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(LA PECHE, Québec) —In the movie Six Degrees of Separation, Stockard Channing’s fed-up character proclaims that she doesn’t want to turn her life into anecdotes anymore. She wants to hold on to her experiences and protect them from punch lines. The longer I’m on this trip, the more I feel the same. But sometimes I can’t help myself. In the land of anecdotes, my Labor Day was pretty good.
 Thick, green beauty near La Peche, Québec. I spent a great deal of it either talking about or actively looking for a racist lawn ornament. You probably haven’t seen one of these things in years — the little, ceramic, black boys fishing or holding lanterns — but they’re still around in the rural, rolling farmlands of this province. My recent host, Diana, told me so and immediately suggested that she take me on a safari to see them. Like I (and probably most people), she finds that kind of blatant and unconscious racism alarming. But it’s also fascinating, from a sociological standpoint. She was itching to show me one of these disturbing figurines, and I was dying to see one.
This was not how I pictured my first trip to Québec. No, thanks to her and her partner, James, my stay was far more fun and fascinating than I had imagined.
I originally met Diana, a young Costa Rican woman, on couchsurfing.com. I put up a note about needing some Ottawa digs for a few nights, and she messaged me and welcomed me to park my little house near her property, about half hour north of the nation’s capital. We met up at a large, country grocery store outside of her town, and from the very beginning, I knew this was going to be good. She gave me a hug, and immediately started talking enthusiastically. We went into the downtown area of the hippie, touristy burg of Wakefield, and we bought some bread and looked at shoes. Within half an hour, I felt like I had known her for a long while. I deeply enjoy people who are boisterous and happy and unapologetic about what pisses them off. I’m afraid to be so open, so every time I’m around someone that spontaneous, it warms my heart.
 On the hunt for a lawn ornament. “There is no color in this country!” she would say at times, bemoaning the lack of Canadian clothing choices in her rolling accent.
Having just returned from a yearlong stint as an au pair in France, she was still adjusting to being in Canada, where she has lived for the last eight years. It wasn’t that she was complaining as much as she was speaking her mind. It was great.
To me, her thoughts about the differences between Québec residents and the rest of Canadians were the best. I even wrote them down on an old receipt in the moment.
“They scream. They’re messy. They’re disorganized,” she said, of the Québeckers. “And so I’m like, I have to move here.”
She and James seemed very much in love, and their kindness both to each other and to me was a sweet hearth to hover by for a few days. We learned all about each other and ate dinner together each of the four nights I was there. On the last evening, in an effort to show my appreciation, I baked a key lime pie, and thankfully it went over well. As James ate, he praised it with a string of delighted expletives, and somehow, those were some of the best compliments I have received about my baking in ages. I was in an ephemeral bubble of positivity and support, and damn, I felt lucky.
 Diana and James, looking at pictures of us in 3-D glasses. I promise to upload them as soon as Diana sends them to me. And I loved that politically incorrect field trip, to boot. Although it took us about half an hour to find him that Tuesday, eventually Diana and I came across a small, dark boy dressed in white with a red vest and hat. He was standing on someone’s porch, and he was leaning forward, his arm outstretched and fist clenched, as though he should be holding a horse’s reins. I snuck onto the stranger’s front lawn to get a shot, but my distance and the afternoon light made the picture mostly a bust. Too bad, as that would have been a great image to have, despite the lengthy disclaimer I would have had to issue each time I showed it to anyone.
The day I left Diana and James, I knew it was time. I liked being there, in the very green, lightly European countryside, but the push to be somewhere new had fire to it. Not to mention that the fear of overstaying my welcome is always in me.
Chosen consciously or not, it took me almost all of Tuesday to get out of there. There were articles to be written and hikes to take, and by the time my truck was hooked to my trailer, it was late afternoon. James was at work, and so Diana and I did our goodbyes with just the two of us. We hugged and walked away from each other and shouted back and fourth the kind of things you say when you’re parting with someone you like. It was something to the effect of “Thank you so much for everything” and “I’ll definitely write” and “Thanks for showing me the black man.”
I stepped into my truck, pulled away, and immediately burst into tears.
I could feel my fragility and vulnerability hit me again as I drove into the unknown. I both hate and love the sense of yanking myself continually out of security, and that mix of emotions was stronger then than it has ever been on this trip. I know that kind of thing is bound to happen a lot as I travel, and in way, I hope I never do get used to it. It’s a reminder of something — something good. Oh, I’m sure I’ll find a word for it sometime soon.
      
CARP, Ont. — The fact that sometimes things actually do change for good fills me with hope.
My most recent example is the difference between my first and second trip to Toronto. During my introduction, nearly a month ago, it scared me. It was a surreal scene to begin with, as I was one of many naked people on a bus, headed through the busy heart of town toward a nude beach on a nearby island. I promise to explain more in a future post, but the essential things to know are that I was on a field trip of sorts from a naturist festival I was writing about, and the bus was filled with families and couples mostly, nearly all of them much tanner than I. The ride was a fun frenzy, with my fellow passengers waving and smiling at passing traffic and some people honking at the bare breasted ladies (that’s legal in this province, you know). It was kind of sweet and definitely a new experience for me.
 Toronto, as seen from the CN Tower. But I, however, wasn’t fully part of it. Instead, a dark little cloud had descended on me and didn’t fully dissipate until I reached the beach. There’s something about that city, about its huge size and tall, severe buildings and multitudes of hip young things that made me self-conscious. I had this flash of realization that I didn’t know if I could make it there, and that sent shockwaves of insecurity through my body. Suddenly, part of me wanted to move there and have an apartment and a prestigious job and a boyfriend who smells nice — just to see if I could. On the drive back, I had to fight to remind myself that while I might want something along those lines later, what I really want now is exactly what I’m doing. It’s so weird how easily doubt can creep in at times, even when I think I’m on a good path.
Suffice it to say, I was a little uneasy about seeing Toronto again. But I felt called to it, much like how I feel called to karaoke, even though I probably only sound good about four times out of ten. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to turn down a juicy risk, even when I should. Often, my conscience gets the best of me, pushing me out the door and into something potentially embarrassing. A few days ago, it goaded me onto a bus from Hamilton to Toronto.
I was off to visit Tory, a friend and very motivated journalist I knew back in Colorado. As excited as I was, I also had some worries in the mix. When you’re so used to only thinking about the immediate future, seeing someone from the past can be nerve-wracking. A small part of me felt as I did as a teenager when I was in a long distance romance. Thought it’s embarrassing to admit, I wanted everything to go perfectly, and I wanted to be liked.
It’s strange that those feelings faded right about the time I stepped on the bus.
Almost immediately, I went from fear to wide-eyed amazement — at nothing that spectacular. I switched to complete observation mode. I noticed how the bus driver’s brown hair was flecked with strands of white, and how he had tattoos wrapping around his forearms. There was a teenage, Asian boy behind me that looked punk-cool, with skinny jeans and glasses that were just for show, with no actual lens between the frames. Near him, there was a girl with a piercing just underneath her bottom lip and black hair shaped into a near mullet. Being the absolute last on the bus, I had to stand up the entire 50-minute trip, but I didn’t really mind. I was on an adventure. As we got closer to the city, I had completely transitioned, and I was smiling at each massive, grey landmark we passed. The Toronto Blue Jays’ stadium? Sweet. The CN Tower? Wow. It was fun to be awed.
When I met Tory, I could see she was excited, and I was too. I don’t think that emotion wavered too much for the 24 hours we were together. I met her boyfriend, Mihira, and reacquainted myself with her dog. Together, Tory and I ended up roaming the city a bit. Usually, I like to see new places on my own, but it felt good to have a guide this time. There was no learning curve to the subway system or need to orient myself. I just followed her lead and experienced things in a simple, easy way. I didn’t care much about where we went or what we saw, just as long as I was surrounded by city.
It’s common knowledge in Canada that Toronto is unfriendly and smug, but I didn’t find it that way at all, not the second time. It’s amazing how knowing someone somewhere changes the atmosphere, and he or she can warm up the place and can make it a little bit magical. While we were riding on a streetcar, I mentioned to Tory something about the TV show “Mad Men,” and we talked about how we’d never seen it. Spontaneously, a woman near us launched into a glowing review of the show, as did another female rider. For a few minutes, we four strangers held a lively spurt of conversation. And even though this was the biggest city in Canada, the exchange was intimate, and it left me glowing.
 Tory and Mihira, looking especially happy because we're all about to eat poutine. Later that night, I met some more of Tory and Mihira’s friends and went out to eat at a little pub. I had my first poutine (an inspired concoction of French fries, cheese curds and gravy) and drank a few beers, and I was happy to listen in on and add to the talk around me. I don’t know how it happened, but I was in my skin, and it was warm and energizing.
That was Toronto to me. That’s what really mattered. The next day, I would go off to the CN Tower on my own and stand in the cold wind and look at the city from what is almost the tallest structure in the world. I would try to memorize that view. Right after, I would grab a street hot dog and watch the parade of hurrying people pass me on the sidewalk as I walked toward my bus. As I left the city, I would look out my window and think about an ex-boyfriend who used to live here, and a pall would fall over me, and Toronto would seem big and intimidating once more.
But that’s not how I want to remember it. Thinking about the human connection is so much more fun. How weird it is that sometimes all it takes to like a place is a friend. And how perfect.
              
(ANCASTER, Ont.) — When things become good for a while, it’s easy to get complacent. While I was in London, Ont., I was parked in the driveway of an amazing, friendly woman, and I got used to having to someone to care about my day and to joke with. Here, in the village of Ancaster (near big, scruffy Hamilton), I’m parked outside a home belonging to Paul, the editor of a Canadian naturist magazine. He is a sweetheart. He’s letting me stick around for a while until I get some of my writing done, and he is very much concerned with whether I get enough to eat and have a good place to work. This kind of caring and help floors me. I don’t expect it, but my God, it is great to have.
 Kerri-Anne and her daughter, Emma, were my awesome, sweet and warm hosts in London. This represents a new way of thinking for me. When I left on this trip, I kind of imagined myself as a cowboy, being on my own, facing the tough world and pushing through my fear of it. Now, that’s only part of it for me. I feel lucky now, not embarrassed, when someone is willing to help me out. It is rare and special, and I might just finally feel comfortable enjoying it.
I know when the shift came. It was almost a week ago, back when I was in London. I met a guy and was immediately intrigued by him. He was at a pub and was tall and lanky and wearing 3D glasses. It turned out that he is friends with seemingly all of my host’s friends, and a plan was devised that he should come to her house soon and hang out with her, me and another guy and watch movies. The next night, he arrived with homemade profiteroles, and the four of us went through Once and Before Sunrise, both of which make spontaneity and creativity look like utter magic. Those are the kind of films that make you fall in love, and so I did, in a way, with him. After the TV was turned off, it was past 3 a.m., and he and I started a conversation that lasted until the morning. I won’t go through the details because some of them are embarrassingly raw to me, but the end result was a real dialogue that touched my heart. Our interaction was completely platonic, but we did fall asleep together on the floor, and he did hold me for what felt like hours. I had no idea how much I needed that.
Yet I did. I needed someone to hold me without expectation on either of our parts. I loved hearing his stories. Unbeknownst to me, I needed someone to tell me what it was like to own a house, to have been married once, to bike around Italy and not talk to anyone for days. It was weirdly perfect, and I can’t imagine my trip without him.
 A spot of forest at London's University of Western Ontario. So, the idea that this journey is truly about solitude really is silly. Being lonesome and being able to be by myself is all part of it, of course, but so is every human interaction I have along the way. From this aforementioned fellow to the Macedonian lady working in an A&W who gave me directions yesterday, I’m beginning to realize how much everyone I meet matters. I’d like to believe that I have always known this, but now it’s crystal clear. They are as much a part of my trip as I am. It feels good to finally put that to words.
(Note: I’d like to give a special thanks to Stephane, Kerri-Anne, Stephanie, Paul, Dave, James, Sookie, Michael, Richard, Melanie and Nicky, among so many others)
     
(LONDON, Ont.) — Canada feels good. Everyone who has waited on me or given me directions or been my bus driver has been unwaveringly friendly. At the moment, I’m parked in a driveway belonging to a wonderfully sweet and open woman named Kerri-Anne. I met her through a passing acquaintance, and though she doesn’t know me from Adam, she has cooked me dinner a few times, bought me lunch and showed me around. I feel so lucky, and I’m already starting to settle into the comfort of being taken care of. I don’t really want to give that up yet (though I will tomorrow or the next day). I like it here at her house and in London itself. The town is big (more than 300,000) and urbane with lots of trees and a free art museum downtown. Not having been in a city since Christmas, I feel like a bush woman, intimidated and fascinated by the bustle around me.
If only getting into the country had felt this effortless.
 Niagara Falls, from the Canada side. I’m not the kind of person who complains about airport security or random DUI checks on the road. In truth, part of me enjoys the dip into extreme formality, which I know sounds strange. It’s like, for a moment, who I am and what I am doesn’t matter, as all I am is someone who is not harboring drugs or alcohol or a nail file. It’s weirdly validating. Crossing the Canadian border, however, is a completely different beast. It became an existential query, really, and I was not ready for it. As I waited to enter the country near Niagara Falls, I was listening to music with the windows rolled down and smiling, thinking that this would be kind of fun. Ha.
“Where is your home?”
“What is your job?”
“What is your purpose in Canada?”
I had no good answers to these questions, asked by a 40-ish border patrol agent with short, blond hair. After saying I was traveling and that I was a freelance journalist, she gave me a small card and directed me to a building filled with fellow suspicious folks. The staff inside was deadly serious but had that distinctive north-of-the-border lilt, which also made them slightly adorable. Part of me was scared of the young guy with dark eyes and delicate features who looked me over and grilled me on who I knew in Canada and what on earth I planned to do there. Part of me wanted to pinch his cheeks. The same went for the middle-aged fellow in the corner who resembled Garrison Keillor and the perky, tow-headed girl who searched my trailer. I don’t mean disrespect, but that dialect is endearing and makes me smile like an idiot, and that response is hard to contain.
I had to force myself to take the young, female agent seriously when she chirped that I should “stay on the medium for your safety and mine,” but the moment she started looking through my stuff, I got uneasy. I’m no terrorist, but the mess in my trailer probably made me look a little scruffy around the edges (the place had been sloshing around for a few hours, and papers, drawers and dirty clothes had been thrown around in there). Maybe appearing low-rent was enough to be barred from Canada’s pristine confines. Maybe they thought I was a drug dealer. Maybe I just looked like a lost soul, some West Coast hippie who wanted to drop out of American culture and never return.
Even if she thought that, she let me through in the end and didn’t even confiscate my raw hamburger or baby carrots. I drove away a much more sobered individual. Half an hour later, I was standing at Niagara’s precipice, and I was entranced by the image of blue-green water rushing over the deep drop. I tried to soak that vision into my brain, my heart, but I knew it would start to slip away the moment I turned from the water to catch the shuttle back to my trailer.
And it has. That stuff is ephemeral. I can’t remember exactly what it felt like to have the waterfalls’ mist hitting my face, much like I can’t completely put to words what it was like to see the Grand Canyon for the first time or the Pacific Ocean for the last time. I can, however, go back easily to the shame and anxiety I felt as that girl guard sifted through my little house and her male counterpart tried to gauge exactly what my deal was. That kind of embarrassment and nervous rush is strangely so much easier to hold onto.
Those memories make me all the more grateful to be in London right now, parked in a level spot with nice people around me. I am trying to soak up all these good vibes while I can.
Who knows what it will be like trying to get back into America?
 
(CANANDAIGUA, N.Y.) — Before I write anything else, I must write this: Wegman’s. I have seen the light and it is the miles of food aisles in this regional grocery store chain. Trying to explain the beauty of this place, I can only think of anecdotes, such as the entire beer section dedicated to Pacific Northwest micro brews and the displays of food grown by local farmers. In Marin County, where I was mostly raised, I think chains are seen as a little dirty. The IKEAs and Krispy Kremes and Safeways are historically wedged in far-off parts of the Bay Area or are simply kind of grungy. At any rate, many don’t seem prized, but here, people LOVE Wegman’s. They celebrate it. What a different mentality. I have no idea what state of mind I prefer. I do enjoy the food palace’s opulence but also feel like a slight tool because of that.
 This is definitely the cutest thing I saw in Canandaigua. This little family was right by the lake. It’s nice in Canandaigua. This is the kind of town that people are proud to be from, the kind of spot that people stay in or return to, or at least that’s my sense of it. I’m not sure how big it is, but it’s large enough to have a community college, Panera Bread Co. (which, thankfully, has fast, free internet) and hefty amount of traffic. The downtown is cute, and the jewel of this place is really the lake, which shares the town’s name. It’s big, filled with bright, white sailboats and lined with tons of people on blankets, park benches and bikes. Today and tomorrow, there are a few festivals going on at the water’s edge, and of course I’ll check them out. I always like stuff such as that, community efforts that I’m not actually emotionally involved in. My lack of attachment gives me free reign to just enjoy them — and then leave whenever I want.
By the way, I suppose I wouldn’t be jumping into writing this morning if I didn’t feel so sober. Recently, an old man I’ve been friendly with sexually harassed me in a sad way. He asked me to kiss him, and I said no, and it’s no big deal, except that it reminded me how damn vulnerable I am out here. It made me lonely. What I really want to do is call up a certain friend and have him talk to me, about anything, but I think that would be uncouth. If I can’t deal with these sorts of things on my own, then what’s the point of the trip? Self-reliance is the idea — though a big bear hug from someone I care about would be lovely right now.
It’s weird to have to find your comfort wherever you can, preferably without coming into contact with anyone. When I’m lonely, that’s the time I absolutely don’t want to strike up a conversation with a soul. I don’t trust myself enough right then. So, I try to shut up, wake up and look around me. Last night, when I was in that state, I ended up downtown, in front of a free concert hosted by a trio of string-playing middle-aged guys. They were working a banjo, guitar and fiddle, and the music was sweet. There was a large, pastel-wearing crowd of older people and families, and they were clapping and smiling at all the recognizable folk offerings. By the time the group played some kid songs while wearing Muppet masks, I was in love with all the musicians. When they closed their set with “This Land is Your Land,” I was grinning, trying to hold on to the innocence of the moment in my mind.
As I already wrote, I do love those kinds of community things.
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