Let Montreal take care of you

Sometimes it takes a week on the beach. Sometimes it takes a long yoga retreat. Sometimes it takes a series of therapy sessions. But sometimes, when your head is spinning and your body is exhausted, and you’re not sure where you are or what’s ahead - just one perfect day to yourself is all it takes to set you back on the right path again. And I may be biased but I don't think there’s any other city like Montreal to take you away from the daily grind and offer a fresh perspective on it all. Whether you’re a long-time local or a curious visitor, here's my personal guide to a refreshing and rejuvenating 24 hours in Quebec’s colourful gem of a city.

Morning:

Start your day browsing the fragrant stalls of Jean Talon Market. No matter what the season, this indoor-outdoor market is stuffed full of fresh fruit and veg, delicious fluffy pastries, local jams, cheeses and crusty loaves of bread. Have breakfast at the well-loved La Creperie - with this French snack in hand and the francophone locals all around, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to Paris.

Afternoon:
Take a wander up Mont Royal, the mountain that stands guard over the city. The winding path all the way to the top is not too challenging, and the peace and tranquillity of the woodland path is worth the walk. Within minutes, you’ll have left the traffic of downtown behind, and will be spotting squirrels and raccoons and butterflies as you make your way to the lookout point. 

Be prepared for a stunning view of the Island of Montreal, the St. Lawrence river, and the rolling hills beyond. Before lunch, try a spot of hot yoga and one of the many downtown studios, you’ll work up an appetite and sweat away any trace of tension.

Evening:

As afternoon slips into evening, grab a bixi (the city’s genius bikeshare program) and cycle a portion of the picturesque Lachine canal. Finish with a stroll through the cobbled streets of the Old Port, and make your way to Bota Bota, a floating spa anchored just offshore. Here you can enjoy a blissful massage, and a soak in the thermal baths which dot the deck, with a beautiful view of the sunset over Old Montreal.

Night:

End your day with a late meditation class in the Plateau to cement your calmer, happier take on life. Treat yourself to dinner at Aux Vivres, a favourite with Montreal vegans and vegetarians, and then sip a well-deserved hot chocolate at Juliette et Chocolate, before slipping into bed, strong, serene, and ready to take on the world again.

A monk and a motorbike

We were late. About four hours late, thanks to a missed train connection, an ancient tram, misunderstood Japanese directions and a long walk down a pitch black road that wound around a mountain. But we were determined to stay in the temple. Our ever-generous host Toshiko, in Osaka, had called the monks earlier that day to tell them we would be arriving that evening, but once we left the city, we had no way to contact the monastery with an update or an ETA. So we had travelled onwards hoping for the best - out of town on trains, up thousands of feet of mountainface in a cablecar, a bus to the village, and a confused walk through the village and out into the darkness beyond. When we finally found the opening in the stone wall which led into the front courtyard of one of the many temples on Mount. Koya, the lights were out, the carved wooden doors were shut, and there was an eerie (or serene, if you like that kind of thing) silence for what seemed like miles around. We were cold. We were tired. And we had no back up plan. Stranded on the top of a sacred Japanese mountain, we just trusted the incredible luck that had accompanied us all around the land of the rising sun so far.

Before despair had a chance to set in, we heard the unmistakable purr of a motorcycle in the distance, and two minutes later, were chatting to a portly, older man with a shaved head and Harley Davidson jacket, who seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see him. He said he had been out to dinner with friends, and pulled out his iPhone 5 to show us pictures of the meal. This, we later discovered, was the head monk.

He scolded us for our tardy arrival, and made it clear that dinner was long since over. We grovelled and insisted that we did not need food, just a place to lay our heads. Either his old heart softened or something was lost in translation, but as soon as we had dropped our bags in the sparsely furnished room, than we were ushered to the dining hall, all the young monks had been awoken, and we were sitting in front of a Buddhist feast. Bowl after tiny bowl of colourful mouthfuls, washed down with miso soup and green tea. Now, I've lived in Asia, Africa, North and South America and Europe, and I can honestly say that was is the first time I  had absolutely no idea what I was eating. None. Couldn't even tell you if it was animal, vegetable or mineral. But man, were we grateful for that spread. And mindful that every dish had been prepared by some sleepy monk who should have been tucked up in bed. It was a meal to remember.

The next morning, we woke to birds singing in the tranquil garden outside. The sun was just coming up, and we joined the monks for chanting by the golden altar, before taking a simple breakfast and heading out to wander amongst the stone monuments and meditation pathways of Koya-san. With the sun up and our place in the world that little bit more secure, the silence was the best part.

Chichen Itza: It’s not the end of the world

You may have heard that the world is ending (again) this year. Conspiracy theorists are convinced that the Mayan calendar - more specifically, an inscription on the ‘Temple of Tortugero’ - points to a 2012 doomsday, when the God of war and the underworld will descend from the sky and essentially throw a spanner in our vacation plans for 2013.  As a journalist, however, I was taught to check my sources - which is how I found myself gazing at the ancient rocks of Chichen Itza in Mexico’s Yucatán peninsula earlier this year.

We were staying at Hotel Mayaland - about as far removed from it’s Disney-like moniker as
one could imagine. The World's oldest hotel inside an archaeological park, the main building is an elegant hacienda, constructed in 1923 by the Barbachano family, who own and operate it to this day. Peacocks wander over one hundred acres of gardens which surround the house, and the hotel has it’s own private entrance to the ruins at Chichen Itza, allowing guests to enjoy the incredible temples, columns and courtyards of this powerful civilization before the snap-happy hoards pull up in their tour busses.

I am by no means a morning person, but I rose at eight to meet Carlos, our guide, and entered a near-empty park where vendors were sleepily setting up their souvenir tables and the early morning sun was just beginning to warm the ancient stones of the temple of Kukulcan. Carlos, who has Maya blood on his mother’s side, was a fountain of knowledge, and reassured us that the end of times was definitely not on the table - at least not according to his ancestors. He explained that there were many different types of Mayan calendars, one of which, the “long form” calendar, measured time in chunks of 400 years, and that the end of 2012 simply marked the end of the 13th period of 400 years since the system was created.

With that cleared up, we continued to wander the breathtaking site - discovering that it was not actually the Mayans, but the Toltec, their predecessors, who built much of the pre-Columbian city. When we stopped to sit a while in the shade, our guide told us about the best local tacos (iguana) and some little-known local cenotes - underground rivers flowing through massive caverns, which were sacred spaces for the Mayans, and are now popular bathing spots for tourists.

Carlos could have continued for hours, but the mid-morning sun was unrelenting, and after four hours we ended our visit browsing beautiful hammocks, blankets, and carvings along Chichen Itza’s main dirt path. By this time, hundreds of visitors were swarming the site. We didn’t mind - we had taken stunning photos, touched carvings of jaguars, and shot some imaginary hoops on the empty mesoamerican ball court, all safe in the knowledge that the wonders of Chichen Itza -or anything else for that matter - won’t be destroyed in an armageddon any time soon. 

Atlantic City wakes up

The best time to visit Atlantic City is at about 8:30 in the morning.

My mum worked in the resort town for a summer, and I was excited to see the place and imagine her there as an energetic 21-year old (she's still pretty energetic!), singing in the Irish pub and waiting tables at an Italian restaurant (I'm sure the customers wondered about that Northern Irish accent!). She had warned me however, that that long beachy summer was before the gaming laws changed, when 'The Other Vegas' was just a twinkle in town planners' eyes and people thought only of the seaside when you said 'Jersey Shore'.

So arriving early in the morning was the perfect introduction to the town dominated by Trump Towers and The Taj Mahal. The city - more of a city than I expected - was deserted, save for a few girls teetering home on sky-high heels from a night out (is it wrong to assume money may have changed hands?), and the never-ending expanse of beach beckoned.

The sun had already warmed the sand when we got there, and the only noise was the crashing waves of the Atlantic and the thrrrrrr of the boardwalk as early-morning bikers rolled across the wood. Tanned, healthy-looking joggers and serious-looking walkers made their way along four miles of hardwood promenade as we breakfasted outside on fresh juice, eggs and bacon.

And the sea? Well the tide was in and the water was the perfect temperature: cold, don't get me wrong, but definitely on the refreshing side, as opposed to the 'oh-god-get-me-out-of -here' experience we have across the pond. The current pulled a little, which is always scary-fun, and there wasn't a rock,seaweed, crab or jelly to be seen, always a bonus.

We went back another time, and wandered the jangly casinos, sea-front snack stops, outlet malls and flip-flop-filled souvenier stores. But I never liked Atlantic City as much as I did at 8:30am.

The Dalai Lama lols.

I had heard it said that when you're in the same room as the Dalai Lama, you feel it. An energy, a peace, an aura. This is a being so enlightened, apparently, that his presence is palpable, and washes over you like a wave of calm.

This, I discovered, is not the case - but that turned out to be a good thing.

It was a grey, windy afternoon at the Stade Uniprix (normally used for tennis tournaments) in Montreal. The stadium was about a quarter full, and we were perched far back from the small stage. The modest turnout may have been due to the fact that it was Wednesday, or that the event wasn't widely publicised - but we were glad, especially when the organiser asked everyone to come down from the cheaper seats and crowd closer to the podium where His Holiness was soon to appear.

There were people of all ages, shapes and colours, and sprinkled amongst the audience were native Tibetans, in beautiful traditional dress. After an introduction from Montreal hockey star Georges Laraque, a number of them took to the stage for some traditional Tibetan dance, which was interesting but felt somehow a little out of place; you were left feeling that the group, twirling and singing, their small voices lost on the wind, should be performing on some snow-capped mountaintop in Lhasa, rather than a makeshift stage in Montreal, amongst potted plants and banners for cellphone companies.

The second performer however, a nomad musician from northern Tibet, was stunning. As soon as he plucked the first few strings on his instrument, the crowd fell silent. The words, we were told, were political. The notes were pure sadness. And his voice was haunting. A string of prayer flags fluttered behind him and we closed our eyes and were transported to the elevated plateaus of the Himalayas. It was impossible not to think of the plight of the Tibetan people as he sang his heart out so far from his homeland.

Back to the hulking figure of Laraque, who seemed extremely conscious of the enormity of introducing one of the most recognised people in the world. "Small in stature, big in smile..." he began, and a ripple of excitement went through the small crowd. "His Holiness The Dalai Lama says: My religion is simple. My religion is compassion." (It was like he was trying to include some of the DL's soundbites in case the man himself didn't deliver). He mentioned the "sword of compassion" and how important the famous Buddhist's words were on this, the tenth anniversary of 9/11. We were getting restless, and everything had to be translated into French.

Finally, "Ladies and Gentlemen, his holiness the fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet!" Applause. Shivers of anticipation.

Nothing.

His Holiness was running a little late.

Some sat down again, some fingered prayer beads. Some of us wondered where we could find food. Laraque looked embarrased.

Eventually, the black car pulls up in the distance beyond the stage, and the tiny figure bundled in swathes of crimson fabric gets out, surrounded by some very serious looking security in well-fitting suits, sharp ties and curly pieces of plastic in their ears.

Let's just be honest - it's very hard not to think of Yoda when you see the famous leader of the Buddhist faith (or at least a branch of it - let's not get technical). I'm not sure who copied whose style but right down to the wardrobe and the strange sentence structure - these two were separated at birth.

Anyway, in a wonderfully human gesture, the fourteenth Dalai Lama left the expectant audience standing and clapping as he took time to gather himself and fix his robe, then shuffled down the concrete to the armchair in the middle of the stage, which made it feel a little like we had called into his living room for a visit. The perfect host, he had the large flowerpots moved (chuckling all the time) so that the press could get clear shots.

"Ok, siddown" he beamed, and waved his hand to settle us down.
"SO" - big deep breath, hands clasped, eyebrows raised, ready for a chat.

For over an hour, the Tibetan leader talked about everything from the importance of staying healthy to the treatment of First Nations peoples. He spoke purposefully, with pauses, so that at the beginning, everyone was hanging on his every word.

His English was stilted, which I thought was strange for a man who had spoken so often, and was definitely not lacking in teachers who would give up all earthly possessions for the chance to tutor him. But I later realised that in fact, his broken English was just right for the job. Sparse and economical, he concentrated on the most important words, and kept our attention as we occasionally had to fill in the blanks ourselves!

However, a combination of long trains of thought, his particular style of English and a thick Indian-sounding accent meant he did lose me now and again, but then a hearty little chuckle ("So we lost our country, hehehehe") brought us all right back.

That's probably the main thing I took from the afternoon with the Dalai Lama. Not any words of wisdom or comforting platitudes per se, but the fact that the most enlightened being in the world finds himself hilarious. And when he giggles, you cannot help but laugh right along with him, even if you have no idea what the punchline is (in fact, there usually isn't one). Maybe this is the key to inner peace and happiness - enjoying a good chuckle at whatever you happen to say. It definitely keeps things nice and light, and if a man who has been forced to leave his home, relinquish his position, and deal with journalists and the sick, sad and crippled every day can laugh out loud so frequently - then really, couldn't we crack a smile a little more often?

Needless to say, there were some very wise words which echoed round the stadium yesterday - here were some of my favourites:

On looking out for number one: "Ok, sure, be selfish. (Hehehe). But be 'wise selfish', not 'foolish selfish'. You can take care of yourself, that's important. But we must not forget to take care of others too."

On getting along: "Forget the 'I'm different'. We all just humans. I'm Asian, I'm Tibetan - minor difference! Small nose, big nose (like this guy, hehehehe) white hair, brown hair, everybody want happy life! Everybody has same right to be happy human being! Clap." [I'm pretty sure he did actually instruct to applaud that one]. "All same. No difference. We must build The Big We. Not us and them. Big We."

On the topic for his talk: "What's the title of this talk?" [interpreter whispers something about global citizenship through universal responsibility] "Oh yes, hehehehe. They give me these titles and I have to try to follow them!"

On global citizenship: "In 1973 I travel to Europe first time. Journalist ask me: why did you come to Europe?" I say "I am a citizen of the world - I want to see more of it! Young generation: visit other countries, broaden your view. Consider others as a part of you. Costa Rica - no military, better economy, better education! Many African countries - lots of tanks, no food.
When there are no barriers it's very easy to communicate. Have no fear, try to look from another angle."

Speaking to the Anglican Bishop in the audience: "Me and you, maybe we have different beliefs, ok. But both teach love, compassion, forgiveness, tolerance, self-discipline - no difference! Ok, some religions, silly practice. Chanting for hours, or using religion as excuse for violence. But most of us believe the same thing. We want loving kindness. I'm just another human being. My happy life very much depends on other people."


On fighting: "Ok, we fight, we argue, doesn't matter! In the family - ok, normal! Like me and my brother. Quite stupid, hehehe. My weapon was my nails, and I used them on his face!" [This cracked him up]. But the fighting we have in the world now... If the fighting and suffering brought a better world, ok. But that's not the case."

On seeing the bright side: "We lost our country, ok. But it woke up the Tibetan people. We had thousands of years of certain negative thinking, but this woke up the Tibetan people, shook up their minds. I became a refugee, but that brought opportunities for travel, to meet new people, learn new things."

On feeling sad: "Remember, millions of people have had the same experiences as you. You are not alone."

On taking action: "Nothing will be solved by prayer alone. For a thousand years we prayed to Buddha, but then we lost our country! Hehehehe! Everything depends on our own actions. We must do things for change to happen."

Nothing mind-boggling, no inspirational light bulb moment, but some very important reminders, and punctuated by that lovely laugh! Before he left, he presented long white scarves to the organisers, and touched noses with those on stage: "my favourite Maori tradition!" (A great moment when it was Laraque's turn, a huge back man with long braids, rubbing noses with this tiny swaddled Tibetan!) In turn, his holiness was presented with a tennis raquet (?!) - and cracked us all up as he gigglingly tried to bounce a ball on it.

So yes, he's a very wise man, and very happy - but also very human. He talked about how his father had a very short temper growing up, about how the Chinese could be very narrow-minded. He struggled with some words and didn't quite understand some questions. He tucked his arms inside his deep red robe when the breeze picked up.

I was glad the fourteenth Dalai Lama came across more ordinary than I expected. It makes you feel that inner peace and happiness are not so out of reach for the rest of us - that we could all be mini-Buddhas one day.
We just need practice.

Sixteen miles in flip-flops

We ate Asian beef jerkey, banh mi sandwiches, giant double-choc cookies, lychees, empanadas, ceviche and gelato; I saw a hawk chilling by a riverbank, put my hand on a snake that slithered nonchalantly away into the undergrowth, and saw fireflies at dusk; we stopped by a multitude of movie-locations, bumped into a famous(-ish) actress, played a piano that had been left on the street, and looked down on the cars below from a sky-high train track.

Welcome to ManhattanWalk 2011.

Nah, don't google it. It's not a real thing. Well, it is, but only to five of us - intrepid if inexperienced city walkers - who scaled the island of Manhattan, NYC, from South to North on an ordinary summer Saturday last month.

I have to admit from the outset, I was merely a blow-in. A very, very lucky one. I contacted friends while on a weekend trip to NYC and happened to catch them on the day they had planned (months in advance) this epic adventure with another couple, also seasoned New Yorkers. They sent me a message that said something like "hey! We'll be doing a walk around Manhattan from about 11am, you're welcome to join us" - I expected a gentle stroll around SoHo and a cup of coffee; I turned up in flip flops.

My Friends (old and new) had started about half an hour before, at Battery Park City. By the time I took the subway into town - from a decidedly sketchy part of Williamsburg - they had reached City Hall, and were already thinking about the first snack stop. At this point, despite the sensible footwear of the group and comments like "hope you're ready for lots of walking!", I had no idea what lay ahead.

It was only when we were in Chinatown, having stopped at an incredible hole-in-the-wall place for delicious asian beef jerkey and now happily tucking in to Vietnamese bbq pork sandwiches, that it became apparent that this was an undertaking not exactly suited to my flimsy flip flops - but I was more than ready to put them to the test! The initial estimate was about eight hours, depending on stops and detours, and the route North was perfectly flexible.

We set off from Chinatown and through Little Italy (esentially shrunken to a dense collection of eateries on Mulberry Street) and into Tribeca, where we were undoubtably watched from the windows of very expensive apartments by local residents Robert DeNiro, Beyonce, and Meryl Streep.

We trooped across the Avenue of the Americas, past neo-renaissance and art deco facades, glimpsing the sparkle of the Hudson river beyond 59th street. Next stop was trendy SoHo, with its designer boutiques, cobblestone side streets, and impressive cast-iron architecture. Bravely ignoring the lure of a shopping break on Broadway (that may have been just me), we continued northwest and into one of my favourite New York neighborhoods, Greenwich village.

The Village was lively as ever, with sidewalks full of café tables and people lazing over iced coffees. The early afternoon sun kept things hot and sticky as we strolled by Off-Broadway theatres and attractive brownstones, past NYU's huge campus and through the hulking Arch at Washington Square Park. The West Village still has it's unique bohemian vibe, and was even more colorful than usual, as rainbow flags, banners, and bouquets marked the gay pride celebrations happening all over the city that weekend.

We stopped for some Italian gelato and then ducked out of the heat into Chelsea market - little did I know I was in for a treat at the other end.

My amazing buddies had worked an aerial view of the city into our route, and soon we were making our way along The Highline, an abandoned (and now beautifully redeveloped) freight train track high above street level. The tracks were originally built alongside the factories and warehouses of the Meatpacking district so milk, meat, and produce could be transported and unloaded without disturbing traffic on the streets. Now, they're part of a little bit of heaven smack in the centre of the concrete jungle, with wildflowers, grasses and rugged trees planted alongside benches and areas for art installations. We stopped for pictures of butterflies and the Chrysler building in the distance, and descended into Chelsea, where it was definitely time for a drink.

In that delicious way of the universe knowing exactly what you need, we rounded a corner to find a small makeshift market place, with one shaded farm stall selling ice-cold homemade apple and strawberry juice.

Re-hydrated and ready to go, we continued through Hell's kitchen to our next stop: a delicious fountain cool-down at peir 86 (at W 46th Street), in the shadow of the hulking aircraft carrier The USS Intrepid. As in a classic movie scene, kids (ok, and us) ran screaming and giggling through the sporadic jets of water, while boats took off for New Jersey beyond.

We could have stayed at the fountain to be entertained by confused toddlers ("wait, where did the water go?") all afternoon, but we were still less than half way to our destination, so on we continued through Lincoln Square in the Upper West Side to our next snack stop. Levain Bakery (167 West 74th Street) hit the nail on the head, with face-sized double choc-chip cookies that took at least three blocks to finish (and undoubtedly made up for all the calories we had burned so far.)

No sooner had we (ok, me) licked the last of the chocolate off the paper bag than we were in Morningside Heights, outside the hallowed, ivy league gates of Columbia University (nothing to do with the Latin American country, which is spelled differently, in case you were wondering).

Columbia is the oldest institution of higher learning in the State of New York, and has been affiliated with more Nobel Prize laureates than any other academic institution in the world. It is also the school of 20 living billionaires and three U.S. presidents - but all I could think was that I was on the steps where that opening scene of "Hitch" was filmed!

So, having soaked up a little Hollywood - ahem, academic - history, we continued along Broadway, leaving Morningside Heights, Riverside Church and Tom's Restaurant (Seinfeld fans, you know) behind, and crossed east into the whole other world that is Spanish Harlem.

[As an aside, we bumped into b-list actress Caroline Rhea - best known as the larger aunt from Sabrina, the Teenage Witch - on her way to get her hair done, and she was super-friendly and happy to stop for photos.]

We hit Harlem as afternoon was turning into a gorgeously balmy evening, and it was almost a pity we had upped the pace because on a summer's evening, that is a neighborhood made for lazy wandering. Whenever I hear the name I hear a Carlos Santana guitar solo in my head, and the reality didn't disappoint.

'El Barrio' was full of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans lounged on stoops and street corners, waxing cars and listening to the salsa that drifted from open windows on every street.

I know it sounds like I'm glamorizing the area, which is well known for it's poverty, drug problems and drop-out rates, but on this perfect ManhattanWalk Saturday, all I can report is that we heard the music, tasted the hot, spicy empanadas, and felt perfectly safe on our journey north.

Now about two-thirds of the way to the top, and having stopped for an impromptu street concert (I managed a not-quite-perfect version of 'Let it Be' by the Beatles) on one of the many pianos left around the city (88 this summer, apparently, very few vandalised!) we veered west again to Morningside Drive, where we spotted a hawk chilling by the water near the George Washington Bridge.

Onward and upward (three-quarters of the way now, but the light is fading!) to the oasis that is Fort Tryon Park in Washington Heights, where we rested our weary feet and took in the stunning view of sunset over the Hudson. On the trek down the steps leading out of the park at dusk, I leaned against a mossy stone wall, and happened to put my hand on a small green snake (you Americans probably grew up with them, but St. Patrick deprived us of the pleasure) and saw fireflies (or glowworms) for the first time!

We made our way back to Broadway and pushed on, some hobbling by now, some still striding ahead (I was somewhere in the middle, hoping my flip flops wouldn't give up). It was dark by the time we got to Inwood, and we lost one brave walker just half an hour from the finish (though she did do an amazing job of finding a place for our celebratory dinner).

Four out of five of us used whatever energy we had left, a little over ten hours and 16.1 miles from the starting point that morning, to soldier on past Isham park (which we didn't even see in the dark) and finally, finally, up just past 9th Ave, where the Broadway Bridge connects Manhattan to Queens.

Finished!!!

Passers-by glanced dubiously as we did little whoops and jumps of joy, taking photos and calculating how far we had come. Eventually, we headed back to our compatriot and took our seats at Papasito, a buzzing Mexican bar and grill, where we tucked into fresh ceviche, crab cakes and tacos. When our waiter heard of our expedition he couldn't believe it, told the manager, and suddenly it was free tequila shots all round!

So that was it. The subway home seemed to take forever, but the quiet excitement of our amazing day buoyed us until we reached cool showers and soft beds back in Midtown. (My flip flops held up admirably until I was leaving the next morning!)

I have to say a huge thank you to Charles, Liz, Tomi and Jacob for letting me tag along on that truly unforgettable day, and for all the little gems of NYC wisdom along the way. See you all for ManhatttanWalk 2012! (or a winter edition, who knows?!)

Left Behind at the Rapture

So, the world didn't end last weekend. Although, for four of us in a car at the Canada-U.S. border late Saturday night, it came uncomfortably close...

We had been driving for about two hours and it was past midnight. The girls in the back had fallen asleep, but even for the two of us in the front who were paying attention, the thick fog descended incredibly quickly - the phrase "enveloped us" seems like lazy writing but it's a pretty accurate description - until we couldn't see two feet in front of the car.

[It helps the story to note that we had just been joking about the 'Rapture' adamantly prophesied for that day (oh, or December 31st, those in the know weren't 100% sure about the calculations), which led to an interesting chat about what we would regret not having done if the world was indeed ending prematurely. But I digress...]

So we're crawling along in this impenetrable mist and then there's a light. It's above us, and a little ahead down the road, but it is undeniably getting brighter and is floating much too high to be a car or truck on the road. Plus, now it's very, very bright, and possibly moving slowly towards us.

The girls in the back seat open their eyes to see nothing but thick judgement day-like fog and the glowing light and are, just for a second, not so sure the religious crazies are so crazy. It's that or a UFO. We're four well-balanced, intelligent ladies but there's the slightest air of nervousness in the vehicle...

Anyway, given that we lived to tell the tale, you won't be surprised to hear that when the blinding light was almost upon us (did someone quietly say a prayer?!) we were finally able to see the huge pole supporting it, and realised that the floodlight was attached to the border control station which loomed out of nowhere.

So we survived the rapture and continued on into Vermont, to enjoy a long weekend of sun, steak and smores - free of Armageddon or a Second Coming. Apparently, we now have to wait until October for that one.

I'll bring the marshmallows.