TheNears

There is this big pile of junk along the side of our house, full of stuff that didn’t get disposed of last summer.  Branches that I trimmed, bushes that I yanked, shingles that our alcoholic contractors failed to dispose of, and other miscellaneous stuff.  It’s pretty well hidden, behind the fence so you can’t see it from the front yard and along the side of the house so you can’t see it from the back yard.  However, we just set up a new swing set in the side yard and now that pile is really starting to get on my nerves.

We considered getting a junk removal company to haul it away last year, but they wanted over $300 to take it away.  I considered asking one of my neighbours if I could borrow their trailer, but told myself that before I start to mooch off of the new neighbours I had to invite them over for a BBQ.  So there the pile sat throughout the fall, winter, and now into the spring.

Having had enough of the eyesore, I decided that today was going to be the day to man up and get rid of it.  I had pre-arranged my neighbour’s utility trailer and was ready to get to work.  Unfortunately, today was also about the worst weather of the spring so far but I wasn’t going to let that be another excuse to not do the work.  So I put on the most waterproof clothing that I own, and went to town on the pile.  The first load was all brush, and I jammed as many branches into the trailer as would legally fit.  With the load tied down, I headed out to the dump.  Jodie, taking note of the mud that had become caked to every part of my body, kindly requested that I hose myself off and put down a blanket before getting into her new truck.  I complied.

Load two was somewhat more challenging, filled with shingles, concrete from the old fence posts, and more bush.  I headed back out to the dump.  The rain picked up to what can officially be termed “torrential” and I realized shortly after weigh-in that I had forgotten my work gloves at home.  I picked through the staple-laden shingles and thorny brush carefully with my bare, raw, and somewhat numb fingers as the last layer of my clothing gave in to the onslaught of moisture from above.  Miserable and exhausted, I was not amused when the dump mistress approached me with a friendly “going’ kinda slow there aren’t ya buddy?”  Lovely, just what I needed.  “It’s 4:30 y’know, I’d like to get outta here”, she continued. 

I finished up in my own good time, and then headed home.  The person manning the scales on the way out took pity on me, and grabbed some paper towels for me from her office.  It may have been pity, or it may have been because I was dripping on her Mastercard machine.  Either way, I was happy to receive them.

I’ll wait until tomorrow’s forecast sunshine to wipe down the inside of Jodie’s truck (the blanket didn’t save the interior), to sweep out my driveway, and get the trailer back into my neighbour’s garage.

I have to admit, while it makes for a fun story I wasn’t actually that miserable.  I wanted to get the work done, I knew I was going to get completely soaked before I even started, and I’m left with a strong sense of accomplishment having stroked a significant lingering task off of my to-do list.  Still, I’m spending the rest of the night in my recliner doing nothing but watching TV.  I’m spent.

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The seemingly endless fog of cigarette smoke in europe never ceases to amaze me. Okay, that’s an over-generalization and to be more specific it is the bars, restaurants, hotels, office buildings and airports that I have visited recently which leave me mistified.

Case in point - I am currently sitting in the waiting area of the dusseldorf airport until my flight to london leaves. I do not see anyone near me smoking, yet there is a haze in the air and it feels like marlboro exhaust is being pumped directly into my nose.

I’m sure that people get used to it, but it really drives me crazy. I just don’t understand it.

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The hotel in Zurich was less than ideal.  The room was tiny, the church behind my room rang its bells every fifteen minutes while I was trying to sleep, and the ceilings were so low that I literally cut open my scalp open on a door frame.  It’s more than 24 hours later, and my head is still hurting from the impact.

The hotel in Dusseldorf however is awesome.  A five-star intercontinental is where the conference is being held, and the whole place feels like luxury.  I think I’m going to enjoy myself here.

As for the luggage situation, I got a call from London Heathrow where my bag has apparently been sitting for a few days.  I was assured that it would be on the next flight to Dusseldorf, and the baggage staff at Dusseldorf assured me that they would deliver it to the hotel up to midnight.  It is now 2am, and no luggage.  I just finished ironing an ill-fitting suit that I found in Zurich and I plan to wear it tomorrow to the conference.  When I get home, I’ll likely donate it to charity (paid for by the baggage insurance on my AMEX).

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I showed up to the airport Saturday morning for my flight to Zurich via London Heathrow.  This was to be the latest attempt at beating jet lag - take the day flight to Heathrow (only day flight between Europe and Toronto), spend the night in London, then head to Zurich in the morning fully rested.

Upon check-in, I determined that my reservation of a bulkhead aisle had been randomly switched to a back of the plane window seat.  Also, the plane was oversold.  So I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse - fly me direct to Zurich in first class lie-flat seats and someone else can have my London seat.  After waiting for the plane to board, they agreed to my terms and provided me with the new ticket and $500 credit for future travel.  I was thinking this was a pretty good deal, and went home to spend the afternoon with the kids.  The Zurich flight left in the evening.

I arrived in Zurich at 8am this morning, and had a bad feeling about the progress being made on the baggage claim belt.  One by one, people picked off their bags and headed out the door.  One by one, the number of bags remaining on the belt dwindled.  And one by one, the chances of my bag being just around the corner faded.  My luggage was lost.

Well, that’s annoying but I figured I’d let the insurance on my AMEX kick in and buy me a new suit.  I’m meeting with one of the largest banks in the world tomorrow, and gosh darnit I’d better find a suit.  As I was sharing my plan with the baggage services person, he quietly informed me that there are no stores open in Zurich on Sunday.  But other than that detail, I think he believed it to be a good plan.

The day had now become a mission - to find myself a suit by the end of the day.  I embedded myself with the indigenous people and began to gather intel.  I learned from my hotel concierge that the shopping center at the train station was likely open.  Indeed it was, but the two menswear stores were perplexed by my rather generous dimensions.  However, they suggested that the airport might have more selection.  So I hopped on a train back to the airport and hit every store I could find.  They were right - the selection was better and there were a few places with nice suits.  Most of them even put me into the dressing room with a few items only to find that indeed, this is a kind of big that they haven’t seen before.  I trudged back to the hotel in defeat.

For dinner, I met with a coworker who had made dinner reservations at a fancy place.  Upon discussion of my wardrobe difficulties, she suggested that the reserved venue might not take kindly to my blue jeans and gray sweatshirt.  Instead we found somewhat less cosmopolitan place with big shared benches and plenty of local beer and food (my kind of place).  Claudia and I got to know each other in advance of our meeting tomorrow, and I think she even convinced me that the customer would accept my tale of woe as explanation for my attire.

As I settle in for the night, there is a slim chance that the bag might just show up here in the hotel.  But since the status of the bag is listed as “TRACING CONTINUES. PLEASE CHECK BACK LATER”, I’m not holding my breath.  That’s airline speak for “BAG, WHAT BAG?  YOU CHECKED A BAG?  HMMM, INTERESTING…”.

Oh, and there’s a charming clock tower beside my hotel that rings its bells every 15 minutes.  Given that it’s 10pm and the bells are still ringing, one has to wonder just how much sleep I’ll be getting tonight.

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Some people re-energize by catching a nap, some people by going on vacation, and yet others by flying into the stratosphere to soak in the yellow sun. 

For me, when it comes to work anyways, visiting customers is an amazing energy boost.  I had a great quick visit yesterday to a customer in North Carolina where I had my first opportunity to deliver the new product roadmap outside of the company.  These small meetings are my favourite, when I get an opportunity to engage with people who have real business needs that I can help solve.  And when they are passionate about content management and are able to get excited about what we’re doing, well that just makes my day.

There is no spreadsheet, no strategy, no stakeholder nor committee that can equal a conversation with a customer.  Every single one fills me with an energy that allows me to keep plowing through week after week and (hopefully) make a difference.

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I had intended to write about this about a month ago, when I found myself in the middle of a repatriation ceremony.  I was traveling between Milton and Ottawa to attend company meetings, and noticed that there were people congregating on overpasses in the Toronto area.  After traveling through several cities and seeing every single overpass crammed with people, emergency vehicles, and flags, I figured that something was going on and called home to Jodie to find out if she knew what was happening.  Surely enough, a group of soldiers had been killed over the weekend by an IED in southern Afghanistan and were returning to Canada today.

I was incredibly moved and indeed choked up as I drove the highway, knowing that a procession carrying fallen heroes was likely to be passing me in the opposite direction any time soon.  Veterans stood at attention, police, fire and ambulance services from every region donned dress uniforms, and the general public gathered in sombre groups along the highway.  When the motorcade did pass by on its journey between CFB Trenton and the coroner’s office, the crowds stood silent.  I reflected.  And then the crowds got back into their vehicles and quietly returned to their daily routines.

It made me proud to be a Canadian, and re-invigorated my belief in the power of community.  Canada is a relatively small country, and our military even smaller.  We do get involved in several conflicts globally, but when we do each one is closely scrutinized.  I would suggest that most Canadians are aware of the Afghanistan mission, of Canada’s prominent role in the dangerous Kandahar region, and are aware of almost every single death that occurs in our military.  You can call that quaint, you can call it a luxury afforded by our limited global involvement, or you can even call it silly.  I call it humanity.

So why am I finally writing about this today?  I came across an article in the Daily Mail out of Britain that compares the journey of a fallen Canadian soldier to that of a British soldier.  It would seem that the way we treat our fallen soldiers here is being shared amongst British troops, somewhat revered amongst others in the world, and provides a focal point around which this newspaper believes that Britons should feel shame.  I don’t personally know anyone in the British military, but the article paints a pretty bleak picture of how the dead are treated upon their return.  I sincerely hope that the article is hyperbole.

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I recognize the irony of calling the weekend "spring-like" when we’re several weeks into spring already.  The truth is that it hasn’t felt much like spring at all yet, and the piles of snow had yet to disappear from the landscape.

This weekend however was different.  The sun was shining, and the temperature got up into the low teens both days (mid-fifties Fahrenheit), and the snow has officially melted away.  I love these early spring days, where it seems like the entire neighbourhood piles out into the street.  The boys started a pickup road hockey game, and the girls decorated the sidewalks with chalk (the separation being more of an age distinction than a gender distinction).  The adults supervised, and chatted at the end of their driveways.

As for official signs of spring:

• We saw several robins plucking worms out of the moist soil
• I cut down some pussy-willows for the kids
• I relocated the snow blower from the garage to the backyard shed
• We have officially lost one parking space in the garage to bikes, wagons, and other various summery toys

Welcome, spring!

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I’m sure that you’re not particularly thrilled about the thunderstorms you’re getting tonight. While not actually claiming any sort of godlike powers, I feel that as an ethical person who takes responsibility for his actions I should apologize for bringing about this weather.
You see, there is a meeting this week at our office in Lincolnshire. I, along with several colleagues, am flying there to partake in these discussions which I assure you will be to great benefit of everyone involved. Generally, the simple act of flying to a destination is not enough to cause such a significant change in atmospheric conditions. I made the mistake this time of actually planning to meet people for dinner when I arrived tonight, and that additional selfish act can only be assumed to have caused the storm clouds to begin their formation over o’hare. My travel karma seems to degrade exponentially with the scope of planned activity at the destination.
So, to the citizens of chicago and to my colleagues stranded in airports across north america, I apologize.
This apology will be best received in person upon my arrival into your great city later tonight (or potentially tomorrow or wednesday depending on my flight status).

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I would classify myself as an abnormal business traveler.  Now that I’ve changed job functions here at Open Text again, I have to explain myself to a who new group of coworkers.  The fact that I’m realizing every time I justify my actions to a new person… I’m weird.

So what are the rule of travel that I obey?

1. If flying through or from Chicago O’Hare, book a room at the airport Hilton.  They have a 4pm cancellation policy, and you’ll generally know by then if you’re getting home or not.  Finding a hotel in Chicago when there’s bad weather is not easy.
2. Always pack an extra change of clothes.  There’s nothing worse than waking up early to potentially catch a rebooked flight and having nothing to wear but stinky old clothes. 
3. Always rent a car through National Car Rental.  They let you pick whatever car you want in the lot, and they’re all open to sit in and test out.  Getting "random intermediate class" car assigned to you, only to walk out to the parking lot and find that you don’t fit in it because you’re 6′5", then trudge back into the airport to wait in line only to be told that they don’t have anything else… well that is not fun.  Almost worse is having a colleague rent a car that is too small and being wedged in the passenger seat.
4. Never fly on a redeye.  This is getting increasingly more difficult to accommodate, but man do I ever try.  I would rather fly on four segments zigzagging halfway across the continent than take a direct overnight flight anywhere.  The primary issue: I’m 6′5". The headrests are about 5′10".  The math just doesn’t work out for a flight where you’re expected to sleep.
5. Avoid wherever possible flying on a Canadair Regional Jet.  I’ve written of my disdain for the CRJ in the past, and I do work religiously to avoid traveling on these planes still.
6. Never book a flight with only center seat availability.  Really, it’s not going to end well for me or any of the people sitting next to me.  I generally use travelocity.ca to choose the exact flight I want, taking into account both the aircraft and seating availability, and then call our corporate travel agent to book the flight.
7. Don’t get ripped off.  This translates more realistically to "I’m a cheapskate even when it’s not my money".  I do far more work than the travel agent to find the cheapest flight, adjusting days and even airports in many cases to find what I consider to be a reasonable flight.
8. Don’t pay for the basics.  This means, for me, that I expect to be able to park my car, use the Internet, and use a luggage cart without having to dispense any additional fees (including tips).  Ironically, it’s the expensive hotels that always ask for more money for stuff like this.  I avoid them.
9. Be adventurous.  If you’re in a new city, get out and take in the local culture.  Get a car if it makes sense, do some random driving, and use sites like tripadvisor.com to find great local restaurants.
10. Whatever happens, make the best of it.  For me, blogging remains my outlet and I try to write entertaining stories of woe when I get waylaid.  While I hate to admit it, I don’t really get too upset with my bad luck any more.  It makes for fun conversation, and once  the travel insurance on my credit card kicks in I just give up and try to enjoy my extended stay wherever I happen to be.

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Saturday afternoon was one filled with potential disaster in the realm of pre-school aquaria.  I returned home from the grocery store to the sounds of a screaming toddler who had clearly been sent to her room, a concerned-looking four year old, and a calm but frustrated wife scooping tropical fish out of what appeared to be six gallons of toxic waste.  Anticipating an interesting story, I quickly grabbed some aquarium supplies to help with the rescue effort.

Apparently while I was out, Jaimee had grabbed the Crayola Bath Tints from the under the bathrrom sink and dumped them all into Katlyn’s fish tank.  The resulting hue was a very dark green; like green jello before it has set.  Now I have no idea what they make these things out of, but I’ve got to think that whatever it is can’t be great for fish (especially in mass quantities).  From what I could tell, a bottle of fish food has also been added to the tank for good measure (probably makes sense if you’re three years old).

After removing the fish from the tank, Jodie took care of vacuuming the rocks while Katlyn and I cleaned the plants and filter.  We flushed the tank a few times over until the resulting water ran clear, and then started to reassemble the aquarium.  While getting the newly cleaned tank prepped, Katlyn noticed something tiny hovering near the bottom of the tank.  It was a baby fish, couldn’t be more than a couple days old, and it had survived the near-complete destruction of its world.

We re-inserted the rest of the fish into the environment and crossed our fingers.  So far, after two days, the fish appear to have survived.  This includes the new baby fish that miraculously escaped the cleaning.  If he matures into a viable adult, I think Katlyn should call him "Nemo".

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