I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list
-Susan Sontag
It is no secret that we love to travel. I have mentioned it more than once as I’ve told the stories of our things. It has become more than a vacation activity to us, it has become one of the life giving experiences that inspires energy and enthusiasm for everything else we do. Experiencing what is out there in this vast world is invigorating. Walking in the footsteps of history is thrilling. Discovering differences is eye opening, and discovering commonalities is humbling. We have by no means covered as much ground as we would like, but are grateful for those paths we’ve wandered. And, will find as many paths to walk down as we can – near and far. For the rest of our days.

One of the first trips we took together was to the Maritimes. We lived without a car for the first eight or nine years of our marriage, and when we finally bought one, the first thing we planned was a road trip. I must admit I don’t remember most of that trip, but there were a few memorable moments. That giant King crab meal in Louisburg, Nova Scotia will never be forgotten – the waitress recommended it, noting that the fishermen had returned that morning with their catch (after having been eight hours off the coast for some time). It was the size of the entire placemat. I remember some sketchy motels we stayed at in hopes of having enough money to finish the trip, and then after a few poor sleeps, the inevitable splurge nights that became more frequent as the vacation progressed. I remember being completely stunned by the Cabot trail drive. Our big purchase on that trip was a fish. We found it in Lunenburg. Well, what we found was a massive, metal fish sculpture that was a spectacle of colour – but several thousand dollars above our non-existent budget. At the brink of disappointment, we were shown a small version and we snatched her up. She has been with us ever since, batting her eyelashes at me, and my students, daily. Watching over us and reminding me of our very first trip of a lifetime.

A trip to Italy is on many people’s wish list. It is a beautiful country, with incredible food and enough art and culture to keep even the most avid museum fan occupied for days, weeks… months. The first time we went, it was part of a concert tour and we spent only a few short days in Venice. But what an experience! Singing at the Basilica di San Marco was quite an experience – way up in the loft area, close enough to those remarkable golden mosaics to touch them (and resisting the temptation to pry off a glittering souvenir). It was such a short visit that we went back a few years later and continued on to Florence, the Tuscan countryside and Rome. The highlight of that trip was visiting the marble quarries at Carrara. Carrara marble is white. You surely have seen it – perhaps you’re familiar with Michelangelo’s work? Or maybe the Marble Arch in London, the Pantheon in Rome? This marble has been quarried here for thousands of years. We decided to take a tour. Now, this is not exactly a hot tourist activity and it involved meeting a guy on the side of the road and piling into his ancient Range Rover with four other strangers and wishing that the vehicle had seatbelts. We drove up winding narrow roads, or some questionable facsimile, until we reached the entrance to the quarries. Stepping out of the vehicle with some trepidation, not sure if we were still alive or had passed on during the ascent, we found ourselves standing on pure white stone. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Blinded by the whiteness, gazing at the Ligurian Sea in the background, we were changed. This place was the source of a miraculous stone that inspired so many creative minds. It is a place of unbearable toil – our guide telling stories of his grandfather working there and the damage this hard labour caused him. His incredibly strong hands being unable to hold his grandchildren because he had lost all feeling from the impact of his chisel – he was afraid he would accidentally hurt them. So many have died for this beauty. The mountains have paid the price and are in danger of collapsing in some spots. And yet, the incredible talents of countless have left us with images of astounding depth and meaning, softness and stories. It was an experience that impressed me with the complexity of human existence. What we’ve done, what we can do, what we should, what we shouldn’t. The answers are neither clear nor easy. There are no souvenir shops on this kind of adventure, so I asked if I could take a few bits found lying around on the ground. They are scraps. But they speak to the confluence of nature and the human need to express our ideas and creativity.


When we went to China a few years ago for some concerts I was participating in, we spent about thirty-six hours in Shanghai. It wasn’t much time, but one of the places we managed to visit was the Shanghai Museum of Arts and Crafts. Located in the former French Concession, it was an unexpected mix of European architecture filled with the work of Chinese artisans - traditional styles and objects, ancient techniques and modern interpretations. It contained everything you would expect to see in China – jade and ivory carvings, detailed silk needlework, intricate wood pieces, lacquered items, paintings, porcelain and even Chinese opera costumes. Located in an old mansion that had formerly housed the mayor of Shanghai, each room was dedicated to a different craft. The surprising bit, was that in every few rooms there was an artisan busy at work – on whatever was displayed in their area. It felt less like a museum and more like wandering through private studios. This place was a little odd and a little run down, as though maintaining it was a struggle. Not surprising as it had been established as a workshop at the end of the Cultural Revolution by the workers’ union responsible for artisans. It eventually developed into a sort of museum. We wandered through, once again pretty much the only ones there, and observed these artisans at work. We also noticed that their wares were available to purchase. We couldn’t really communicate, so acquiring anything was a bit tricky. In the end, we picked up a tiny lacquered box and an intricately cut paper piece of the Chinese Zodiac. These little souvenirs bring me back to that odd place in a beautiful city. A city with such a mix of European influence and Chinese tradition, a complicated history. This place filled with ordinary people creating day after day. It was strangely moving to see them quietly at work, these people who descend from thousands of years of incredible craft and skill. The creative spirit continuing despite attempts at squashing it during the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s and 70s. It is not a place I will likely forget.

For my entire childhood, I heard stories about Russia. All of my grandparents had escaped this country in the early part of the twentieth century and we knew about it. Escaped. We knew about the hardships. We knew about the trains that got them out. We knew about family members being sent to Siberia, and that not everyone made it to Canada. We heard about the boat ride over, the struggles of starting life anew in a strange land. It was a big deal when travel became possible and my grandparents went to visit long lost relatives in this country that was surrounded with mystery and even fear. I never really anticipated going, but was fortunate to see a small bit of it when we visited Saint Petersburg a few years ago. Now, this wasn’t the city of my Mennonite ancestors. But there was something about being in that country, that sparked such memories of my childhood and the stories, some spoken out loud, some implied, that surrounded my grandparents’ spirits. Saint Petersburg is a fascinating city – it is beautiful and monumental and interesting. It is full of contradiction. Dull acres of apartment blocks, each style linked to the leader of the day – Lenin era, Stalin era, Khrushchev era – each slightly different. But there are also palaces and churches of astounding luxury and ornateness. We spent one fantastic day with a graduate student of history, Sergei, whom we had hired to drive us to the Peterhof and Catherine Palaces. He was a wonderful guide and we learned so much that day. Yes, he was knowledgeable about these two palaces, that was his job. But the conversations as we drove through many neighbourhoods and had lunch together, offered a glimpse into what life was like for someone in their twenties in modern Russia. How a month’s salary at a good job was equivalent to the cost of an apartment for the month - you can do the math on that. Not feasible. How many of the old apartment blocks to this day do not have kitchens, but rather communal dining halls. That this young person’s hopes and dreams sounded very similar to those of young people closer to home.

One of my prized possessions was found on this trip. I had long loved the beauty found in Russian Orthodox icons. My goal was to obtain one while we were there. As it turns out, this is easier said than done. Yes, we saw them for sale in every church, but these were cheap plastic replicas. I did a bit of investigation and found a place that claimed to have some of the authentic carved wood, hadn't painted, gold leaf covered ones for sale. We found our way to an old apartment building, and climbed a few flights of stairs to what we hoped was a shop. We rang the buzzer to no avail, no one answered and we left defeated. To this day I have no idea if we were in the right place – and hope there wasn’t some terrified old lady on the other side of the peephole wondering who these strange English speakers were. As we walked back, we happened across a hand written sign for antiques that lead us down some stairs into a dim little basement shop. Wonder of wonders, it was full of old icons. They were spectacular. Of all sizes, and with all manner of religious depictions. We found one that appeared to be both within our budget (mostly) and a style I loved, and decided to purchase it. Again, communication with the two elderly women running this operation was a challenge. They assured me (I think) that it was less than one hundred years old – very important, as exporting one older is quite illegal. I still held my breath as we left Russia, thankful that no spot inspection occurred. When I look at this icon, I remember the old women of Russia. It is said that they were relentless in their church attendance during the Communist era and are largely responsible for its survival. They simply didn’t care to stop worshipping, they simply refused to be afraid. I admire that commitment, that bravery. I sometimes wonder if there is anything that would conjure up that kind of courage in my own life?

Once in a lifetime experiences are my specialty. And I’ve had a few. Perhaps that seems like a contradiction, but there is something powerful about going to new places. Doing so seems to require taking it all in as if it is the only thing that has, or ever will, happen. This is exactly what I love about travel. Finding moments of discovery that inspire the rest of my living. The souvenirs are merely representations of these moments. Bits of the work by the hands of others that, when gazed upon, explode into a memory and act as a reminder of who they are, what has been and how we are connected. Maybe these are just a fish, some stones, a few crafts and a piece of painted wood. Maybe. Or maybe they are more than that. Maybe they require me to consider that my way isn’t the only way. That my life is neither the standard nor the ideal – it’s just what I happen to have been given. There are many ways to be, many lives to live. These few objects tell me that. They tell me with beauty and character and wisdom. The world is big.
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