patties go it was decent.

Zellers Festive Finale Rating:

(click the video to find out how I rate this meal)

What’s most concerning about the Mile High Z burger is this, if the Mile High Z is the flagship meal on the menu, what’s the other food like at Zellers?

I’ll be reviewing one meal off the Zellers menu per week to celebrate the Zellers Festive Finale, so stay tuned.

Some people love this time of year because of the presents, festive spirit, or possibly even Santa, if you’re into stuff that doesn’t exist. I on the other hand fucking love clementines. I gobble them up by the crate. I am the clementine cooking monster.

My current count for this year is six complete crates of clementines all polished off on my own. If you’re jealous, don’t feel bad.With six crates inside me this means that I have eaten roughly 198 clementine oranges in a little over a month.

This probably isn’t healthy, and I am well aware of this.

Welcome to heaven.

For those of you who say you can never have too much of a good thing, you should talk to my digestive track. And even though these little orange grenades are shredding my insides, I can’t stop.

I don’t have an addictive personality. I used to drink coffee, and I quit cold turkey. The same with smoking, no problem. When it comes to clementines though, I just can’t help myself.

I could not be more passionate about these orange dimpled bastards. I find it hard to believe that I could ever love a human child more than these orbs of delicious.

If you love clementines as much as I do, you need a clementine strategy that will keep you peeling right up until the end of the season. If you have no clementine strategy, you peel at your own risk.

3 Tips to Survive a Clementine Christmas:

1. Finger nails

Don’t cut your nails too short. I know you might think it’s ‘icky’ when you have to scoop clementine shrapnel from underneath your nails, but look at the alternative. If your nails are too short your fingers will be without traction on your orange ball of nectar. Your fingers will be left to spin wildly like Road Runner on a Sunday morning cartoon, that is until you eventually shred it apart with your teeth like a wild animal. Remember, good finger nails, you’ll thank me.

2. PH levels

If you’re anything like me, when it comes to clementine season your insides are a boiling bubbling cauldron of indigestion. I eat enough citric acid that my stomach would give any battery a run for its money. There are two options to solve this predicament. You could eat less clementines, which isn’t really an option, or you could just toughen up and enjoy the ride. Your choice.

3. Supply

If you see clementines on sale, just buy them. You don’t want to be that idiot who runs out a week before your friends do you. Then what, you turn into that guy down at the bus station that provides sexual favours for bus money and then walks home? You don’t want to see that guy, or be that guy.  Like I said, just buy the damn oranges.

I hope these tips help my fellow clementine enthusiasts enjoy the bounty that this time of year provides us. May your peeling be fruitful and in single pieces.

Oh and Merry Christmas I guess.

Somewhere along the line Zellers got cool again. It could be because of their edgy Zellers Festive Finale campaign or it might be that we’re all getting nostalgic with the looming Target takeover. Either way, who would have known, right?

You know what’s even cooler than Zellers? The Zellers restaurant. I remember thinking that the Zellers restaurant was the dining room for the culturally elite when I was a kid, but I guess I forgot about it the same way that I forget about my birthday most years. I’m serious, I do forget my birthday sometimes, but I don’t blame early onset Alzheimer’s, just indifference.

The difference between my childhood and now, is that when I see that Zellers restaurant I can eat there. Under the law I’m ‘technically’ an adult, and I can do whatever. How have I exercised this freedom? I eat at Zellers whenever I want and I don’t brush my teeth before bed from time to time.

As a responsible adult looking for a balanced diet I choose Zellers, and you know what I realized when I sampled the their menu? The food is actually pretty damn good.

Here are my 5 reasons you should eat at Zellers before it’s too late.

1. The Food

I’m as surprised to write this as you are to read it. The food isn’t just ‘ok’, I’d even go so far as to say it’s pretty damn decent. Better yet, since most of the people who eat there are seniors most of the food is pretty soft requiring minimal chewing.

2. The Price

The food is cheap, why? Probably largely because most of the people who eat there are fixed income pensioners.

3. The Space

Need a little last-minute fine dining, but don’t have time to make a reservation? Look no further than Zellers. I personally guarantee that you will have your pick of tables any time of day that normal people eat. You might even be able to get a table with a view of the discount Christmas Zeddy’s. Why so dead you ask? Seniors eat lunch at 9 in the morning and have ‘supper’ (not dinner) at 3 o’clock sharp. If your internal clock isn’t set to senior you’ll never have any seating competition.

4. The Service

Seniors expect two things, good service and a menu that has large type face. Zellers has the service side of things dialled in, but the menus could stand to be a little more massive.

5. The Decor

Ever thought to yourself, “Gee golly, it sure would be swell to have lunch in the 80’s…” If so you’re in luck. Eating at Zellers is currently the closest thing to time travel that is commercially available. The faded poster art, the peeling wall paper, the pleather seats… Zellers has it all.

The saddest thing about the Zellers restaurant is that with the Target conquest in 2012, this geriatric dining experience has less time left on the clock than most of the people who eat there. The Zellers Festive Finale is on borrowed time.

As an homage to this retail dining institution I will not only enjoy every item on the menu, but I will also review the menu form start to finish. My reviews of the culinary highs and lows will be insightful and will inspire you to go eat at Zellers…while you still can.

Wish me luck, I need it.

Niky

Nik vs. Mountain

The Via Rail train rattled us awake just outside Vancouver, the end of the line. It was sunny. This is apparently rare for west coast.

When we parted ways with the train all of the Via Rail staff were there to wave us off wearing smiles. Usually when people say goodbye to me they are not in such a good mood.

I’ve crossed Canada twice now, and this years crossing has taught me a few interesting lessons about train travel and travelling first class.

First class train travel guidelines:

1. Non-stop shaking

Writing, or trying to.

It should come as no surprise that it’s hard to think clearly on a train when you’re being rattled like a tambourine all day. You will eventually get used to it, but don’t expect to find the cure for cancer on a train. There’s a reason why you’ve never heard of any great discoveries being made on a train.

2. Sleeping on a train

There are two things worth mentioning about sleeping on a moving train.

a) Don’t expect to sleep well. If you signed on for sleeper train as a way to catch up on some lost shut-eye you will be very disappointed. Being shook, rattled, and vibrated all night makes a person restless in weird ways.

b) For whatever reason, when you do finally get to sleep you will experience some of the most bizarre bed head when you wake up. I woke up looking like Wolverine. Sure this is cool, but what’s most frustrating is that I can’t get this to happen to my hair in my normal non-moving bed. On a train the forces of physics exert themselves in strange ways, but only on hair.

4. Wolf in sheep’s clothing

I travel first class all the time?

People in first class can sense when someone is amongst them who doesn’t normally travel in luxury. I’m not sure if they can smell it, or if it’s a certain aura that common people give off that only they can see. Either way, they know. While dining (first class travellers don’t eat, they dine) one morning, a woman asked us bluntly, “Have you ever travelled first class before?” I knew my cover was blown. In all fairness, ‘Wolf’ is probably a generous description of myself in the title, I consider myself more of a coyote or large stray dog.

5. “Looks like some people joined us.”

When you’re travelling first class people don’t get on the train or board, they “join you”. Pretty classy, I know. When people join you, they will be sharing an experience of a lifetime. When people board, they are preparing themselves to sit in a seat they hope isn’t beside a crying baby. How horrible.

6. Showering

Showering on a moving train isn’t as much fun as it sounds. Yes, you will get clean, and yes, the water is hot, but when you have to stand with your feet on either side of the stall to stabilize your swaying and soapy body, well it’s just not awesome. Also you can hear the water whistling out of the drain and onto the tracks, which is probably a lot like being whistled at in the prison showers when you’re ‘fresh meat’.

7. Great balance

Mountain Goat

Spend a few days living on a bouncing and wobbly train and you will have the balance of a mountain goat. I can guarantee this the same way infomercials guarantee you can cut through a can with a knife.  Don’t believe me? Try and push me over, I dare you.

In all seriousness, I had a great time on the Via Rail train all the way across Canada. If the sights out the window aren’t enough, the staff will certainly put your experience over the top.

My advice to anyone who happens to find this blog, take the train.

Me and my train.

On day four of the trans Canada train with Via Rail I woke up in Edmonton, and surprise surprise, just like Winnipeg they also have snow. In this expedition across Canada I’m starting to realize that Toronto does not experience much of a winter compared to the rest of the country. As a city we  have few grounds to complain about the weather. This is probably part of the reason why the entire country makes fun of us for calling in the army when we get more snow than we can shovel in one morning.

This is the extent of my visit to Edmonton.

On the Movember front, things were not going so well either. Did my moustache add to my train experience with Via Rail? Not really. In fact I was so afraid to shave on a moving train that the clean-cut lines of my moustache were blurred with stubble. I didn’t look so much like a Movember champion as a man recovering from a fairly vicious weekend bender.

Aside from realizing that Toronto is a city full of complaining wusses, there wasn’t much else to do in Edmonton. It was the furthest north I have ever been and I did not feel particularly different. It was dark, it was cold, and if it was not for oil I had trouble seeing much reason to be living up there. Edmonton does have the world’s biggest mall, The West Edmonton Mall, but I did not get to see that, so I can’t comment on this attraction. I do know that the West Edmonton Mall has more working submarines than the Canadian Navy. This is something the mall should be very proud of, and that the Canadian Navy should be very embarrassed about.

We left Edmonton with the sun chasing behind us and breakfast ahead of us. The meals have become the only thing to set your watch to on the train. It’s refreshing to live with nothing to do but relax, nowhere to go except across the country. Meals have also become the primary topic of conversation among passengers, because aside from being bottle up in a steel torpedo, the food is the only thing we all have in common.

The Via Rail dining car, classy right?

Two things did happened that were noteworthy at breakfast. The first being that I was finally brought a full bottle of ketchup. Up until this point on the train I had always been left to fumble with ketchup packets like a peasant at every meal. Not very first class if you ask me. With a bottle of ketchup I could finally use that red nectar the way every man should, plentifully and uninhibited.

The second occurrence that I could not help but take note of had nothing to do with the food. I overheard (see eavesdrop) a group of well aged travellers in the dining car bragging about how often they frequent the gym. Who knew seniors got such a thrill out of lifting one pound dumbbells? I’ve overheard twenty-year-old men brag about how many times a week they pump iron, but I guess people never change, including seniors.

With the day running on, we rolled out of the prairies and into the Canadian Rockies. It was raining, which is never how anyone pictures the mountains. Mountains should be tucked into a fresh bed of snow, not soggy like a wet homeless man with nowhere to dry off. The mountains didn’t have a shopping cart full of empty wine bottles, but the mountains also didn’t ask for spare change.

I found a mountain goat in Jasper.

The train pulled into Jasper and it rained harder. Jo and I walked around the damp tourist town only to discover that through the fog and clouds you could not actually see even a nibble of a mountain peaking through the thick soup we were swimming through.

The mountains in the rain are a sad and soggy place; like the snow, the magic melts away.This was unfortunate, but I had a plan to bring up my spirits and celebrate walking around for twenty-five minutes. I treated myself to a pile of poutine with enough cheese on it that would leave the lactose intolerant in tears.

I also found the best toy ever in Jasper.

The train left Jasper full of passengers. I left Jasper full of cheese, gravy, and fried potato. With the rain thoroughly set in it seemed that the Rockies were experiencing a little stage fright. As much as I did look forward to seeing those jagged peaks, it would not have ruined my trip if I did not see those mountains that John Denver said were so rocky. For me the train was the trip, and what a trip it had been.

Things change, and in the mountains they change quickly. Only a few minutes on our way out of Jasper and the mountains had a treat for our train. Like a switch had been flicked by some giant hiding behind a mountain, it snowed. What once was a downpour of rain, became a flurry of snow. Sitting in the dome car, we were a bubble in a blizzard.

Rain becomes snow in the Rockies.

We started the day running away from the sun, and we finished the day chasing after the sun as it tucked itself behind the mountains. It was the final night on a train that I had come to love. Not just because there were no dishes to do or meals to cook, which was nice, but because of something intangible about travelling a great distance by means of an antiquated mode of transport. The experience of a lost art.

With flight at our fingertips travel has been cheapened. The world has become a much smaller place than any train conductor could have imagined in the age of steam. We have lost perspective of what lies beyond in the age of instant gratification.

The mystery and the unknown are gone, but I like to think that Via Rail has given me a taste of what once was.

I would say good night, but with the Rockies all around me it was a great night. Although I still had trouble sleeping.

On day 3 of the trans Canada train trip I woke up in Winnipeg. My last trip to Manitoba’s capital didn’t go so well, it went terribly.

The Heart of a Continent? Debatable.

In the summer of 2009, along with two friends, Coop and Kirsten, we decided that it would be fun to bicycle across Canada from Victoria to St. John’s. I never would make it to St. John’s, but that isn’t what this story is about. What this story is about is my disastrous expedition into Winnipeg.

I can’t recall where exactly we had started that day, but to get into Winnipeg we had cycled over 180 km. All three of us were shattered, it was getting dark, and the campground we had set as our destination was nowhere to be found. Things were getting desperate.

We did find the campground, or what was left of it. The front gate was chained up, the grass was waist-high, and there were derelict camping trailers everywhere. If there ever was the perfect spot for a serial killer to hang out, this was it. There were so many good places for him or her to hide, I could be killed at any moment then turned into a lamp shade and no one would be the wiser.

The place was creepy, but it was also abandoned. It was getting late and there weren’t a lot of options for accommodation in the area.

I thought this place was fine, “Guys let’s just stay here, it’s abandoned. Who knows the water might even be running.”

Coop was keen. Camping here meant a free night, he saw the value in that. Looking for a new camp ground meant more biking, and neither of us really wanted to sit on a bike seat anymore.

Would you want to camp here?

Kirsten on the other hand was a little more reluctant, and we should have listened to her. Coop and I dismissed her fears of this creepy camp ground as ungrounded paranoia. You know what Coop and I forgot? That women are usually right, and every now and then you need to camp in a serial killers lair to realize that.

The three of us unpacked our bikes and started to set up shop for the night. There was a payphone that worked, so I used it. This did not set off any alarm bells in my head.

At the conclusion of my phone call Coop and I did a brief survey of the area. What used to be the head office of the camp ground was now an old dilapidated shack. Its roof sagged so low and the walls leaned so sharply that most people wouldn’t feel safe storing their garden tools in there.

I knocked on the door. There was no answer. Things seemed normal for an abandoned campground. At this point things would start to get a little weird.

There was classical music playing faintly. Just loud enough to be heard, and just quiet enough to be as scary as possible. Coop heard it first, but after he pointed it out I couldn’t ignore it.

It got worse. While we were trying to listen for any signs of life in the shack, we noticed that there was a single lamp on in the house. If that wasn’t bad enough the lamp had a sheet draped over it to dull the light. There was a very real possibility that we were dealing with a vampire den. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to wake up missing a few pints of blood.

Coop and I exchanged panicked and confused glances. In silence we acknowledged that Kirsten was right about this place. We didn’t tell her what we had just seen. What we did tell her was that we needed to pack up our shit and get out.

“What’s wrong guys?”
Coop, “Nothing we just need to go, now.”

Serial killer shack? Maybe.

Our escape was cut short. An old blue truck with an even older driver tore into the grounds and drove straight for us. He stopped, I spoke first.

“We thought you guys might be open but I guess no, we’re packing up now.”

His response, “Yep, just letting the grass takeover.”

To me this doesn’t sound like a profitable business model. We got out of their in a hurry, and stayed in a hotel that had heavy doors with good locks. For dinner we had Taco Bell and beer. It was a survivors feast.

This was my first and only experience in Winnipeg.

My second tour went a little bit better in some ways and worse in others.

My first order of business for my second visit to Winnipeg was to break the toilet. It wouldn’t flush anymore, for reasons unknown. I know what you’re thinking, and I didn’t clog it. It was a public toilet, I could have walked away, it could have been the perfect crime. My conscience prevailed. I let the Porter know of my handy work, he thanked me. It was the end of his shift and he was almost free, and I broke the toilet.

Winnipeg

I left the train and the broken toilet in my canvas multipurpose slippers to discover that there was 10cm of fresh snow on the ground. My slippers are good for a lot of things, wading through snow was not one of them. Being a retired boy scout I did bring my winter boots.

I wrote me name in snow. I would have written it in pee, but I didn't drink much water that morning.

Winnipeg was a winter wonderland, therefore the first order of business was to leave my mark on the city. With an untainted patch of snow in a parking lot, I carved my name into the fresh white canvas. I realized after the fact that someone could easily turn my artful, ‘Nik’ into ‘Nik’s stupid.’ There aren’t that many Niks without the ‘c’ tucked in their, so that low brow slander could eventually get back to me.

Winnipeg looked nice with a fresh coat of snow, but everything does. In fairness to Winnipeg, my second visit was much more enjoyable and far less terrifying than my first.

Back on board the train we were making our way through the prairies. I’ve been through the prairies once before on a bicycle and in addition to losing a few pounds, I very nearly lost my sanity. I saw the trains going past me as I pedaled, and I dreamed of a day when I would be on that train. That day has come.

In 2009 I passed through the prairies on a bicycle in the summer, in 2011 I was taking a train in the winter being served three course meals three times a day. Did I mention that they make my bed every day? How times have changed.

My mode of transportation is different to say the least, but the prairies themselves are different as well. Being on a train that powers through a prairie expanse now covered in a dusting of snow seems almost romantic, not that I’m into that kind of stuff. I sit and write in my cabin with a panoramic postcard for a window. I don’t know how I survived this fertile wasteland on a bicycle.

There is something indescribable and exciting about lying down for the day and having a continent whizzing by all around. I sleep surrounded by change. This is in stark contrast to sleeping in my apartment in Parkdale, Toronto. There the only thing that buzzes around me are the hordes of cockroaches that sneak around in my walls.

I spend my day writing, napping, and thinking. This trip is more fun than I could have hoped. I like to think of it as an early taste of retirement, and if this is any indicator of how retirement is gonna go, then I’ll get along just fine.

The train needed some extra muscle.

On the second day of this Trans Canada train adventure I woke up to snow, the last call for breakfast and day 25 of Movember. ‘Wake up’ implies that I was asleep, regretfully this was not the case. To be more accurate, I got out of bed. Over the course of the night I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep, and ALL of those minutes came when I the train stopped occasionally to let another train pass by.

I have never spent a whole night so exhausted in a comfortable bed and been completely unable to sleep one bit. Our porter, Cal, had warned us that the vibration of the train can ‘mess’ with you, which creates a very unique restless feeling. He recommended using the complimentary ear plugs. I had lost mine before I even went to bed. I tried music, but louder noise covering a loud noise isn’t really conducive to a great nights sleep.

No sleep meant that my first full day on the train wasn’t starting well. I was tired and late for breakfast; things could only get better. Breakfast was good, and with two helpings of bacon I was able to muster the strength to write a review of the mornings meal, which I will post later.

My moustache is still well-defined at this point by I fear the worst in a few days. I don’t think I will be able to shave in a train that shakes so violently. Any attempt to do so would probably look like I tried to shave with a cheese grater in a bumper car. With this in mind my moustache will likely lose integrity and definition by the end of this trip. For this I apologies, but I’m not sorry about the two servings of bacon I had at breakfast. That’s what men with moustaches eat.

At breakfast no one looked well rested, and as it would turn out everyone confirmed that they were having a rough time

I replace sleep with breakfast.

sleeping. I imagine that I will eventually become so tired that no train or herd of elephants could keep me away from a late night date with my face and a pillow.

Aside from being unable to sleep, the sights and sounds of the trip were limited pretty exclusively to trees and water. Fortunately for me, I happen to be a big fan of both of these pieces of nature’s furniture.

I did learn one fun fact on my first full day on the train. Via Rail will let you off and pick you up anywhere it has tracks. This includes in the middle of absolute nowhere, which I tested with one of the porters asking, “What about right here?” while being in the absolute middle of nowhere. I like this idea, and look forward to exploring the wilderness in the near future by piggy backing on the train.

With our train about to enter Manitoba, there was a presentation made in the dome car about the history of the province and its capital city, Winnipeg. And you know what I learned Manitoba has a tradition in? Floods. In fact it floods so often and so violently that the natives didn’t even want to settle in the area.

Every senior citizen on the train, and there are a lot of them, chimed in their two cents about the last flood that they remembered. I think I might have even heard someone say that they used to buy Moon Pies for a nickel.

I am now something of an expert on floods. With the power of this expert knowledge, I have decided that I will always live on some sort of hill or high ground, and more specifically, never in Winnipeg.

Our Manitoba information session was flawless, save for one interruption from a radio request for a tooth-brush. Our presenter responded “Get it yourself.” The staff on board the Via Rail are a pretty entertaining bunch, and if I get tired of watching the trees they aren’t a bad secondary source of entertainment. In contrast to flight attendants, it seems like Via Rail staff are allowed to have their own personality.

I’ve learned a few other locomotive facts as well. On the first night of the trip they announced that there would be no smoking on the train, and I thought, “What a great way to quit smoking cold turkey, take a four-day train!” Well scratch that, the train stops for smoke breaks.

Hornepayne RULES!

For our second ‘smoke break’ we stopped into Hornepayne. I have never heard of or seen on this place on a map. Jo and I thought it best to stride into town and breathe in the local culture. Oddly enough, for a town with no sidewalks they sure had a lot of souvenir shops, two to be exact. They also had the biggest LCBO that I have ever seen. I guess the only thing you can count on to keep you warm in the north is hard liquor and souvenirs.

What I’ve written about today does not eat up an entire day, so you’re probably wondering how I kept busy on a train. Let me break down my day.

My Day in Detail:

eat breakfast
write
nap
read
eat lunch
walk around HornePayne
nap
write
nap
played scrabble (and lost)
eat dinner
nap
watch a movie
write
sleep

A read with a view.

With the exception of sleeping, all of these things were done with a view out a window.

As you can tell it was an action packed day, but in all seriousness I had a great day. That being said, if you’re not big on writing, reading, napping, sitting quietly, or staring out windows, I would strongly advise against taking the train across Canada.

The finished product.

Movember has come and passed for another year. My moustache might have started slow this Movember, but I like to think that I finished strong, if not extremely grey.I had some fun, a few laughs, and I‘ve learned a few important lessons over the course of this month.

And so I present to you…

Movember Lessons 2011

1. Like father like son

I will look exactly like my father in 40 years. I’ve know if for a long time, but Movember 2011 has helped me fully appreciate the scope of the similarities between us. It’s not all bad though, one of my friends said that my dad looked like a pirate once, which is cool I guess.

2. My moustache ain’t so hot

I have seen some pretty awesome moustaches over the last thirty days. Not only were these moustaches nowhere near as grey as mine, but some could even be moulded liked the hair on a troll doll. What growth hormone do I need to take to make that happen for me? Either way, I definitely got put in my place.

3. Movember as a teaching tool

For me personally, the biggest thing I learned from Movember is that I need to be writing every day. Now you’ll be relieved to know this doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m sending out a blog every day, so please don’t unsubscribe. As you could probably tell, I was grasping at straws for a while with ideas for Movember related blog posts.

Just getting into the practice of writing something every evening and taking the time to put pen to paper is something I have really come to enjoy and rely on as a part of my daily routine. I hope that the time and energy I put in makes for a better read down the road.

Thanks for hanging with me.