End of a Decade, End of a Blog

This blog started in 2010, when I was about to turn 23 and head off to Spain to teach English for the first time. If you’ve been reading it since then – thank you! – you will have noticed that the number of posts I produce has declined over the years. It took me until 2019 to finish writing about a trip that took place in 2016, and I haven’t written about anything that happened since then.

My original goal with this blog was to replace the regular emails I had been sending to family and friends about my travels and studies. I have tried to maintain that spirit as I’ve changed along with my audience. Over the past few years, the nature of my exploration has changed from seeing what the world has to offer to finding my place within it. With that in mind, I believe it is time to retire Adult Under Construction.

This does not mean I believe the titular construction is complete, nor does it mean I am finished writing in general. Presenting my observations as those of a globetrotter without a care in the world has begun to feel odd, as my trotting became limited to Canada – admittedly, the second-largest country on Earth - and a few cares presented themselves here and there, to put it mildly. As we conclude the 2010s, the time seems right to post here for the final time. But I feel I at least owe you a summary of the past three years, so here it is.

In a previous post, I mentioned the fact that I would be moving to Edmonton, Alberta to pursue a relationship. That I did, at the end of the summer of 2016. I found a job in a restaurant while my partner studied at the University of Alberta. I enjoyed my job, and highly recommend that you stop at the Highlevel Diner if you’re ever in Edmonton.

The Menzies bridge over the North Saskatchewan River.

The Women's March on the Alberta legislature, January 2017.

Pyramid Lake in Jasper.

However, my traveler’s feet had not stopped itching. I had still not worked in my studied field of urban planning. I had doubts about whether or not it was for me, but I also realized I would never know if I didn’t try. I began applying for jobs wherever openings came up. Simultaneously, I began to feel less than content in my relationship. When I received job offers from opposite coasts, I faced the most difficult series of decisions I’ve ever had to make. I took a planning job in Victoria, British Columbia and ended the relationship that had brought me West. There is no such thing as a good breakup, but I did my best to reach that standard anyway. She and I have stayed in touch and I can happily say that she’s doing well in Edmonton.

Looking at the Olympic Mountains from Victoria.

Once in Victoria, things were all laid out for me. I was working in my field in a unionized position with benefits and a good salary. I earned a promotion relatively quickly and my work was generally appreciated. I was living in a picturesque city with an agreeable climate. My job included regular travel throughout the province of British Columbia, which calls itself “the most beautiful place on Earth”, somewhat justifiably. But I was screaming on the inside.

West coast sunset.

Fall near Lake Cowichan.

Getting paid to travel was all right.

I couldn’t exactly place the origin of my discontent, given the amount of change that I’d experienced in the previous year. Some of it was the job; my perception that I would not enjoy the 9-to-5 office life had been accurate. Some of it was processing what had happened in Edmonton. And some of it was feeling out of place in Western Canada. As 2017 turned into 2018, it was becoming clear that I was not long for Victoria.

I reflected at length before deciding to leave, as I did not want to bounce to a different situation for a change and encounter the same tumult again. When I’d been thinking of leaving Edmonton, I had been happy to find I had a strong support network of friends and family; I drew on it again in Victoria. I also saw a psychologist who was quite helpful. And I spent a lot of time on long walks trying to get clarity, thinking so hard I’m sure there was steam coming off me.

I kept thinking about the balance of time and money. In our many phone conversations, my Dad had told me this was a difficult thing to find, and it was likely I’d always have too little of one when I had enough of the other. I agreed. But then, I reasoned, time is effectively fixed. With enough time you can find ways to make more money, but there is no amount of money that will buy you a 25^th hour in a day. Given the diverse array of interests and talents that I have, it did not make sense to me to devote one third of my waking hours to a job that I resented.  

Once I’d hit that point of clarity, I needed to develop an alternative. In thinking of what would give me a better balance of time and money, I arrived at the conclusion that what I really wanted to do was return to Quebec and try to make a career out of teaching English.

I made a quick stop on the Icefields Parkway on the way home.

So it was that three consecutive summers found me relocating across Canada by car. At the beginning of August 2018 I loaded up a rental car and headed back to my parents’ place in Ontario, soon after to return to Quebec City. I’ve been living in la Capitale Nationale for 16 months now, with no plans to move. I occasionally miss the mountains out West – and my old salary - but I continue to be content with the decisions that led me here.     

And that, my friends, is that. Thank you for reading for the past decade. If you miss my occasional posts, feel free to get in touch or maybe come visit – I’ve got the time.   

P.S.: My time in Victoria included brief trips to Mexico and the Yukon. Here’s one photo from each.

Looking over the Yukon River in Dawson City.

Looking over Guanajuato.

A Mellow, Meaty Conclusion

Prologue: This post covers events that are over three years old. As usual…sorry. 

My previous post detailed the frustration I felt trying to do almost anything in Buenos Aires. As I waited to board my overnight bus to Uruguay, I thought I had finally left that behind. While boarding the bus, the driver checked my passport and told me I needed a stamp. I wasn’t sure what kind of stamp he meant, nor where to get it – I’d expected to deal with that at the Uruguayan border. But it was clear I wasn’t getting to the border until I had the stamp he was looking for.

So it was that my final moments in Buenos Aires found me at a full sprint, running back through security and the length of the bus terminal to a second floor of which I was previously unaware to get a stamp I didn’t know I needed from a ticket agent I didn’t know could give it. It was a fittingly frustrating, bewildering and stressful finish to a challenging portion of the trip. Buenos Aires had frustrated me one last time. Heart still pumping from the stress and the unexpected workout, I collapsed into my seat on the bus and prepared to wake up in Uruguay.  

My interest in Uruguay had grown gradually over the years, stirred at random intervals by various news items. There were occasional stories about President José Mujica, who donated a large portion of his salary to charity, continued to drive his 1987 Volkswagen Beetle throughout his presidency (2010-2015), and – my favourite part – condemned the necktie as a “useless rag.” Truly, a man after my own heart.

Uruguay also made the news for their progress on renewable energy, LGBTQ rights and their legalization of marijuana. I think I’ve always felt a fondness for small countries that pursue unique and progressive agendas (e.g. New Zealand, Iceland). I wouldn’t have flown across the equator just to see such a place, but once in the area, I wanted to make it happen.

As it has now been more than a toddler’s age since this trip actually happened – seriously, my youngest nephew was born after this trip and is now walking* – I will offer only my strongest memories of my time in Uruguay. There are a few:

Mellow Montevideo

In five days in Montevideo, I developed a bit of a fondness for it. After the sensory overload of Buenos Aires, Montevideo’s slower rhythms were a welcome change. The streets were lively and interesting, but no vendors tried to force their products on me. Indeed, unlike cities in both Chile and Argentina, Montevideo has organized an artisan market with regulated pricing and paid staff. It didn’t have the thrill of haggling with an artist on the street, but it was less stressful for all concerned and (I think) helps ensure fairer prices. The general feeling was very relaxed throughout my time in Uruguay, which was just what the doctor ordered in my case. 

You Can Take the Traveller Out of Urban Planning School…

…but you can’t keep me from noticing cool urban planning-related stuff when I travel. Here are three quick points:

- La Rambla, a 20-kilometre seawall and promenade along the Río de le Plata in Montevideo

La Rambla - note off-season weather

- Public art throughout Montevideo, and brightly-coloured building façades (if you choose to paint your house in a colour this bright, you have my support)

"How are we supposed to tell our houses apart?" "Oh wait, I know!"

Yes, that's Uruguayan football legend Luis Suarez. Yes, he has gigantic teeth.

- Punta Carretas, a former prison that has been converted into a shopping mall. I tend to avoid shopping malls, but this one was worth seeing as an incredible example of adaptive reuse.

The old prison gate now guards a shopping mall.

"¡El mejor carne de Uruguay!"

I spent my final two days in Uruguay in the town of Colonia del Sacramento, which is a quick ferry ride from Buenos Aires. Colonia is a relatively small, sleepy place, best known for its old quarter, which dates to the 17^th century. In the final days of my trip, it was a pleasant place to enjoy views of the water and wander the cobblestone streets. 

I did say it was a sleepy place.

In my wanderings in Colonia, I poked my head into a little restaurant that I liked the look of. It reminded me of a hunting lodge, or my great uncle Ted’s cabin in Muskoka: an open fireplace with a rifle hanging above, a wood pile for the evening's cooking and hunks of meat on prominent display. To paraphrase the 52^nd-best movie quote of all time, this place “had me at hello.”**

It was early by Uruguayan standards, so the place was empty, but the middle-aged woman behind the bar showed me a menu and I made my selection after trying to figure out which one was the steak (they all were). I took some photos with the proprietor’s permission.

When my order went in, a short middle-aged man with an impressive moustache (if memory serves) came out and began cooking. He looked as if my order had interrupted him in the process of chopping wood for that evening’s dinner rush and frankly, it might have. I surmised that he was married to the woman behind the bar, and that they ran the place themselves. Upon reaching the fireplace, he grabbed one of the gigantic hunks of dead cow, slapped it down on the cutting board and sliced off my dinner.

As I’d found throughout the trip, side dishes are deemed unnecessary next to steak, so when my meal came out it was as simple as you can imagine: a piece of meat grilled over a flame, presented on a wooden plate. As the chef placed it in front of me, he said, with great gusto, “¡El mejor carne de Uruguay!” (The best meat in Uruguay!)

The aforementioned best meat in Uruguay. Note: I ordered the fries separately, but I should not have.

He may have been right. I don’t know, I don’t usually eat beef. The memory of that steak’s taste has long faded. But the memory of that place, and that chef, has not.

The place started to fill up as I ate, and the chef – whose name I learned to be Mario – was busy on the grill. He seemed to know most of the customers, who just called their orders out as they sat down. One table of regulars realized how busy their host was and simply helped themselves from the (non-alcoholic) drinks fridge, telling Mario what they took. He or his wife noted them down and kept up a steady stream of banter from behind the bar. They took turns rearranging tables for new arrivals, saying hellos, and shaking hands. The two of them covered the roles of maître d’, server, cashier, chef, and presumably countless more that I didn’t see (dishwasher, for example).  

I could have watched this social ballet continue for hours, but I didn’t want to deprive others of it either. I left, and my table was quickly taken over by new arrivals. I returned to my hostel and relaxed with a book in one of the chairs near the main entrance, vaguely wishing I had waited until later to eat. In fact, the hostel staff were just phoning in their own dinner order as I returned. When it arrived 30 minutes later, it was none other than Mario himself – add “delivery boy” to his job title -  who had arrived on foot to deliver two freshly sliced and grilled servings of “¡El mejor carne de Uruguay!”

I don’t know why this anecdote sticks with me, and I won’t use space here to brainstorm an explanation. I’ll just say that Mario and his wife ran the kind of place I hope to find everywhere I go, whatever the purpose of my trip.

Playa de los Pocitos, Montevideo

Done!

It has taken me three years to write about a trip that took five weeks, but I did it! There is no more to write about my time in South America (I’ll spare you the story of the stomach bug I got on the way home, for which I DO NOT BLAME Mario). Watch this space for an update on the future of this blog…when I get around to it.

*When this trip happened, Barack Obama was President of the United States. Ouch.

**52^nd-best according to the American Film Institute, as listed here.