Embrace the PDA*!

* PDA = Public display of affection

Confession time: my boyfriend and I are one of those icky couples that tend to express our affection for each other in public.

People often question how, after six years together, we can still be insecure enough that we feel the need to parade our love for other people’s benefit, but the truth is, it’s not about trying to prove our togetherness — we just appreciate the fun of sharing a spontaneous kiss with someone you like.

So when Michelle received a tourism brochure about the “10 best places to kiss in New Zealand,” I had a cartoon lightbulb moment: in honour of Valentine’s Day, why not share with all our readers what, in my opinion, are the 10 best places to kiss in the international region?

There are lots of opportunities for spontaneous romance here, if you’re open to them.

1. The arrivals gate at the Edmonton International Airport. My boyfriend, J, does a lot of traveling for work, so we’ve perfected the art of the happy return. If you’re feeling down, make like Hugh Grant in Love Actually and wander through the arrivals area. It might actually be the happiest place on earth.

2. The boardwalk overlooking Telford Lake. One evening in the fall, I was wandering around Telford Lake, taking pictures of the scenery to pass the time before my next assignment, when I interrupted a young couple taking advantage of the seclusion of the tall reeds and the beauty of the Alberta sunset to, ahem, get to know each other better. Whoever you are, I’m sorry about that, but thanks for the inspiration.

3. The hiking trail at Pigeon Lake Provincial Park. Technically, the park is located in Wetaskiwin County, but it’s a beautiful spot for a lazy walk hand-in-hand on a summer day, followed by a picnic on the shore.

4. In a canoe on the North Saskatchewan River. On our own canoe trip from Devon to Edmonton in the summer, J and I were too busy trying to get the hang of steering to steal a smooch, but if you can manage it without tipping over, the peaceful water and sun-dappled cliffs lend themselves nicely to romance.

5. The ferris wheel on the Black Gold Pro Rodeo midway. In my single days, I always thought kissing atop a ferris wheel would be the literal height of romantic perfection — as long as you’re not with a jerk who likes to play “rock the seat.”

6. The Amazing Corn Maze. ‘Nuff said.

7. A snowbank. You shouldn’t have a hard time finding one of those somewhere in the region. And nothing says ‘I love you’ like pelting your significant other with snowballs and then tenderly apologizing.

8. Over dinner at any of several great restaurants in the area. J and I are that eyeroll-inducing couple who hold hands over the table in between courses. Some of our best conversations have been had over delicious food and wine. I recommend laying off the spice though — the first time J took me for Thai food I cried so hard the other patrons thought we were breaking up.

9. Sportsworld Roller Disco. This is in Edmonton, but I can’t deny the romantic nostalgia of a roller disco. Fun fact: the first time I held hands with a boy was on my 10th birthday at the roller disco in Mississauga, Ontario. You never, never forget your first slow-skate.

10. Highway 39. Pull over on a range road, park, and watch the sun go down, or a thunderstorm roll in over the picture-perfect farm fields, or the stars, and contemplate the beauty of your existence.

Where do you find romance in the capital region?

(Photo: Alex and J get kissy at the 2009 Chamber Awards of Distinction Jan. 30.)

I can't watch

On my wall I have a framed photo I took in Haiti.

I spent a week there in early 2008, tagging along with an NGO as they negotiated the development of a new medical facility on the Haiti-Dominican Republic border.

I took the photo in Port-au-Prince, looking down a steep hill onto an alleyway lined with concrete facades. The green mountainside in the background is barely visible through a haze of smoke, and its lower reaches are a patchwork of cinderblock homes.

I wonder now how that view has changed; in the two years since my visit, Haiti has been devastated by two hurricanes and a massive earthquake.

I can’t bring myself to watch the footage of the aftermath of the quake. When I read of the destruction in Petionville, a neighbourhood of Port-au-Prince where I spent most of my time during my visit, I felt a confusing mixture of emotions wash over me: grief, loss, and the awkward sensation of having accidentally walked in on someone in a moment of private pain.

My reaction surprised me. When I returned to the D.R. after my week in Haiti, all I felt was relief. I’d spent the entirety of my stay in Port-au-Prince in a state of high agitation, worrying about my money, about my food, about the discussions in Haitian Creole I couldn’t participate in, about the bugs slowly eating away at the wooden headboard in my hotel room.

I listened and looked and sensed, internalizing my surroundings without understanding them, and when I stepped off the bus in familiar Santo Domingo, it was like releasing a gigantic breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in.

When I debriefed the experience with the founder of the NGO, a Haitian-born lawyer from New York, he cautioned me against making assumptions about the things I’d seen.

I had viewed Haiti through a privileged lens, eating in nice restaurants and touring only the safest neighbourhoods. I never ventured into those misty mountainside shanties, just photographed them from afar and wondered about the lives being lived out there.

Haiti’s situation is uniquely complex and probably one of the least understood of any developing nation in the world; I acknowledged this, but with a sense of regret that I hadn’t really connected with the country or its people.

For that reason, the strong sadness I felt at the news of the earthquake felt misplaced, inappropriate somehow. The hundreds of thousands of deaths and the utter destruction of beautiful, historic Port-au-Prince are undisputable tragedies, but ultimately, they’re not my losses to bear, or any of the millions of people who have generously donated to the relief effort.

The outpouring of money and support is wonderful, but much of the lightning-fast response smacks of opportunism.

Everyone who’s anyone in the journalism industry is down there covering the story and some of their dispatches sound almost giddy, as though picking their way through mangled, body-strewn streets and asking survivors about the horrors they’ve witnessed is the thrill of a lifetime.

In the days immediately following the quake, North American expats in Haiti were the only accessible sources of information about the situation, and some, like American Luke Renner, saw their chance to seize a few moments of fame. Renner’s Twitter feed is a stomach-turning combination of self-promotional references to his interviews and talk show appearances interspersed with gory updates on the carnage.

I refuse to watch the Haiti telethons (either incarnation) because to me it seems like the height of exploitation — a bunch of wealthy, fabulous people essentially using the tragedy to further boost their profiles.

The absolute nadir was reading that a woman in New York who was involved in some political sex scandal (I can’t be bothered to mention her name) was planning to donate all the proceeds from her “strip-a-thon” to the Red Cross.

All of this is completely removed from the Haiti I choose to remember, the Haiti I hope rises from the dust, the Haiti that captured my imagination and my heart without me even realizing it.

The world will tear its eyes away, the television crews will pack up and go home, the stars will find another worthy cause they can use. In that sudden vacuum of attention, I hope it’s Haitian voices that emerge, telling their own story, in their own words, inviting us to understand.

A sojourn around the county

This afternoon, I went to New Sarepta and Thorsby to take photographs of "iconic" landmarks in each village for our upcoming 2010 calendar. Here are some of my snaps. What say you — are any of them calendar-worthy? Are they "iconic"? Click to enlarge.

New Sarepta — Yardley Jones Park




New Sarepta




Thorsby




Highway 39


(All photos Alexandra Pope/Sun Media)

Lost in transit

If you had asked me one week ago who I thought had the most difficult, important job in the world, I probably would have said a surgeon or a paramedic — someone for whom quick thinking and action is literally a matter of life and death.

However, a recent experience has caused me to revise my opinion and add to that list people who work in airports.

I’m only being slightly facetious. They may not have to perform delicate operations or feats of incredible bravery and strength in a race against the clock on a daily basis, but ticket agents, security personnel, ground crews and flight crews often see people at their most vulnerable, and the smallest gesture can mean the difference between a difficult-but-tolerable situation and a waking nightmare.

I have the worst travel karma of anyone I know. Thankfully, I’ve never experienced a real emergency, but minor setbacks such as flight delays, cancellations, bad weather, lost baggage and general organizational screw-ups tend to compound for me into epic detours. In 2006, I missed my own university graduation ceremony because of a one-hour delay on the first leg of my trip.

Last week, I arrived at the airport in Venice, refreshed after a weeklong vacation and ready to go home. I had a sinking premonition the moment the word “delayed” flashed on the screen beside my flight number that what should have been a straightforward journey home would be anything but. I was right.

The first leg of my trip took me to Rome. We were an hour late, leaving me with less than 45 minutes to make my connecting flight to Toronto. I ran through the maze-like terminal, growing more panicked with every passing minute. My gate was, of course, at the complete opposite end of the airport. I heard the final boarding announcement as I raced up the escalator to the Air Canada connections desk. Gasping for breath, I flung my passport at the agent.

“You might as well take a seat, Miss Pope,” she said. “The flight is full.”

Full?

“But I have a ticket,” I said.

“You’re in transit, and you’re late,” she said.

I explained about the delay in Venice.

“It’s Alitalia’s mistake, not ours. You’ll have to talk to them.”

Three hours, five different desks and one epic lineup later, I had a hotel voucher and a new ticket for the following morning. At the hotel, I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and tried to relax and not worry about my luggage.

The next morning, all seemed well; I checked in early, got a coffee and went to my gate … where I noticed with dismay that the flight had inexplicably been delayed an hour.

No problem, I thought. I still have two hours to make my connection in Toronto. It will be fine.

I hadn’t counted on Aug. 4 being the day a line of severe thunderstorms rolled through Toronto, causing utter chaos at the airport. Upon landing, the problems stacked up: there was no available gate because all planes were grounded; the ground crews were not allowed out to fetch the baggage or even bring stairs to get us off the aircraft; there was no one to unlock the gate to let us into the customs area.

As I sat on the floor beside the baggage carousel, waiting for a suitcase that turned out to be languishing in a lost and found in Rome, I told myself it could be worse — much worse.

Despite my attempts at reasoning, more than anything I wanted a magic portal that would transport me home to a hot shower and my own bed. The thought of my bed, still a four-hour flight away, sent tears of exhaustion and pent-up anxiety rolling down my face. I was not the only passenger on the brink of a nervous collapse.

For most people — myself included — air travel is a stressful enough experience without setbacks. When setbacks do occur, it’s enough to send even the most rational person into an emotional tailspin.

Airport staff bear the brunt of this outpouring of frustration. They’re working in the dead zone between home and away, a place no person wants to be any longer than they absolutely have to. They have to deal with rude remarks, belligerent passengers and bureaucratic backlogs.

I don’t blame the ones who end up snapping at the hundredth person who asks them when the planes will be allowed to fly again, or who take one look at the ticket lineup stretching around the corner and decide now would be a perfect time to take their 15-minute break. But I thank, from the bottom of my heart, the ones who make an extra effort to humanize the process of being lost in transit.

There was the supervisor who made announcements every five minutes updating people on the status of their bags and who had bottled water brought in for the families with young children. There was the gate assistant who prevented a passenger mutiny by keeping her tone light and sympathetic every time she announced another sliding delay. And there were the booking agents who worked overtime to get people out of lineups and onto flights or into hotels.

When I finally landed in Edmonton that night, I was so happy I wanted to kiss the tarmac (I didn’t).

I could swear never to fly a certain airline again, or write angry letters to every authority who conspired to keep me from my bed for 48 hours, but after a century of flight, this is simply the reality of air travel. We pay a steep price for the privilege of experiencing life in other countries in this jaded age of terrorism and economic turmoil.

Ultimately, the thing to remember is that, in this case at least, the destination is more important than the journey.

An ode to my favorite songs

Supposedly, scent is the human sense most strongly tied to memory (according to a commercial for men's body wash, anyway), but I think I can make a pretty convincing case for the power of sound — especially music.

Last Friday, I went to Smitty's in Leduc to photograph the performance of Prince Edward Island musicians Richard Wood and Gordon Belsher. I thought I had been away from the east coast long enough to handle an evening of east coast music without succumbing to homesickness, but I left the restaurant after the first set feeling emotionally raw in a way I hadn't expected — devastated and yet uplifted at the same time.

It wasn't one particular song but rather the whole sound that somehow reached into my chest and wrapped itself tightly around my heart. Images flashed through my head — of summer road trips to the Bay of Fundy and wading in soft, ankle-deep mud at low tide, of kayaking on the Saint John River at sunset, of my mother's house in Fredericton. I recalled the strange day I found out I was moving to Alberta and how my feeling of elation at getting hired for my first journalism job was offset by a powerful sadness that I was going so far away from the place I had come to call home.

As I listened to him play, I remembered what Belsher, a former Edmontonian, said in our phone interview a few days before the concert: that travelling to P.E.I for the first time felt like coming home. I could relate; something about the smell of pine trees in the cool May evening when I first stepped off the plane in Fredericton six years ago told me I was welcome there. Maritime music always, ultimately, brings me back to that moment, no matter how far away I get.

I read somewhere that Canadians have become a very transient people. Despite the hugeness of our country, many of us don't think twice about moving to different cities, provinces and coasts in pursuit of work, education, love, adventure, a fresh start.

This is certainly true of my own history. The other day, my boyfriend and I added up the number of different houses we've lived in throughout our lives to see who has moved around more; I think I beat him, but not by much. We've both lived in four different provinces, in many different cities, sometimes briefly, sometimes for years. As a result, "home" has come to take on a rather flexible meaning.

Every place I've lived has eventually come to feel like "home," even when I resisted becoming attached to a particular location. When I left the Dominican Republic, I cried for the loss of the beaches and the wild beauty of the southern coast, for tostones and fried salami and the friends I hadn't expected to make.

When I left Whitecourt — though I had spent most of my brief time there pining to be elsewhere — I missed the Athabasca River and the local sandwich shop and the sound of trains rumbling by in the night.

The question I've been wrestling with for the past three years — a period of my life in which I haven't lived in a single place for longer than eight months — is how to hang on to the things you love about a place, the things that make it feel like home, and use them to help you get through the loneliness and upheaval of going somewhere else.

The best answer I've been able to come up with is music. As I proved to myself at the Maritime show, I only have to hear a fiddle to be instantly transported back to the happiest moments of my time in New Brunswick.

Likewise, when I hear anything remotely Spanish in flavour, it isn't hard to recall the giddy joy of roaring down the highway on the back of a motorcycle, the deep-fried smell of the propane-powered public cars in Santo Domingo, or the fresh, watery flavour of a sun-ripened avocado.

I am already building up an arsenal of "Alberta songs" — mostly country — that in the future will bring back memories of learning to drive on the winding mountain highway through Jasper, the sight of the fields and trees along Highway 39 frosted with ice after a spring fog, and Edmonton's skyline at sunset.

Sometimes, when my heart is heavy and I can't see clearly past the darkness of my own mood, I put on an old favorite song and wish to be back in what seems, in retrospect, to have been a simpler time. I look back at past problems with nostalgia, believing them to have been more easily overcome than my present difficulties. I want to stay inside the familiar melody, where it's safe.

More than anything, I want to be "home," until I realize that, for me at least, at this time in my life, "home" doesn't exist in a concrete way anymore. It's not a place I can travel back to on a free weekend, but a place I have to find inside myself over and over again.

It takes time to get to know a place and really feel at home there, the same way it takes time to learn a new song. It's only when you hear the song again, years later, and can still sing it note-perfect, that you realize how well you knew it all along.

72 hours

Ask anyone you meet if they've ever had a brush with large-scale disaster, and a surprising number of them will say yes.

At the Riggers awards banquet last weekend, I started chatting with a couple whose son was on the team. They had lived for 25 years in Yellowknife (which was very interesting in itself), but the dad revealed he was originally from a little town near Hamilton, Ont. called Hagersville.

I immediately looked to my boyfriend for some sign of recognition, since he grew up in Pelham, about 40 km down the Niagara escarpment, but the name didn't ring a bell — until the man said, "That's where they had that big tire fire."

A Wikipedia search for Hagersville reveals that the most notable thing about the place is that in 1990 a "gigantic, uncontrolled tire fire" broke out and raged for 17 days, spewing toxic smoke all over the region. Oddly enough, the fire didn't start in Hagersville; it started in nearby Townsend, but the media felt Townsend was altogether too small, unknown and unimportant to be capable of producing such a monstrous disaster, so they attributed to the fire to Hagersville.

One thing I have in common with Michelle is that we both lived for a time in Mississauga, Ontario, which usually gets absorbed into the Greater Toronto Area unless you bring up the train derailment of 1979. Then suddenly everybody knows where Mississauga is. Michelle likes to say, with some degree of pride, that the derailment happened really near her house.

I could give lots of other examples — virtually my entire extended family, who are concentrated in Montreal/eastern Ontario, suffered through the Ice Storm of 1998; a friend of mine's father lives in New Orleans and shared with us the insurance photos he took of his home after Hurricane Katrina.

My own closest brush with disaster happened while I was living in the Dominican Republic. On Oct. 28, 2007 (my 22nd birthday), a tropical depression formed over Puerto Rico and began tracking northwest. By the time it hit the south coast of the D.R., it had a name, Noel — although everyone called it "Noah" because of the devastating amounts of rain that fell during the five days the storm remained stationary over the island.

In hindsight, the storm could have been a lot worse, but at the time, it was frightening. A tree fell on the power lines in my neighborhood on the second day of the storm, knocking out electricity to the entire area, and crews could not safely get in to fix it for three days. I could still get out to the stores to buy clean water and provisions, which I cooked on my gas stove, but my drains backed up and my apartment was invaded by cockroaches and centipedes. The lack of light, especially in the evening, played on my fears as I huddled in bed with a can of aerosol insect spray, reading by candlelight.

After the storm came mudslides in the central mountains, massive crop failure in the southwest and outbreaks of disease — dengue fever and various bacterial illnesses that thrive in standing water.

As the government and military scrambled to co-ordinate helicopter evacuations for people cut off by mudslides, clear inundated roads and repair dams and bridges, relief organizations sprang into action, setting up mobile medical clinics and distributing food to the hardest-hit villages.

It was not the worst storm ever to hit the island — that distinction still belongs to Hurricane David, which killed 2,000 people in 1979. But the aftermath took months to clean up. For the most part, the islanders were left to take care of their own affairs with whatever resources they had at their disposal.

In a sense, countries like the D.R. have a natural advantage in that hurricane season is an annual event. The likelihood of one or more severe storms making landfall in that six-month window is quite high.

Still, when you live in a place day to day and fall into an unremarkable, perfectly safe routine, it becomes difficult to imagine anything disturbing it and emergency preparation takes a backseat to more immediate priorities. How else to explain the fact that even routine, fairly predictable events like hurricanes consistently take leaders and residents by surprise, with heartbreaking results?

The same is true everywhere, whether it's in a small town in Canada or a crowded city in the developing world.

Disaster can strike anywhere, at any time. Fire or flood, wind or hail, drought or accident, it doesn't discriminate — everyone is vulnerable to random devastation.

In light of the recent emergency planning exercise held by our local municipal leaders and the fact that May 3 marks the start of emergency preparedness week in Canada, take a moment to consider your response to a disaster. How would you protect yourself and your loved ones?

Whether it’s having enough food and water stashed away to sustain your household for at least three days, a little cash set aside, or a home evacuation plan, a little foresight goes a long way.

It’s natural to hope for the best, but wise to prepare for the worst.

Related: Noel trumps the race card
Everyone has role to play in emergency

Las Vegas in a recession

Last weekend, as I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight to depart, I came up with a list of life experiences I wanted to get under my belt during my four days in Las Vegas.

I wanted to visit the lobby of every single hotel and casino on the strip, rack up a $150 restaurant bill, see what a pair of $500 designer shoes looks like in real life, walk the strip at night pretending to be CSI Katherine Willows on the trail of a hot case — you get the picture.

I have champagne taste and a wine cooler budget. I didn’t want to spend money in Vegas so much as I just wanted to soak up the atmosphere of pure luxury that permeates the lobbies of the Mirage, the MGM Grand and the Venetian. I was willing to take the tackier aspects of the strip in stride just for the chance to be in close proximity to money.

I found myself peeking into the “high roller” lounges in each casino, hoping to catch a glimpse of a confident, jaded James Bond type playing baccarat or someone channeling the glory days of the Rat Pack in the cut of their jacket and gentlemanly swagger.

What I saw were lushly carpeted rooms, set back from the noise and smoke of the main casino floor, scented with fresh orchids, gorgeously lit with a soft amber glow … and completely empty.

As were the high-end shops at Caesar’s Palace, and the $65-a-plate restaurants, and the nightclubs that once upon a time could charge $100 cover.

It seems that even in Vegas, the very seat of conspicuous consumption, luxury and excess have fallen out of fashion in this bust economy.

Each morning at our hotel, I read the Las Vegas Review-Journal and gained a clearer understanding of what has taken the wind out of Sin City’s sails.

Nevada leads the United States in foreclosure filings, while Las Vegas ranked second in a report on foreclosure filings in major U.S. cities.

Unemployment stats in Vegas also paint a grim picture of how the recession has affected a city whose main economic driver is tourism. Even with several new resort projects opening or under construction, such as the M Resort and the luxurious Fontainebleau casino, one in 10 people in the Clark County area is unemployed.

An open letter from the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority appeared in the March 9 edition of USA Today, begging businesses to consider hosting conferences and trade shows in Vegas despite President Barack Obama’s admonition that large-scale meetings would appear to be a frivolous use of taxpayers’ money.

It’s not just Las Vegas that is having to revamp its image to appeal to a population that has suddenly found itself with a lot less disposable income to play with. For months the covers of upscale fashion magazines have been pushing the idea of “recession chic.” They haven’t actually gone so far as to suggest that you wear last year’s clothes again this year, but they have begun to grudgingly admit that you don’t have to drop $500 on a dress to look like you did.

Maybe one of the advantages of the recession is that we will come to develop a more realistic sense of the value of things.
Monetary value is assigned to goods and experiences partly based on their rarity, with higher cost usually presuming higher quality — a couture gown, a meal prepared by a celebrity chef, a stay in the penthouse of a four-star hotel. But as the pool of individuals able to afford them continues to shrink, they become less desirable icons of status than laughable vestiges of a time when achieving that kind of financial security was even possible.

Consumers still want to have fun with their money, but now we want it to go further as well. If “luxury” businesses are going to ride out the downturn, they’re going to have to become accessible to a wider range of clientele. From a middle class consumer perspective, the time has never been better to live like a rock star while still living within your means.