Apparently there are dawdlers. As the good folks at WhereIveBeen.com observed in a recent blog post, Canada is “a remarkably overlooked tourist destination” despite its gifts of  ”photogenic landscapes, hockey, poutine and moose.”

They went on: ”Spanning a surface area counted as the second-largest on our planet, perhaps it’s too easy to get lost in choices–so let us do the hard work for you. We’ve gathered top experts to answer the burning questions….”

TheseBoots was pleased to be part of that lively round-table discussion about Canada that ranged from best views and border issues to beluga meat and don’t-miss cities.

Read all the Canada FAQs here…then book your flight to Newfoundland!

[This post originally appeared on Sept. 24/09, but since we're just a month out from the start of the 2010 Winter Games, I've brought it back...]

Just back from Whistler where a small group of international travel writers were this week treated to an impressive dog-and-pony about British Columbia’s upcoming Winter Olympics.

Let it be said that I did not cave to the hard-sell. There is no bandwagon in my future. Surely anyone with half a brain understands that the Vancouver 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games are the worst thing that has ever been unleashed upon an unsuspecting Canadian public.

Consider the evidence:

Sea-to-Sky Highway improvements will threaten family values.

Even before they spent $600 million straightening out the death-trap turns on Highway 99 between Horseshoe Bay and Whistler, this long and scenic road was named among the world’s top drives by Britain’s esteemed Guardian. Now, with the rough edges smoothed off, you can actually take your eyes off the road long enough to appreciate the glorious views–and that can only lead to one thing: motorcycle riding. What will happen when decent men—and even women—are tempted to leave junior with a sitter so they can hit the highway on two wheels?

The Cultural Olympiad will make children want to grow up to be artists.

It’s insidious how these things happen: one minute you’re a well-intentioned parent taking advantage of the Cultural Olympiad’s artistic bounty to introduce your youngsters to the wonders of Robert Lepage’s multi-media theatre spectacles or Tanya Tagaq’s mesmerizing throat-singing and the next thing you know they’re clamoring to enroll at Arts Umbrella. Then they’ll hit voting age and start lobbying the government to increase funding for arts and culture and before you know it, Canada will be a hotbed of creativity and innovation.

Taxpayer-subsidized video footage will bring more tourists to Canada.

Believe it: Canadian tax dollars helped produce stunning, professional-quality B-roll of Canadian destinations for use by international broadcasters before, during and after the 2010 Games. For months and possibly even years, friends, family and even total strangers from around the world will see this dramatic footage on TV and web sites and be inspired to come and spend money in our country. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Canada Line will lead to decreased workplace productivity.

No joke: the clean and green light rapid rail service that will whisk the Olympic masses from Vancouver International Airport to downtown Vancouver in 25 minutes for less than a cabbie’s tip will also be used by local commuters. Every day these hard-working Canadians will be surrounded by international visitors and their suitcases. How long will it be before they begin to waste precious hours day-dreaming about their own world travels?

The Squamish-Lil’Wat Cultural Centre will promote co-operation and cultural pride.

The striking new $30-million aboriginal cultural centre at Whistler is just one example of what can happen when Canada’s First Nations are consulted and included in the planning and execution of major projects. There are, in fact, four separate First Nations working together as co-hosts of the 2010 Winter Games. And to see what can happen when a nation’s racial rifts begin to heal, you need only look to the example set by our good neighbours to the south…

I was more comfortable saying “Queen Charlotte Islands”–the name that had been printed on every grade school map I’d ever studied.

But last week, the Globe and Mail reported that the traditional name–meaning “islands of the people”–will now appear on all official provincial maps. And this small act of reconciliation by the provincial government is wise and good, no matter what the Monarchist League of Canada says to the contrary.

My 21-year-old daughter, who spent a couple of weeks teaching in Haida Gwaii this past summer, put it best:

“It’s hard to grasp until you’ve actually been there, but once you have, you understand that of course it is Haida Gwaii. You see with your own eyes that it is the Haida’s ancient land, and everyone else is just a guest in their home.”

During my own visit, I toured the then-new Haida Heritage Centre and wrote about it for the Globe and Mail. When I emerged, I never again felt comfortable saying “Queen Charlotte Islands.”

I wonder how long it will be before the guidebooks catch up?

]]> http://theseboots.travel/2009/12/14/a-rose-by-any-other-name-bcs-queen-charlotte-islands-officially-renamed-haida-gwaii/feed/ 2 http://theseboots.travel/2009/10/20/from-blog-world-expo-2009-pr-industry-pros-talk-to-travel-bloggers/ http://theseboots.travel/2009/10/20/from-blog-world-expo-2009-pr-industry-pros-talk-to-travel-bloggers/#comments Tue, 20 Oct 2009 22:29:17 +0000 Julie Ovenell-Carter http://theseboots.travel/?p=1353 Time didn’t allow for me to attend the travel panel at this year’s Blog World and New Media Expo in Las Vegas, but the beauty of social media is that it came to me instead via Twitter and RSS.

I know a lot of people reading here work in or around the travel industry, so I thought it might be helpful to share this video of an interesting panel discussion by three travel PR powerhouses on the subject of travel blogging:

There’s No such Thing As a Free Trip – #BWE09 from Tom Martin on Vimeo.

It’s an hour long, but if you’re interested in how your property or agency can work more effectively with bloggers, it’s worth the time. (I think Fairmont Hotels’ Mike Taylor has particularly helpful advice on how to assess travel blogs.) Likewise, if you’re a blogger who wants to work smarter with the tourism industry, this one’s for you.

My big take-away? It’s still–and always was–about the trust relationship: between the travel industry and a writer, and a writer and her readers.

Transparency equals credibility equals readership and results. ’Twas ever thus.

I’d be interested to know what you glean from the discussion…

“One man has typewritten 4,917 words in an hour, but could he keep up with the conversation at a womans [sic] sewing circle [?]”

When I saw it last May, I laughed out loud: I’d just returned to Halifax from Amherst, two hours north, where I’d spent three blissful days at Deanne Fitzpatrick’s rug-hooking studio in the company of a dozen deep-thinking, fast-talking, wise-cracking women. I recognized Mr. Hansport’s question as a rhetorical one.

Rug-hooking—the simple, repetitive act of pulling woollen strips through a burlap backing to make mats and rugs—has vague origins; if it wasn’t born in Atlantic Canada, then it definitely came of age here.

Once scorned as a craft of poverty, hooking has in recent years found new fans, thanks in large part to Newfoundland and Labrador expat and Nova Scotia resident Fitzpatrick, whose colourful, whimsical rugs and books have earned a loyal international following.

Increasingly, that following is turning up in quaint Amherst (pop. 9,500). Several times a year, Fitzpatrick hosts themed workshops in her recently expanded studio on Church Street. Her enthusiasm is infectious–see the YouTube clip below.

A relative newbie to the craft, I found myself in the company of rank beginners and skilled pros; we came from as far away as Toronto, ON,Vancouver, BC, Maine and New Mexico and other parts of the US. (And some of us had been before. As one repeat visitor joked: “We love Deanne so much, we like to say that even if she taught plumbing, we’d still come to her workshops.”)

We came ostensibly for different reasons—to learn technique, to be inspired, to improve our colour sense. But Fitzpatrick, a former counsellor who listens carefully to the silences between the chatter, told us the real reason we were there: “To get permission to keep doing what you’re already doing; to get permission to keep playing.

“Now go,” she said, “and make some mats.”

A version of this story originally appeared on the Canadian Tourism Commission’s web site in July, 2009.

If you’re a rug-hooker, I’d love to hear about some of the other great retreats you’ve attended in Canada or further afield…

My husband Brad and I have been married for 28 years–not all of them exactly blissful. In fact we even separated briefly in our 17th year, but we didn’t divorce and today we’re happier and more solid than ever. (If you really want to know how we got through it, read “Staying Together,” the article I wrote for Canadian Living magazine on the occasion of our 25th wedding anniversary in 2005.)

Anyway, I just read a TripAdvisor survey that suggests more people than ever are planning a romantic getaway in 2009–despite the lousy economy. And to that I say: recession be damned, let romance prevail!

Especially when your relationship is under stress, even 24 hours away from home can give you the time and space you need to see your situation more clearly. (Plus there’s something, um, stimulating about bathtubs that don’t need scrubbing and sheets that don’t need changing.) But don’t let the word “romantic” put you off–you don’t have to buy new underwear or spend a fortune on candlelit dinners (although the travel industry would love it if you did).

Book a room, pack along a bottle of wine, and spend a quiet evening with your best beloved away from kids, dogs and deadlines. Together time is not just essential for newlyweds. Us longlyweds need it perhaps even more…

A white flag at winter

When the late Peter Gzowski suggested Canada needed a national holiday in February, you would think that would have been good enough for the politicians. After all, Gzowski had his finger on the nation’s pulse for decades; the king of CBC Radio knew better than any bureaucrat what was good for the Canadian psyche. But no one listened, and now Gzowski is gone, and dreary February is still short, but not short enough.

Except in Quebec.

Maybe it’s because 96 per cent of the population in Quebec City speaks French that they missed the news that Canada does not have a holiday in February. Or maybe it’s because they’re so cold by February that drinking and dancing and singing and clapping is the only thing they can think to do to prevent freezing to death. Whatever the reason, for 17 days each February for the past 48 years, Quebec City has waved the white flag at winter, surrendering itself to all manner of snowy pleasures.

Bring the family

Quebec’s Carnaval is a family affair, a far cry from the debauched pre-Lenten festivals held in Rio and New Orleans. (Who really wants to bare breasts and buttocks in –20 weather anyway?) It’s so family-friendly, in fact, that the colorful parade is held on two Saturdays, passing once through downtown and once through a residential suburb. It’s one of the two great parades in Canada (the other being Calgary’s Stampede parade in July), with plenty of glitzy floats, marching bands, and of course, the lovable Bonhomme-a cross between the Michelin Man and Pillsbury Doughboy who serves as Carnaval’s mascot.

Visitors to Carnaval–especially winter wimps from the west coast–are strongly advised to adopt the local uniform: undershirt, turtleneck, fleece jacket, parka, snow pants, thermal socks, thermal boots, scarf, toque, and thermal mitts. (Pee first.) You will look like the Bonhomme (see right), but so will everyone else, and you will absolutely need that much clothing if you hope to enjoy the festivities, most of which are held outdoors.

Even with all those layers, you will quickly come to appreciate the real value of the Quebec two-step, a spontaneous dance performed by young and old alike to keep their toes from falling off.

(It’s an intriguing commentary on French-English relations that the signs along the parade route cautioning against drinking alcohol in cold weather are exclusively in French. Anyone with enough French to read them probably already has the sense to stay sober in the snow; it’s the vacationing English who are more likely to need the warning. Still, hypothermia or no hypothermia, nothing seems to stop either camp from sipping a little Caribou-allegedly once the blood of the animal but now a cloying whiskey-based beverage-from hollow plastic walking sticks sold at corner stores expressly for the purpose.)

A value-priced party

The revelry is valued-priced. A $5 plastic figurine of the Bonhomme, available on every street corner and worn on your coat, gives you access to the city’s three festival sites, and more than 300 performances and activities including puppet shows, story-telling, old-time fiddling, snow rafting (like white-water rafting without the water), ice-fishing, snow-shoeing, and sleigh-riding.

You can even take a lesson in snow-sculpting to gain insight into the technical expertise behind the dozens of giant-sized sculptures lining the historic Plains of Abraham. For 30 years, sculptors from around the globe (even teams from south of the equator) have gathered in Quebec to compete in the International Snow Sculpture Show; the ornate detail of their icy carvings is as much a testimony to their engineering skills as their artistry.

Who knew ice could be so much fun when you’re not trying to drive on it? The vast ice castle, built each year in front of the parliament buildings, erupts with a stunning sound-and-light show every 20 minutes between 6 p.m. and 11 p.m.

The view from the top of the ice luge, behind the Fairmont Chateau Frontenac, will take your breath away, as will the quick trip down by toboggan. And the adult-only Icecotheque at the Maurice Night Club, where drinks are served in ice beakers, gives a whole new meaning to disco cool. But the most memorable ice spectacle is the one you won’t find in the official program: the rushing St. Lawrence River, as cold and as thick with ice as a Slurpee from Seven-11.

Cross the St. Lawrence for the best view

For the best view of the churning slush–and perhaps a deeper appreciation for the fortitude of Canada’s early settlers–take the commuter ferry to Levis, just across the river from Quebec City. (The terminal is just steps away from the picturesque shopping district of Rue du Petit-Champlain; the return trip is less than $5 if you don’t get off in Levis.)

On the 10-minute trip over, watch how the fast-moving floes tear apart like ripped fabric; listen to the peculiarly menacing slip and slither of the frigid river. On the trip back, have your camera at the ready: this view of Old Quebec–now a designated UNESCO world heritage site–is particularly dramatic, with the venerable Chateau looming imperiously over the ramparts, like a seigneur surveying his land.

From the ferry dock in the Lower Town, there are two preferred ways to get back up and inside the walled city. Children invariably prefer the shorter route: straight up the hillside courtesy of the Funiculaire–the equivalent of a glass-sided elevator–running vertically between the Quartier Petit-Champlain and the Dufferin terrace, behind the Chateau.

But the longer and more visually rewarding route is along antique alley in the Vieux-Port district: the shops along Sault-au-Matelot and Rue St. Paul will charm anyone with a weakness for old Quebec pine. When the stores begin thinning out, veer left on Sous-le-Cap, the narrowest street on the continent, and follow the quaint cobbled pathway that will lead you back up to the ramparts and within site of Notre-Dame cathedral.

Get lost

The ancient streets make no sense, and it easy, even desirable, to get lost–so dress for the cold. With the right clothing, and a break indoors for lunch and a mid-afternoon café au lait, it’s possible to remain outside for most of the day. Romance (if you’re without children), or fatigue (if kids are in tow), requires at least one trip through town in the snug, fur-lined comfort of a horse-drawn caleche. But mostly, the pleasures of Carnaval–walking, skating, dancing–are best enjoyed with both feet on the ground: no rental car required.

At night, young revelers do their best to sabotage the sleep of weary tourists, blatting incessantly on their long plastic trompettes, the favorite noise-makers at Carnaval. In the twilight moment before sleep descends, it is a sound reminiscent of an irritating summer mosquito.

But if a hovering mosquito often marks the close of a perfect Canadian summer holiday, why shouldn’t its equivalent mark the close of a perfect Canadian winter holiday?

We’d been flying for hours. In the row ahead, two American hunters on their way up to Baker Lake to bag a few musk ox adjusted their large rumps in the turboprop’s small seats.

My friend Jo gave up reading the inflight magazine, with its ads for romantic weekend escapes to Edmonton, and pressed her forehead against the little window to study the lake-pocked landscape of northern Manitoba, which was mottled brown-and-white as far as the eye could see, as if God had spread a tattered lace tablecloth across the wide plain.

“I’m pretty sure we won’t be bumping into Rod Stewart up here,” she said dryly.

The day before, in the elevator of Winnipeg’s elegant Fairmont Hotel, we’d had the adolescent thrill of running into the aging rock star–or at least his body double–on the way to a sold-out concert at the new MTS Centre. Now we were 1,700 kilometres north of the city, closer to Nunavut than the corner of Portage and Main, hoping for a less random encounter with the stars. We were heading for Churchill, looking for a front-row seat at that dramatic and long-running show called the aurora borealis.

It was certainly not a sure thing. Cloud cover, moon phases, nuclear arms in North Korea–there were plenty of variables to confound us. And you could catch the act in other places, of course. I grew up in northern B.C. and already knew one version of the show from childhood. But Churchill is to the northern lights what Broadway is to musical theatre: the shows are big, the actors are reliable, and you never know when you’re going to encounter an award-winning performance.

The plain little port community, which claims to be “the polar bear capital of the world”, is arguably the best place in the world to view the lights, centred as it is under the northern “auroral oval”, the region with the highest and most intense auroral activity. The kaleidoscopic light show, which peaks in the winter months, is caused when the sun spits electrically charged particles at the earth. When that solar saliva trickles into the upper atmosphere and excites its oxygen and nitrogen, the results are colourful, to say the least.

Read the rest of this article here.

II. Appassionato

If, as the Bard reminds us, all the world’s a stage, then I propose we photo-obsessed wayfarers might do well to lay aside our cameras and pay closer attention to the incidental music that punctuates the scenes and acts of our traveling days.

I am not talking here about the blue-chip performances that require advance tickets and balcony seating and fancy dress. I am speaking rather of those unplanned and unexpected gifts of music that tell us as surely as the food we are eating and the language we are speaking where we have landed on this planet.

When we come back from our travels, we are prepared for the usual questions: “Where did you go? What did you see? What did you do?” And even before you have boarded your return flight, you have likely prepared your stock responses. But how would you begin to answer if someone were to ask: “Tell me—what did you hear?”           

III. Dolce

I collected my first sound postcard when I was 14 years old and trapped in what seemed an interminable family vacation in the suburban barrens of Winnipeg. It was a hot July afternoon, and my younger brother and I, tired of running through my grandmother’s sprinkler, sat on the scorching cement steps leading to the never-used front door, stunned silent by the oppressive humidity.

Inside, my mother and her older sister, my aunt Donna, had claimed the below-ground basement, the only cool place in the little brick-and-stucco tract house. Both accomplished violinists, they enjoyed playing duets whenever they got together. The screen door was open, and my brother and I could hear them tuning up as we meticulously picked the bits of grass off our feet that so annoyed my granny when we tracked them into her obsessively tidy kitchen.

 It was the first time I ever heard Bach’s double violin concerto. We laid back on the front stoop and let the joyous optimism of the first movement wash over us, and indulged, I think, a secret pride that it was our family members making that glorious sound. Some neighborhood kids wandered into the yard and joined us on the steps to listen. Then more came and suddenly, as if lured by the Pied Piper himself, there were a dozen bored and sticky children gathered by the screen to enjoy that wafting musical breeze.

It seemed so risky at the time, but as a group we decided to descend to the basement, where we sat quietly on old couches and chairs to watch the performance. Neither player saw us enter: with their backs to the stairs, they were oblivious to anything but their instruments. I will never forget the look on their faces when the little audience jumped to its feet to applaud the final movement. I have no pictures from that long-ago summer, only the memory of that joyful noise—of family, and friends, and music shared without pretense.

[Read--and hear--the entire Globe & Mail story here.]