Still alive, the poor creature was found frozen to the ground, face down with legs splayed apart at impossible angles. He was embedded in ice and required buckets of warm water poured repeatedly over him to free him. His rescuers, volunteers of SCAPA, then rushed him to a vet clinic.

He had survived being hit by a car. He survived being left to literally freeze to death. Now, Trooper, as he’s been named by those who saved him, is still fighting.

Flown to PEI for specialized veterinary care, Trooper is facing amputation of a leg. Not from whatever first injured him, but from being left to hypothermia and frostbite. This could have been avoided if help had been called sooner.

How any human being could, in good conscience, knowingly overlook any creature, human or animal, in crisis is beyond me. I’ve seen a lot of disheartening things in the last 7 years as an animal rescue volunteer. But I’ve also seen the good that can happen when people who care pull together to make up for those who don’t.

This is that kind of moment. Right now, Trooper and his rescuer, Gwenn Samms of SCAPA, are appealing for donations of any size to help Trooper continue his fight. Even with 3 legs, he can live a happy, full life as a beloved pet. His story has moved people from the Avalon Peninsula to Australia. Will you be one of them? I’ll be donating and I hope you will consider it too.

Click here for Trooper’s Facebook Page where you can find out ways to donate and spread the word to help this brave survivor get the surgery he needs. He has shown more courage than most humans ever could.

He may have been thrown away by previous owners. He may have been hit by a car trying to survive out there in the world. He may have found himself frozen to someone’s driveway while waiting for humans to make a call for help. But you can help him have the warm, loving ending his story deserves.

If you see an animal that is injured, don’t wait before reporting it. If you see neglect or abuse happening, says something to authorities, anonymously even. Our compassion and humanity should be extended to all living creatures.

My Nan would say “animals were put on Earth to judge mans by”. And my Nan was a wise woman. Let’s be judged by our actions. Let’s help Trooper and the others like him out there.

Thanks for reading, and caring.

Jennifer

The place has a great retro vibe with diner style tables and vintage ad posters adorning the walls. You can buy your favourite cheeky vintage print right off the wall while you wait for your cupcakes.

What’s better than the fun atmosphere is the baking. Wow! I’m serious, owner Laine Rideout and her staff sure knows their way around a cupcake. They taste just as good (if not better) than the ones I’ve tried in those wildly popular gourmet cupcake shops in New York City.

Sugar Mama’s really has the look, feel and taste that makes it a refreshing little speciality spot that I’m happy to be a customer of. In December, I had custom cupcakes made to order for a petsitter thank you party (below), and the reaction to them was what I’d hoped for. I plan to come up with more fun ideas for future parties and go back to their bakery for more.

Thanks to Sugar Mama’s addictive deliciousness and beautiful presentation when you buy a box of cupcakes, I’ve become something of a “cupcake fairy”.

This involves surprise cupcake runs after snow storms, dropping off delicious pick-me-up treats to housebound friends on miserable days.

Nothing like a little bit of sugar to perk you up, sure.

And since I’m not much of a baker myself, I can always bring an order of their mini cupcakes to parties and potlucks, and still contribute something delicious to the table. I hear their custom cupcakes are becoming popular for weddings now, too.

Another fun idea they do at Sugar Mama’s is cupcake bouquets delivered to your special somebody. Surprise a family member on their birthday, or cheer up that friend who’s feeling down with an edible bouquet

I like that you can do custom orders with colours and designs to match your party theme, like their awesome Republic of Newfoundland cupcakes with colourful icing matching the flag, as well as partridgeberry and bakeapple jam in the centre.

That would definitely make your friends go “oooh” and then “mmmm!”

My favourites are the Mama Drama (chocolate with the smoothest pink buttercream icing), The Pearl (vanilla) and the Paradise Colada (pineapple and coconut).

Copyright: Sugar Mama's Flickr stream - click this photo to see more pictures of yummy treats.

If you haven’t been there yet, you really should swing by. It’s tucked away in the little strip mall next to Staples and the Shoe Company, near Walmart and Dominion.

Sugar Mama’s is Mount Pearl’s best kept (taste) secret, if you ask me. I love shopping locally and supporting homegrown Newfoundland businesses.

Have you had a taste of Sugar Mama’s yet? What’s you favourite flavour? Any other best kept secrets around the Avalon that you can recommend? It’s always great hearing your feedback!

This shot was taken in Winter 2008, in Pasadena, Newfoundland while visiting relatives. Here you see my beautiful cousin Julie, who’s now grown into a young woman.

That March afternoon, we went for a walk on a nearby wooded path, winter snow drifts groaning under our boots. The air was crisp and smelled of woodstove smoke, while puffs of our breath lingered in the air.

I didn’t get sisters in this life, so my cousins are the closest thing to sisters I have. Over the years, Julie has really become an impressive young woman, down to earth, hard working, a love for travelling, strong family values and always a lot of fun to be around.

I captured Julie in a candid, joyful moment of youth.

The photo always makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Winter portrait sessions now available. Drop me a line at jbarnable(at)gmail.com for rates and weekend dates.

I drove along a quiet side road to avoid traffic and turned off the car stereo to give my brain some quiet breathing space. Feeling worn out so soon after a break that was supposed to fill my tank back up was discouraging me. This life we lead just keeps piling on so many tasks in such limited time that it’s taking a toll on me.

When did everything get so out of control busy? Each year seems to be wound up and set off at an even higher speed than the last. It’s simply not good for us.

Random Encounter
Feeling battle weary, I drove on, reducing my speed as I approached a stop sign. On the other side of the street was a young woman, walking along the slushy sidewalk.

And she was smiling from ear to ear. A real, genuine smile as if she was recalling a fond memory or reliving a conversation. With her winter cap pulled down tight and her jean legs soaked by cold, wet car spray, she didn’t have the usual winter-pedestrian-game-face on.

It was a split second observation, this stranger’s face lighting up in a wide smile as she walked along alone. Despite being tired and preoccpied, I found myself instantly smiling as well. I wondered what she was thinking about. My own smile widened more and I felt a little of the weariness lift from my hunched shoulders.

Contagion
Within seconds, I stopped at the intersection and the borrowed smile spread wider.  A car approached me at the intersection, slowing down to take the turn. The 50-something driver glanced over at me and immediately her serious face eased up into a reciprocal smile.

I smiled back as she passed my car window, realizing we’d all passed along the same smile in just a matter of seconds.  It was a wonderful thing, this shared moment.

Copyright: DougBelshaw.com

I drove on, struck by the contagious nature and simple power of a smile. It lifted me up and gave me some fuel to carry on, fighting my way through traffic to get to my appointment and back to work to finish out the day.

I’m a smiler by nature, but the way life has been lately, I’ve been in survival mode. I’m striving for a better work-life balance, and a way to control the crazy schedules both areas of my life create.

Life is so short and I refuse to live it feeling so drained by all the never-ending demands around me. How do I grab it by the tail and slow it down? North American society really has it wrong, and Newfoundland is becoming more Americanized every year, it seems.

Wanting to live meaningfully while juggling all the non-stop demands and  pressures of life can leave you feeling haggard and less than human at times.

Thanks to a fleeting moment and a shared smile between strangers yesterday, I received a little boost that couldn’t have come at a better time.

See for yourself in this video he created for “One Minute Love Story” – a contest for a $10,000 engagement ring. You can’t help but be touched by his sincerity and expressiveness. And happily, his video was voted #1 and he presented his fiance, Jen, with the amazing prize.

Congrats Brendan and Jen!

Enjoy their love story. It’s beautifully filmed and warms the heart.

http://youtu.be/bqgf_wOefpM

(For some strange reason the video isn’t showing up as it normally would; the link is above, just click to view it on You Tube while I sort this out- thanks!)

(C) Maris Foxtales

Winter in Newfoundland is not my favourite time of the year, but I do love those snow days we get when a storm blows in and the City shuts down.

Everything slows down, people stay huddled inside and all sounds are muffled by drifting snow.

When we’ve got winter storm warnings forecasted, the night before finds many of us adults as eager as kids on Christmas Eve. Will it come? Will there be a snow day?

A good indicator when I wake up is this mental, sensory checklist:

1. No sounds from the street (I live near a school and on a busy corner in downtown St. John’s) – check.
2. Frosty artsy patterns sprawled across the outside of my bedroom window – check.
3. The bedroom is colder than usual, despite the heater being on blast all night.Tender tootsies recoil at the first touch down on the hardwod floor – check.
4. Check school closure bulletins on my phone via the realtime updates. Scan webpage for bolded red letters “Closed for the Day” – check!!
5. Make a small, giddy peep of excitement and fall back into the pillows, grinning before falling back to sleep – check.

There are all sorts of things to on a snow day. What are your usual snow day holiday activities? Do you snuggle down and watch a movie? Do chores? Get out snowshoeing? Do tell – it’s always good to get new ideas, since winter’s just begun and we’re likely to have a few more of these glorious reprieves.

My European friends always gape at me when I explain that I used to drive 7 hours (both to and from) the west coast in the short span of a weekend when going skiing or visiting my Nan. Driving’s the only affordable option at home and the distances are long. It’s all what you’re used to really. If we had a train in our province, it would be wonderful. Think of all the weekend trips you could do!

Europe is so compact and easy to travel within, that you’d cover a lot of ground in that usual 7 hour drive I’d make back at home — and even further by train…which brings me to my arrival in Ghent, Belgium.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

My friend Liesbet was waiting for me, bundled up in her coat and scarf, standing in the historic fort turned train station. I was relieved to see her, after being cooped up on the train next to a couple of the stinkiest guys I have encountered in ages. Ugh. Come on b’ys. A bar of soap never hurt anyone. (Stay tuned for my post-trip wrap up of highs and lows, including travel pet peeves).

We headed towards Liesbet’s new home, which she’s currently renovating, and along the way stopped at a typical Belgian frituur (chip shop) and grabbed a quick bite. This is a lively university town and less touristy than the neighbouring Bruges and busy Brussels.

Even in the dark, rainy nighttime streets, young folks are whizzing along on bicycles and always on the go. The rain ran down the frituur’s windows as we ate and chatted. The forecast was looking grim for my stay in Belgium, Liesbet warned.

An aside: I think it’s safe to say I’ll definitely do my best in the future to avoid travelling in Europe between October and April.  I’m pretty thick skinned when it comes to cold temperatures, but the last two weeks have nearly done me in. I don’t know how much more of the freezing cold rain and bone-deep cold I can take. Perhaps I’m getting weather frail in my old age.

Usually I go some place warmer on vacation (Central America, the Mediterranean, Hawaii), and Morocco would have been just that, but the last-minute changes saw a quick end to that idea. It seems I traded in my warm and affordable adventure with a cold and expensive one instead. But still, I always try to enjoy every minute of my travels, even when my teeth are chattering and my umbrella is turned inside out.

The Mighty Belgian andTthe Fearsome Celt

Liesbet and I had a grand old catch-up chat before bed. We had met by chance a couple of years ago in Newfoundland and later hosted through CouchSurfing.

I took her and two other friends to the Southern Shore Shamrock Festival at home in Ferryland that summer, and we had one of the best Girls Getaways I can ever recall. That’s going to have to be its own separate blog, it was such a time!

From toutons to whales, step dancing to staggering home…and then there was also the unfortunate but hilarious incident that resulted in her getting the nickname, “the Flemish Flasher”. Liesbet still recalls it as her favourite experience during her time working in Newfoundland, and it’s definitely among my best summertime roadtrip memories, too. We chatted about our other two partners in crime from that weekend, Whitney and Jane, and wished they were with us. Though we’re not sure if the world could withstand another weekend with the four of us tangly women together again!

THE MIGHTY BELGIANS

Liesbet informed me that since I blogged about the Great Danes, it would only be fair to inform the world about the Mighty Belgians. And she is a good example of one of them: serious and straight forward with a hearty streak of fun. The title became a running joke during my visit, and resulted in a series of photos of Liesbet doing random things with the Mighty Belgian flourish. (See evidence below).

At the Het Gravensteen fort with its medieval weaponry display. This massive sword was one of many used by medieval Belgian warriors. Here, naturally, you see the enthusiasm of the Mighty Belgian.

During my stay, Liesbet led me through the beautiful medieval streets of Ghent in varying degrees of rotten weather.

What strikes you is the truly medieval feel of this city. Cobbled streets and bridges straddle the canal with its towers and stone facades.

The most famous view of Ghent is from the Saint-Michael’s Bridge, facing the “three towers” (Saint Nicholas’ Church, the Belfry and Saint Bavo’s Cathedral). I managed to only get a few snaps before the pouring rain and icy wind made me put away the camera.

During the Middle Ages, Ghent was one of the richest and most powerful cities in Europe. Now the medieval splendor combines with the daily sights and sounds of a living urban centre. (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

We went to Het Gravensteen, the late 10th century castle of the Flanders counts, complete with fort ramparts, turrets, great hall, alcoves lined with circular stained glass panes and stone window seats.

I could picture these vaulted rooms alive with people, whispers of conversations and the echoes of boot heels on the stone floors. There would have been feasts. There would have been plotting. There would have been every day life, too.

It reminded me of so many historical fictions I’ve read about this period, and of Ghent itself back in medieval times. I imagined how cold it must have been back then, for the count and his court, behind the thick stone walls. Surely it was a more luxurious life than that of the commoners from the village outside the fort.

Inside was a small but informative museum with medieval weaponry exhibit and a grusome torture chamber, oubliette and dungeon — each shudder-worthy. Many of the torture methods shown were used during the witch trials, a horrible period of social injustice against women (and anyone different, disabled or disliked).

Leaving the brutal contraptions behind, we passed a small room with a beautiful harp and throne-like chair before climbing up to the “donjon’s” ramparts for a panoramic view of the city’s towers and rooftops.

Ghent (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

Liesbet also took me to some of her favourite shops in the city. We have much the same tastes in shopping, a mix of vintage and quirky, and classicly functional. There are plenty of great shops to choose from here in Ghent, and the shop displays are wonderful. We had some famously delicious Belgian hot chocolate at a cafe and warmed up in between shopping and walking in the Old Centre.

ACHOO!

By the end of the day, I was feeling pretty miserable. I was coming down with the cold I had been fighting the whole trip. Liesbet had been sick for almost a week, too. It seemed like everyone I met on this trip had a cold or flu (plus being on planes and trains with germs galore certainly doesn’t help). It was setting in pretty quickly with sore muscles, fever and sore throat on the menu, so I went to bed early and tried to get rested. Being sick on vacation is bad enough, because you don’t want to lose time and feel miserable, so I hoped it would pass quickly.

TO BE CONTINUED…

My time in Denmark begins! (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

I moved on to Generator Hostel the next morning, which was directly in the middle of everything in Copenhagen’s core. The luxury hostel was clean, bright, well-designed and minimalist and I set about having a hotter-than-hot shower to get the chill out of my bones. It is very wet and cold here in Copenhaegn – dank really.

My first stop was for a quick breakfast to go (Danish pastry and orange juice) from a nearby cafe before heading to Nyhavn, the historic harbour. This is the place you see on all the postcards – quaint, colourful buildings nestled together with masts of ships in the foreground as they bobbed on the shallow canal. At the very tops of the masts, almost impossibly, were Christmas tree tops, lashed on with rope with lights running the length of the rigging, too. I was going to come back at night, for sure, to see them a-light.

I lucked into a canal boat tour that was just about to start, and hopped on for an hour’s cruise around the inner and outer canal system of Copenhagen. It was so bloody cold and damp, but I forced myself tot stay outside on the stern to snap some great shots as we glided along the sluggishly moving waters. In the distance, windmills and smoke stacks stood straight as whips on the flat, flat landscape while on the water, yellow, metal buoys bobbed silently to guide waterway traffic.

We quietly slipped past panoramic shots of the city’s rust-coloured rooftops and narrow, whitewashed facades. We ducked under low bridges, into blackness only to come out the other side squinting at the bright contrast of dark towering church spires and grey skies. Cyclists sped along in great numbers, their scarves flapping out around them. Other well dressed, good looking Danes walked their dogs at the end of equally-stlyish leashes.

Scenes from Copenhagen, Christmas 2011 (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

THE GREAT DANES: AN INTERESTING BREED

The Danes are practical, pleasant, incredibly civil and astonishingly good looking people who speak better English than we do.  Great Danes indeed. The quality of living is high here, and Copenhagen has been rated the 3rd most liveable city in the world, according to the travel brochures I’ve been reading. It’s clean, well-organized, relaxed and straight forward here. You can feel and see that right away.

I also get the sense it can also be quite a lonely place, if you are a foreigner, as the Danish are known for being aloof and closed to outsiders. (I did some research and found some interesting recent studies on the “Danish Cold Shoulder” making it difficult for other nationalities to settle and integrate here successfully. What a shame.

But from my own (albeit superficial, short) interactions with the locals here, the Danish seem to be very jovial, pleasant and helpful, who I feel, have very big hearts even if they may be very conservative to others. This is a definitely city where family is important, and many young families can be seen at every turn. The Danes also seem to be very loving and warm with their significant others, children and relatives. Always kind, warm touches and hugs between them, whether it’s a loving father with his infant daughter on the train, smiling proudly down at her and talking softly, or a couple, bicycling down dark, wet streets, feet pedalling but holding hands and from time to time, leaning in for a kiss. It’s so nice to see.

In this busy world of ours, the Danes seem to keep hold of their relationships and really nurture them with frequent gestures of warmth and caring. I have noticed that a lot here.  I find myself smiling all the time from the small, everyday interactions I see around me, that tell me that underneath the aloofness are some of the warmest, most steadfasts hearts. And again, as a foreigner, I can see the forcefield around them as well – this love is just for the few they choose to keep close. It made me wish I was one of those chosen few, from the outside looking in. But I will have to be content with people watching in this city of hearts.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

A CITY OF HEARTS

I should mention that the heart motif is one found everywhere in Copenhagen. As part of the  national coat of arms of Denmark, hearts feature prominently. It’s on their coins, in many shop decorations, found worked into sculptures and building designs, and at Christmas, the centre of evergreen garlands draped across the city streets, glowing a warm red. From tasty gingerbread treats in bakery windows to sentry look-out post peep holes at historic sites, the heart shape can be found all over, once you take notice.

I will have been in Copenhagen for a week, and as I type this nearing the end of my trip, all the days seem to blur into one.  I browsed awesome vintage shops, had dinner in a trendy black and red themed restaurant called Dalle Valle, walked briskly through wet streets and shivered while staring at incredible Scandinavian clothing and furniture in designer shops along the Stroget.

I scaled the uniquely spiralled flat-ramped Rundetaarn(Round Tower) and got a taste of history, imagining King Christian IV galloping his horse to the top of the observatory. From the top, I scanned the rooftops of the city, holding onto my Nordic style hood, as the wind tried its best to part me of it.

Canal buoy, Round Tower, city scape (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

Inside the Round Tower were some great interpretive exhibitions speaking to the history and significance of the observatory. An astronomical clock, exposed wooden support beams, a rocking chair in a shaft of light alongside many artifacts. Below, a gallery space with open art studio project, “Your Tower, Your Art” was open to visitors, inviting you to come in and put your mark on a collective art piece. And I did!

The love and respect of culture and art here in Copenhagen is remarkable. It’s made very accessible, too. One of my favourite sites was the National Museet (museum) with its Danish pre-history exhibition detailing 14,000 years of Norse history with Viking artifacts like the Trundholm sun chariot, golden arm cuffs, talismans and weapon, the remains of a Norse ship and block-lifts of burial mound skeletons and human bog sacrifices (creepy but interesting!).

The anthropologist and history buff in me loves this kind of sightseeing. I could do without going into every church and palace – it’s the archaeology and ethnohistory I love most when I travel.

TIVOLI: IT’S A SCREAM

Tivoli Gardens made it on my list of to dos because of the great nighttime photography and the Russian Christmas themed sights lit up at night AND for its amusement park rides. I hadn’t been on proper rides since Canada’s Wonderland quite a few years ago now. And oh, how I do love rides!

Despite the misty, windy weather, I bundled up and headed to Tivoli, one of the world’s oldest amusement parks. My bones and muscles ached to the core, but I forced myself to keep going and make it a full day. When the weather is miserable, it’s no fun sightseeing no matter where you are in the world, I find. But as I got closer to the park and heard the shrieks of excitment high above on the rollercoaster, I quickened my pace. The adrenalline would surely warm me up, right?

The entry fee and ride pass were a pretty penny, but it was my Christmas treat to myself, so I paid it unhesitatingly. I walked into a veritable winter wonderland (minus the snow). It was magical. Twenty acres of every sort of Christmas decoration, including 110,000 lanterns (and hearts) hanging overhead from trees, light-outlined buildings with Russian spires, beautiful gardens, a lake with tiny, glowing boats, archways and alleys leading to  mulled wine and waffle houses, evergreen trees and perfectly-placed ornaments.

I grabbed a traditional Danish waffle from one of the market shacks, with heartshaped edges and strawberry jam and whipped cream. Delicious! Then I stuck my bag in a locker and headed for the rides. Time for business. The park wasn’t overcrowded, thankfully (due to the weather) and when it came time to try out the rides, I didn’t have to wait at all.  There are 26 rides for adults and children, and I took in the 10 best adult rides, like Veritgo, The Daemon, Sky Star and a bunch I don’t remember the names of — just the thrills!

It was a bit strange to go on the rides alone, but I wasn’t really alone anyway – I had neighbouring kids and people my own age up ther with me – and together we screamed and laughed our heads off. Of course, it would be better if my travel companion was with me, but she’s healing at home after her nasty fall. Poor thing. So I made the best of it — and rode everything twice

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

What amazing views of the city from the top of that knee-knocking vertical drop. I would almost forget I was up so high when I’d take in the illuminated Radhaus (City Hall) and imagine scenes from my favourite Danish television series, Forbrydelsen). Then – whoosh! The drop. Your heart lurches in your chest and the involuntary shrieking begins. God, it was awesome. Nothing like screaming your head off or laughing til you can’t breathe from fear and adrenaline. I think it’s got to be theraputic in some way (well, for people who aren’t scared of heights). I ended with the Himmelskibet, the world’s tallest carousel ride, swinging out over the park with incredible 360 degree views of the city.

After the thrills of Tivoli, it was 7 p.m. and I was damp to the skin, freezing cold and stiff as a board. All I wanted was a hot shower, but I knew that come Dec 24th & 25th, the whole city would be shut down, and with it, the galleries, historic sites, restaurants and cafes. I forced myself on to the Grand Teatret (theatre) where Stieg Larsson’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was premiering.

It was a cafe cinema, meaning a posh cinema with tarts, teas and coffees only, and high-backed velvet luxury seats in small, intimate salons. Having seen the Swedish version (with English subtitles) of the entire trilogy, I wanted to see the Brit’s version. I was impressed and disturbed all over again. They did a good job with the remake.

Once the lights came up, I filed out of the cinema amongst the well-dressed, somewhat snooty cinemaphiles (the Danes love their films and what they produce themselves is rather amazing, if you enjoy foreign films). I headed back along the wet, dark streets to the hostel and the hotest shower in history.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

Christmas Eve came and went without much to speak of. I slept very late, knowing most things were closed. It was my first gratuitous sleep-in/lazy day of my trip, and I was okay with that. It wasn’t like there was anything open in the city or the countryside for me to go and see (unfortunately). I could take the train over to Sweden but it, too, would be closed with the holidays. So I resigned myself to just chilling. After all, I hadn’t really stopped during the entire trip. A rest was in order. My back had been very bad, with spasms and locking up for the last few days (ever since I arrived in dank, wet, cold Copenhagen), so I popped a muscle relaxer, put a makeshift heat pack on and tried not to be as miserable as I felt.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

Christmas Eve is the biggest day of the holidays for Danish people. It’s when they gather for a big feast, go to church, and at night the family opens presents. Part of Danish folklore is the Nisse, a very old elf-like creature who holds some control over your destiny, so the children are told to behave or else the Nisse will know. Kind of like Santa, just cooler and creepier.

It starts to get dark at 3 p.m. here, which is very early and leaves you with only a short window of time during the day to go out and about. Before I knew it, it was pitch black. I let the solitude of the day get to me a little, thinking about my friends and family back home. My three little nephews would be getting excited for Santa. My pets would be snuggled in at my house. My friends and family would be putting last minute touches on gift wrapping and probably sitting down to a nice supper.

And I was alone in a hostel room.

It sucked. For the last five years, I’ve been spending Christmas travelling, but the novelty is beginning to wear off. Yes, experiencing Christmas in another culture each year is interesting and I’ve made many great memories, but there comes a time when you just want to be home for the holidays. I came to that realization today.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable

Christmas day arrived and I had no place to go. I’m not good at doing nothing and just relaxing, so I was going stir crazy. What I wouldn’t have given to be with loved ones. So I’ve decided this is my last Christmas away. As much as I like escaping the stress of Christmas, the commercialization, the navigating my family’s complicated dynamics, the time has come.  It’s also easier to travel when it’s not high season with high costs, lack of CouchSurfing hosts (because they too, have their own Christmas plans) and with so many closures around the holiday calendar in most Christian countries.

I’ll try February from now on. That’s the dead of winter in Newfoundland, and usually the hardest month to survive, for me. It’s time to stop avoiding Christmas and start building my own Christmas traditions. Thank you, Copenhagen. It was a conclusion I needed to come to and was really only a matter of time.

Christmas is about being with those you love. And everyone I love is an ocean away. So I nursed my loneliness and fully experienced it. It felt very significant.

During this quiet period of reflection and realization, I almost had a heart attack.

Bombs started going off outside my window. The biggest, loudest explosions echoed and ricocheted off the narrow streets, rattling the walls. I flew off my bed and roared some choice expletives.

Apparently, it’s a custom to throw firecrackers off the rooftops here around Christmas. The bangs and bright flashes of the single “bombs” that followed made me jump and burned my eyes as I peered out the 5th floor window. More rained down off the top of the roof and people of the streets dodged the more harmless sparklers that swirled in circles on the sidewalks.
The bombs sounded like only something you’d hear in a war movie. The first bang shocked me so badly, I had flown from the bed to the other side of the room, clutching my chest. My ears actually hurt! Okay. Merry Christmas to you guys on the roof, too.

It was a wake up call — a very loud one at that. I had been jarred out of my moment of reverie by a rooftop rocket. Time to focus on the here and now, I said to myself. Make every minute count. Another *boom* went off, and this time, I didn’t flinch. I smiled wryly and shook my head. It reminded me to be present, stay in the moment and experience everything, even the periods of loneliness that sometimes come with independent travel. It was an unlikely but welcome Christmas gift in itself.

Glædelig jul og godt nytår!

The next day, while many things were still closed, I took another stroll around town. I admired the reflections from Nyhavn’s colourful building facades on the rippling sea water in the narrow canal. I inspected monuments and building facades, seeking more insight into the closed doors of Copenhagen. I shivered as my jacket got damper in the mist and stuck to me, the wind driving my scarf further into my face and neck.

There was hardly a person on the streets. My footfall was the only sound, with the occasional bicycle splashing through, basket rattling on the front. It felt as though Copenhagen was on the brink of a zombie apocalypse. Had for days. Then as night began to fall, my daydreams of gorgeous Danish brain sucking zoombies disappeared with the sound of angelic voices raised in song. I followed the echoes to  Rundetårn, where a group of blonde, Santa hatted choir singers stood with a small group of passersby pausing to watch and listen.

Carollers! Surely there could be no zombie threat with Christmas carollers singing so happily, annunciating in that a sickeningly, perky way.  Oh but it would be such a perfect time for zombies to burst out right now, amidst the holiday revellers, I thought to myself in dark amusement. This cold, lonely place was doing strange things to my brain, I chuckled to myself. Errrrr brains….

Instead, the scene unfolded like this:

One afternoon after another long day of Chrismtas closures and an empty city, I realized I hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words out loud for days. One could lose their mind like that. Anyone who knows me, knows I make acquaintances easily, being an open and friendly person (a trait I get from my father). But it did me no good in Denmark. If *I* couldn’t meet locals in this city, I’m pretty sure nobody could.

I walked so much (in silence) for days that I feel I know the city like tha back of my hand. One afternoon, in my wanderings, I finally met another human being. Not a local, of course. But not a zombie either. I was photographing in an area alongside a young Ukrainian guy named Kirill who was also taking photos. We chatted and walked along, and I soon came to know that this was his very first trip outside his home country. It was great seeing his wide-eyed wonder and innocent enthusiasm at travelling for the first time. In 1998, that would have been me.

We walked and talked a bit and I showed him some photography tips – he was using his new dSLR and was an eager student. It was cute. And it meant I had someone to talk to in Copenhagen – finally. It only took four days! Locals were not as easy to meet as fellow travellers, I was later told by a few real live Danes I would eventually meet. So Kirill and I spent a couple of pleasant hours exploring and chatting and then I showed him how to get back to his accommodations as he was a little turned around and overwhelmed by the city’s labyrinth-like streets. I had spent four days navigating them, so I had become very familiar with the lay of the land. What a sweet young guy. I wish him well in his travels!

It’s so cold in Denmark that I have extended hot showers twice a day. One in the morning, and one after I get in after all day walking in the freezing, wet cold. After sufficiently scalding myself and soothing my aching back and neck, I watched some more of season two’s Forbrydelsen (the brilliant Danish tv series) and then got some CouchSurfing correspondences from some locals CSers who wanted to meet the next day, and – lucky me – one who wanted to host me on my last night, too. I went to bed excited to finally be meeting some real Danish folks — even if it was at the very end of my trip. I’d take what I could get!

The following day, I woke early, checked out of the Generator Hostel (which I have to say is one of the best hostel I’ve ever stayed in), I met with Lea, a local CSer who was now back in the city after Christmas. We grabbed breakfast at nearby Café Dan Turéll, which also turns out to be one of the oldest cafes in the city. Lea and I had a great chat and got to know each other better, which is the beauty of CouchSurfing — you can meet up for coffee or an activity with locals or fellow travellers. The traditional Danish breakfast is massive — I kept pushing half my plate’s contents over onto Lea’s, forcing her to help me finish it all. We chatted about travel, Danish people (her mother is Danish and Lea has lived here all her life), travel and humanitarian work. Lea leaves next week for East Timor to volunteer on a UN mission. So important, this kind of work is.

Meeting a local in Copenhagen - thanks to CouchSurfing!

After our meal, we walked a while, Lea pushing her bicycle alongside, and went as far as Norrebrod, crossing the bridge by the small lakes with swans floating past. We parted after a few hours’ hanging out, as she had family visiting to do. It was great to meeet her!

I had to move on next to the northern part of the city to find the home of my CS host, Charlotte, who would be waiting for me. The A-train was easy to navigate and within 20 minutes, I was at her doorstep and warmly welcomed into the funky apartment. It’s a shame my timing wasn’t good this trip, what with Christmas and all, because I would have loved to spend more time with both Lea and Charlotte, real Danish locals and really amazing women.

Charlotte and I hit it off, and I was instantly comfortable in her home as her guest. We drank copious amounts of tea, pondered our respective existential crises, exhanged stories and ideas, laughed, mused, ate pizza, shared music and talked long through the day and night, like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. I love when you meet a new friend and just ‘click’ naturally. That was twice in one day. How I wish it had come earlier — now I was sad to leave just having started to feel more connected to the place and its people.

I curled up in a cozy duvet in the spare room, and had a fantastic last sleep in Copenhagen. The next morning, we had rye bread and “frog snapper” pastries and, of course, loads of hot tea. The conversation continued for a few more hours, slouched on the comfy couch, feet up and mugs in hand. Eventually, it was time for me to head to the airport. Charlotte and I said our goodbyes at the bus stop down the street from her house, but I definitely feel our paths will cross again.

As I arrived at Copenhagen airport, something happened that hadn’t in the whole week I was there: the sun broke out from behind the clouds. It was blindingly bright and I squinted against it. Minutes later, it was swallowed up again. Funny how it waited so long to show itself — but at least it did before I left. Just like the new friends I had met, ever so briefly, but how brilliantly they, too, shone.

The plane is boarding. Next update from Belgium!

Rundetårn

I met my friend Anne at Gare Montparnasse. We had not connected by phone despite several attempts, so I wandered around inside and outside the station trying to get my tired brain to sort out a plan. I decided to wait and see if she arrived to meet me, and if not, I would set out from there to her place and hope to meet her there.

Weary and bleary-eyed, dragging my little baggage (that now felt too heavy), out of the crowd appeared Anne. Smiling and walking alongside her bicycle, she was a welcome sight. I hadn’t seen her since my last visit in autumn 2005 (and again, previously, in 2004), but she looked exactly the same.

We then walked to her apartment in the 7th arrondisement just up the street from Les Invalides. Once at Avenue de Breteuil, I settled in at her typically small Parisian apartment, taking up residence in the bedroom that was once her sisters — and had been always been my spot.

This being my third stay at her place, it has come to feel like a home away from home for me. I plunked my bags down and went to sit in the kitchen for tea in her tiny, cute kitchen and had a chat.

Copyright Jennifer Barnable 2011

Since I was tired but hungry, we decided to out to a nice brasserie for a late supper. The ambiance was perfectly Parisian, the food tasty and the conversation filled with laughter. We caught up on the years passed (e-mails over the years can never replace in-person accounts) and after a nice, long supper, headed back to the apartment.

Because Anne lives so close to many important landmarks, and in such a beautiful neighbourhood, we took a detour along the way home to see the Eiffel Tower sparkling across the Champs de Mars. After, we headed back to Breteuil, with the golden dome of Les Invalides illuminated in the distance.

I have arrived! Paris 2011 (C) Jennifer Barnable

Once back inside, I drew the thick red curtains closed and climbed into the comfy single bed. I let out one big, contended sigh of relief before sleep crept in.

A VISIT TO ANDRESY

The next morning, after both sleeping in late, we had breakfast – a long-awaited croissant aux amandes from the neighbourhood boulangerie withand piping hot tea. I used Anne’s computer to make accommodation arrangements for Denmark, as there was no wifi for me to use my own netbook. Anne, being her usual sophisticated, patient self, chatted away with me.

It’s always a wonderful thing, when you can pick up where you leave off. I’m lucky to have friends like this, who even if I don’t see them for years, we don’t miss a beat once reunited.

It was great to hear about her everyday life, her work, her family and her adventures, such as a recent humanitarian trip to Senegal. She is, I tell her, the “total package” and it is a wonder  she is still single. But as many of us modern women in our 30s know, it is not that easy.  A good man can be hard to find.

In the afternoon, we took the RER  to Andresy, her hometown, just 45 minutes away by train. I hadn’t been there since 2004. It is small, quaint and by the river where swans glide and muskrats paddle.

At her home was her mother and father and two visiting neighbours. They gave me a sincerely warm welcome and it was good to see their faces after six years. Their two petitie torties, Boulette and Minette, were as sweet as ever and there was a new edition, Shaolin.

Anne’s sister Valerie arrived and I also met her one-year-old daughter, Noemie, who is as cute as they come. I had brought a special little present for her -finger puppets and a little owl from a recent Farmer’s Market back home in Newfoundland. It went over very well. She giggled and grabbed at the whale and octopus finger puppets.

Anne’s mother is such a sweet and strong woman. She is the glue of the family. She enthusiastically asked questions about Newfoundland and brought out an atlas and books on tall ships and seafaring. I can understand almost everything being said, but because I haven’t practiced in years, my conversation skills are rather stitled. In grade school and university, we concentrated on writing and reading French properly, but not enough on real, everyday conversational skills.  But we managed, and Anne’s fluency was a great bridge for us.

We sat and talked over tea in elegant cups and delicious tarte tatin while Anne played piano. They were all pleasantly surprised when the discovered I knew the words to Frere Jacque and Au Clair de la Lune. Noemie loves music and was dancing and trying to sing. She’s a musical baby and the apple of her grandmere’s eye.

Clockwise from top left: Mayor's House in Andresy, Anne playing Au Clair de la Lune, Valerie, me, Anne's mom & a neighbour

We eventually said our goodbyes and headed back to the city on the train, occupying the time with people watching. A dramatic couple who seemed to have been up all night fighting and crying were making up a few seats away, and a lip-synching, headphones-wearing older man was grooving and gesturing animatedly in his own world.

And so went my first full day in France.

TOURNEE DU CHAT NOIR…ET BLANC

The next day, Anne’s sister Valerie accompanied me around the city. Even though I like exploring independently, I could not refuse her generous offer to be my guide. She was perplexed when many of her suggestions were things I had already seen once or even twice, in my previous extended visits. I was really just looked to relax and walk around, with no solid plan.

We had breakfast in a very beautiful 7th district bakery, Boulangerie Jocteur, with its array of tantalizing pastries, bagquettes and other delicacies. The French do everything with panache, whether it’s laying out a plate or wrapping a bag – everything is done with care and flair.

Presentation is everything, in Paris. (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable 2011)

We sat with our tea and pain au chocolat and gazed up at the stunning frescoed ceiling. I happpily people watched, listening to snippets of conversations amidst the smell of freshly baked bread. “I’m here. This is Paris.” I thought contentedly.

After breakfast, Valerie and I walked through the streets, past the Ecole Militarie and onwards to the Champs du Mars. It was there that our tour took a different turn.

We made it as far as the Peace memorial on the Champs du Mars when I stopped to take a photo of La Tour. We spotted the little black and white cat at the same time. It is unusual to see cats in the streets, and especially there, Valerie said. Maybe it was lost.

The cat was very petite and being harrassed by a very large crow. It went under the ramp of the monument and came out for rubs. This looked like it was someone’s cat. She was very nervous but liked to be handled and stood on her back feet for rubs. Valerie said we could call the Brigitte Bardot no-kill foundation later and report the sighting, but I felt something more immediate was necessary. After all, the little scared cat could be gone by then and never found afterwards.

The time to act was now. To me, no tour was more important than this little lost cat. If it were one of my pets, I would hope someone would do the same. And in the worst case scenario, if it had been abandoned, we could bring it to a shelter in hopes of a new home for her.

Luckily, there was a tattoo inside her ear, so Valerie had the good idea that maybe a vet could help identify her and call her owners. But how to get the cat home and then to the vet?

She emptied her tote bag and passed it to me. Trying to pick up the kitty had scared her, so I approached her carefully. I waited and when she came back to me, rubbed her and then in a swift motion, held her neck and upper body, and placed her feet first down into Valerie’s tote, which thankfully had a zipper.

The frightened kitty tried to break free but I held her and zippered the bag closed, leaving some breathing space. The poor thing cried and struggled, even more scared now. I held the bag tightly and talked in a calming voice, while Valerie and I rushed off to hail a taxi.

This situation gave entirely new meaning to ‘don’t let the cat out of the bag’. I was praying it wouldn’t break, because there were some small holes in the bottom, so I held it close to me and covered all possible weak points. If she escaped now, there was a dangerous possibility of her running into the street and being killed by a car. It’s good to try to help, but you have to be careful about how you do it.

The little black and white kitty gave up struggling rather quickly. I patted and rubbed the tough material of the tote bag and spoke to her calmly. She trembled, but made no more noise. We managed to get a taxi and went directly to Anne’s house nearby where Valerie looked up the number for a nearby vet.

A worthy detour.

The nearest vet was, surprisingly, just down the street from Anne’s apartment. Even the vet clinics look like boutiques here. The vet assistant asked us to wait a little while the vet was with another patient, which was no problem for us.

When our time came, we were escorted into a small examination room where an attractive and no-nonsense veterinarian examined her.

The little cat snuggled into me, trembling, but trusting as the vet cleaned her very dirty ears in order to read the tattoo code. Kitty looked up with dilated, golden-rimmed eyes and then climbed back into the bag. It had quickly become her safe place. We stroked and reassured her while Valerie explained the situation to the vet.

She and her assistant swiftly set about checking the online database for an entry matching her description.  After some searching, they found the owner and called them. It turns out the cat, whose name was Maki, had been lost for three months. The owner, after some hesitation, said she would send a family member to collect her.

I worried the owners were not responsible, sensible owners who might just as easily lose her again, and prayed that we were doing the right thing. The vet explained that this was the only legal thing to be done and that if, by some chance it happens again and she is found, then perhaps the cat could be re-homed.

When Valerie told the vet that I am involved in animal rescue back home in “Terre Neuve”, the vet smiled and said matter-of-factly, “It is your destiny that they find you.” It’s true, no matter I go, a dog or cat will find me.

We waited for the mystery family to arrive to pick little Maki up, and a teenaged boy and girl arrived within 30 minutes. It turns out the family had gotten another kitten after Maki disappeared and it seemed they hadn’t made much of an effort to find her. The vet and my friend spoke seriously to them to express how important it was to be responsible with keeping the cat inside and if lost, call vet clinics, shelters, etc.

The teenager’s mother wanted to pay us 50 euro as a thank you but we refused, of course. I told him the only payment he should make is for a collar and id tag and to promise to keep Maki indoors. He smiled and agreed yes, yes. They seemed like decent, upper-middle class people and hopefully they’ll keep their promise. I shed a couple of tears of anxiety later, worrying that I hadn’t done the best I could do for the little cat. I just hope the owners are better this time with her. And maybe they will be. I have just seen so much in humans that have disappointed me over the years with animal rescue that I have my doubts, knowing the harsh realities that face animals that are easily discarded, replaced, forgotten.

I’m still a little choked up writing this now, a few days later, because my committment to any animal I rescue runs deep, even in the briefest encounters. The day that my heart is hardened and I cannot cry or care is the day that I have stopped being me. So I’m okay with the emotions that come with it. And I hope that Maki’s story will have a happy ending. Either way, it was better than starving outside, contracting FIV or Feline Leukaemia or being hit by a car — and maybe her family are happy to have her back and she will live happily ever after. If there is a guardian angel of animals, then he/she will see to it.

JE NE REGRETTE RIEN

The day was almost gone by the time we finished, but I told Valerie I was happy to spend it in this way, doing the right thing. It was more meaningful than sightseeing, and always will be.

I thanked her for helping so much with the kitty, the vet clinic journey, and for her patience. She and her family are also animal lovers and she was once involved in some rescue work in Paris, so it wasn’t entirely foreign to her.

And as for what some may call “losing” a day on my trip? In the famous words of Edith Piaf, je ne regrette rien. (I have no regrets).

We went onward then, still heavy from the events of the day, and stopped to have crepes in the Latin Quarter and then made a stop at Notre Dame cathedral with its impressive vaulted stone ceilings, brilliant stained glass rosette windows and incense-filled air. It was packed with tourists. Far more than my visit in 2005.

It was a quick visit, as over the 14 days I spent in Paris over two past trips, I had been there many a time. As we came out of the church, we marvelled at the gigantic Christmas tree that sat in the courtyard and looked up at the gargoyles overhanging every corner. I would return later to climb the towers and see them again. Some of my fondest memories of Paris involve sitting and sketching the gargoyles, high above the streets and bridges of the city.

As night fell, Valerie and I returned to the 7th district and relaxed. It had been a long day and my heart was still a bit unsettled. We chatted about all sorts of things, had some hot tea to warm us up and waited to Anne to arrive from work.  This third night in Paris was a quiet, stay-at-home kind of evening and I was thankful for it. With all the last minute changes, my itinerary became more complicated and less relaxed than I had hoped.

MISSION: GARGOYLES & LEMONS

I made it my mission on my fourth day in Paris to hunt two things: grimacing gargoyles and the perfect tarte au citron (lemon tart). I woke early, planned my day and set out shortly after Anne had left for work.

I began with a leisurely walk to the Champs de Mars and Eiffel Tower, admiring the grounds and open air space and avoiding the numerous peddlers who approached me, proferring clipboards with the message (in French) “Please donate. I am deaf-mute and collecting on behalf of…” with signatures and totals of 10 and 20 Euro with clearly fake signatures (all in the same handwriting).

I politely refused and promptly received a gaping, insulted snarl from the girl, which flashed a view of her many golden fillings in her teeth. There was a whole gaggle of these supposed deaf-mutes — Romany gypsies, it appeared, and they followed every tourist in sight to see if they could get some “donations.”

About five minutes later, as I got closer to La Tour, I noticed the group of peddlers had began to swarm. A fight broke out between the young, unkempt women and the apparent leader let out a bloody scream, and a barrage of angry insults. The others started in screaming and shouting in a foreign language and started grabbing at each other. So much for deaf-mutes.

I turned my head and stifled a big laugh, quickly heading in another direction as the drama unfolded. Perhaps one wouldn’t turn her “donations” over to the ring leader? Not more than five more minutes passed and the same girls had circulated to another part of the grounds under the Eiffel Tower and again approached the tourists, myself included. I shook my head no, when they waved their clipboads towards me and smiled golden-toothed smiles. I supressed a grin. Their gall was impressive.

Glimpse of Paris (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable 2011)

I went about my business, snapping shots of different angles of the tower and moving along quickly to avoid the crush of tourists. I crossed over to Trocadero just as the sun broke through the clouds, glinting off the gilded statues that lined the pavillion.  I have to say, I’m not overly impressed with my brand new Canon S95, and will likely return it when I get home. The colours and lighting are all off, despite correct settings, and it’s been resulting in photos I’m not happy with. I bought it so that I would have a higher end point and shoot that could do a lot of what my dSLR does, without having to lug camera gear around. It will have to do til I get back.

Whizzing along on the metro to Anvers, I headed to my favourite part of Paris — Montmartre. I walked the cobbled streets up the hill to the iconic, white domed Sacre Coeur and fought against a tidal wave of tourists and tacky souvenir vendors. It wasn’t this crazy the last time I was here. Ugh, crowds. Ugh, tourists. says the traveller in me. I vowed to be in and out in jig time, and to head to where it was a little less tourist packed. Good luck with that, I know.

I passed the vintage carousel and its gliding horses, took the steep steps up to La Butte and envisioned the aerial camera panning in that scene from Amelie. I tried to ignore all the people and imagine how this place used to be.

The sun had burst out again and a harpist was playing (narually) La Vie en Rose on the landing. I turned my back to the crowd and gazed out over the city skyline. You can see pretty much everything from the mount. I watched a little old lady with a few stray rollers in her hair, forgotten perhaps, as she opened her balcony’s wooden shutters and scanned the street below. If people watching was an Olympic sport, I think I’d be a contender.

Copyright: Jennifer Barnable 2011

A while later, I walked through the Basillica of the Sacre Coeur amidst the hushed voices and sat for a while taking in the impressive mosaic dome. The outstretched arms of Christ in Majesty worked cleverly with the curve of the apse to make you feel as though you were about to be embraced.  The part of the mosaic mural I like most is the prominent placement of Joan of Arc. I admired it in detail as white-garbed nuns sang hymns in haunting tones.

Outside, I quickly walked past the droves of people gathered at the nearby Christmas Market set up in the courtyard, and through the little square where artists and buskers trip over each other for tourist coin. Instead, I passed the touristy section and walked the hilly, winding streets of the Bohemian village brought to life by so many films, like Moulin Rouge, Midnight in Paris and countless others.

It was here I found the perfect tarte au citron, in one of the little truly local cafes. Warming up with the hot tea and zinging lemon mini tart, I rested for a bit.  Bistros, art galleries and shops line the streets and quirky old buildings face each other over well-worn cobbles.

Montmartre always has a very special air about it — both for its old-time Parisian village ambiance (despite the tourists) and the creative essence that lingers from the pens and paintbrushes of those long since passed.  I hoped to find a few vintage shops, but soon moved on as even the quieter streets started to fill.

As I was leaving, I was approached by a man who was trying to get people to hire him as a tour guide. Seeing a solo female, he beelined (like all touts do) and set upon me. That hadn’t changed since my last visit. I politely said, “Non, merci” to stop him midstream. But why? Why? Why? he countered, getting very close to my personal space – practically in my face, walking alongside me. I just ignored him with a small, polite but firm smile and said no thanks again. He let out a stream of rapid French appeals but then gave up, ending with a comment that was very clear: “Fasciste!!”  There are all kinds in this world, and apparently I was a fascist for refusing to pay for an unwanted tour from a strange man. Ah, people. My friend Anne laughed when I told her this story, and tsked with an “Oh la la,” in that natural way the French do.

I headed on to the metro station and hopped over to St. Michel. The Paris metro is exceptionally well laid out and easy to manoever. I love its efficiency and how many places you can cover quickly to get wherever you need to go. The wind had picked up and it was surprisingly cold outside as I alighted to the street. I crossed the Napleon Bridge and threw a glance down at the quays and riverside. It was way too wet and cold to go sit there for a bit. Next time, I promised myself.

I got in the line for the Notre Dame bell tower admission and shrunk down into my warm scarf as the wind came tunneling down the street. To make it even chillier, we were standing in the shadow of the great cathedral, but at least while I waited I could check out all the gargoyles springing out from the sides of the church. I hate lines of any sort, and normally, I refuse to wait hours for any sort of event or place – my time is precious and my patience limited. And right now, my legs were going numb and my back starting to seize up from the freezing cold and hard concrete we were lined up on. It took over an hour to get to the entrance, but in that time I had struck up conversation with a young Greek couple who shivered alongside me.

Finally, it was time to scale the bell tower. I’d done this before in other visits, but it is always something I must do when in Paris. The view isn’t what gets me (although it is quite spectacular) — it is the gargoyles. Those fascinating gothic creatures standing sentinel over the city. After a dizzying spiral staircase that went on forever and briskly cold air that had me keeping my asthma inhaler in my pocket just in case. I moved as quickly as possible, to get a head start on all the tourists behind me. When I reached the top, stopping for breathe, I was rewarded..

There, like an old friend, was Le Penseur (the thinker). My favourite of the gargoyles, perched on a corner, wistfully looking out over the city and its rooftops. I smiled and stood admiring him, and heard far away voices int he stairwell below. I had time to admire and photograph him, but most importantly to really just take him in — the stone pitted from centuries of the elements, a grotesque demon body juxtaposed with beautiful angel wings.

Le Penseur de Notre Dame (Copyright: Jennifer Barnable)

I took my time viewing each gargoyle and wished I had my pro camera gear with me, but I’ve come to learn over the years that it’s better to travel with your eyes than always through the lens of your camera — or at least strike a balance between the two.

The views of Paris from the very top platforms of Notre Dame were, as always, breathtaking. I scanned the slate blue rooftops, spires and bridges with Montmartre and the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

Below, muffled sounds of traffic and the brown swishing of the Seine caught my attention as people made their way home; it was the end of the work day.

Tomorrow, Denmark! Stay tuned…

I’ve been fortunate in many respects when it comes to travel plans working out. Sure, here and there I’ve had near misses with overbooked flights or been bumped for a sizeable travel voucher, but otherwise I’ve been very lucky.

Six months ago, I planned an amazing vacation with the main attraction being Morocco, with my Austrian friend Lena, who I lived with in Vienna in 2000 and travelled with in 2005. It was to be a reunion and girls trip to exotic North Africa. I also built into the itinerary a visit with my friend Anne in Paris and Liesbet in Ghent over the 17 day trip. As I usually travel solo, this was to be a trip all about catching up with friends.

Over the months leading up to our trip, I had repeatedly had a nagging gut feeling (and my intuition is seldom wrong) that something was going to go wrong and that I’d end up in Morocco alone. Don’t get me wrong, I travel alone to all sorts of countries, and am not put off by the more intrepid destinations. But unpleasant pangs continued, foreboding, even up until yesterday. I pushed the thoughts away and chalked it up to pre-trip anxiousness.

Last night, my travel companion, Lena, had a nasty fall and ended up in hospital with a leg cast – the poor thing. Needless to say, the trip plan has changed. And at the 11th hour. I thought about it – should I go on to Morocco on my own anyway? I’ve been to plenty of dodgier places and did just fine. Or should I just switch my ticket and go elsewhere? Replace the Morocco leg of the trip and keep the France and Belgium plans, which were unaffected.

I thought about my poor friend Lena, after falling down stairs in a subway and ending up in hospital with a cast for the next 6-8 weeks. I felt terrible for her, being in pain and disappointed all at once. And of course, I felt sad that our awesome Morocco plans were to be put on hold, but I couldn’t dwell on that. Nothing could be done about it but to roll with it.

With less than 17 hours before my flight, I had to think quick. Oh, the best laid plans…

I spent a long night of rapid-fire web and phone arrangements to get my trip switched around — with remarkably helpful service from EasyJet, might I add. I took a loss on the non-refundable booking fees and paid some whopping flight fare difference for the new return flight. But I’ve always found that even when you lose out on money somewhere, it will come back to you in an unexpected opportunity. And sure enough, this morning I had a call from a corporate client booking for when I get back home after my trip, which will help offset those extra travel change costs.

Goodbye Morocco, Hello Copenhagen

So, I still fly into Paris as planned, but will stay a few days longer there. After that, I fly up to Copenhagen for a week and explore the Danish countryside, with a quick jaunt across to Malmo, Sweden. I have absolutely no accommodations lined up yet for the Scandinavian portion of the trip, where it was just decided upon literally a few hours ago. I’m hoping that I will be able to find CouchSurfing hosts there who will be willing to bail me out at the last minute. Normally when I CouchSurf I carefully plan, give plenty of notice, get to know my hosts ahead of time – but the process is sped up now.

I’m in the air now, as I type this blog post, operating on about 2.5 hours sleep after last night’s surprise and today’s last minute errands before heading to the airport. My friend Edna brought me to the airport to see me off — a luxury I haven’t had in many a year. I got so used to being Miss Independent and just taxi-ing to and from the airport where I travel so much. I forgot how now it was to have a send-off, and I appreciated it very much.

Now, I’m en route to Toronto on the bloody boomerang route where I fly in the opposite direction of where I need to go, and then fly all the way back over Newfoundland again, hours and hours later, finally en route to my destination. 

In a few hours I will see my old friend Nadine, who comes to the airport to see me during short-stopovers in Toronto, bless her. We met on our first day of university and have been friends ever since.

Airport montage (clockwise from top left): Nadine and I at the airport; the long flight route; clock at Frankfurt airport; my small carry-on baggage and I waiting for airport shuttle in Paris

BEFORE I SIGN OFF: A THOUSAND THANK YOUS

I would be remiss if I didn’t say a gigantic thank you to my fabulous friends and “petsitter team” who are taking care of my house and kitties while I’m away. I owe this trip to them, and they deserve so much more than the thanks and gifts I can give them in return.

My wonderful petsitting friends (L-R: Natasha, Sarah, Edna, Donna, Erin, Catharyn, Lindsay + Trish missing from photo that night but there in spirit)

Check out this lovely bunch. Every day I am on this trip, every anecdote I’ll share is because they’ve made it possible for me to go by taking care of things at home for me, especially my diabetic senior kitty. There are not enough words to show my gratitude. And I have a lot of words, so that’s saying something.

I’ll post again when I have wifi access and time. Next update from France!!

JB
the Wandering Newfoundlander