Escape plan

Escape plan

Hurry, this way to … where exactly?

You owe me some flowers. That’s right, today is my Canniversary. Six whole years ago I arrived in Canada for the first time, pretty clueless about what lay ahead, but so excited to start a new life in this place I knew basically nothing about. It was an adventure in the making. And it’s been a good run. I’ve made some amazing friends, switched careers, tested my mettle in freezing winters, been introduced to the delights of poutine, and had countless other special Canadian experiences.

Now, the run is just about over. Yesterday I gave notice at my job and last weekend I booked the first leg of my Runaway Tour Outta Here (™). It’s certainly not the way I thought I’d be leaving Canada, but I’m attempting to roll with the punches. And in times of strife, I turn to my old friend Expedia. It never lets me down. Planning a holiday is my idea of therapy, and with an entirely blank schedule in front of me, I’ve really been able to go to town.

It might not be the most exotic itinerary, but I’m super excited to visit friends in Halifax, Missouri and London (England, not Ontario, that is). And after a resting period in NZ once spring downunder is on its way, the next chapter is wide open. Where will I be living in six months? No idea. Suggestions welcome.

All I know is that escaping can sometimes be the most appealing option. It’s a scary prospect, but there’s nothing like a drastic change of scene to slap you in the face and distract a distressed mind. Change, they say, is good. I’m sticking firmly to this mantra, despite some unwanted side effects including a sudden, disturbing penchant for terrible/uplifting pop anthems (Taylor Swift, talk to me) and a new friendship borne out of loneliness with my current housemate — a fly I call Jim.

Quick, get the lady a plane ticket.

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San Francisco highs and lows

SF_signs

Travellers with jelly legs also not advised to try out steep hill

Do not call it Frisco. Or San Fran. Especially not in the presence of locals. They will sneer at you, shun you, ban you from sharing the pavement with them.

You’ve got to love guide books for their completely subjective advice on how to get by in a new place (thanks Lonely Planet for trying to convince us to call our soon-to-be home town ‘Toronuh’ when we prepped for our arrival six years ago, and which is exactly how it’s pronounced according to no one). In a city that simply oozes nonchalant cool, you hardly want to stand out as a flaming newbie. But let’s be honest; I’m lazy, and four syllables is a lot to ask of anyone, so I went with San Fran. Shame be damned.

We hit up this beautiful west-coast icon as a three-day stopover on a visit back to New Zealand. We figured it would be a sort of pre-holiday holiday, helping to us ease into a Zen-like holiday state, with the bonus of getting to experience a city we’d wanted to check out for years.

And it certainly didn’t disappoint. San Fran’s palette of highly saturated colours was an immediate contrast to the greys, browns and dirty whites of the Toronto winter we’d left behind. I couldn’t believe how perky the sunshine made me (that, and being at the kick-off of a six-week vacation, of course). So, with our pasty bodies greedily soaking up as much vitamin D as we could, we happily checked out the sights and sounds of this still-swinging city, looking as foolishly tourist-like as possible and undoubtedly not fitting in.

But here’s the deal. While no one in San Francisco gives a flying f*ck if you’re a tourist, if you fancy trying to blend in a bit more convincingly, feel free to use our novice blunders as a sort of anti-guide to conformity. In other words, here’s what not to do if you want to pass as a local.

1) Do not desperately cover your ears with your hands as you ride the BART train, aka the Screaming Hellride, from San Francisco Airport to downtown. It started as a timid screeching, and quickly progressed to a deafening roar. Yet our fellow riders stared vacantly ahead with expressions that gave no hint of the ear-bleeding that threatened. I, too, tried to act unphased but soon gave up and adopted the pose of a five-year-old ignoring a parent. How do the locals survive this 20-minute sound torture? Maybe they wear earplugs. Maybe they’re deaf.

SF_crazystreets

It’s like the film Inception when Ellen Page’s character messes with the dreamworld and creates streets that fold up vertically. Except … it’s real.

2) Do not stop halfway up one of San Fran’s famous painfully inclined streets, bent over, hands on knees, heaving for air. It goes without saying that all San Franciscans must be super fit. They’d have to be, with the crazytown up-and-down streets they have to traverse each day. We loved the novelty of rediscovering forgotten calf muscles at first, but it didn’t take long for our extreme lack of fitness to become embarrassingly obvious. Not helping the situation: the spritely 20-something jogging uphill past us, all bouncy ponytail, healthy glow and arms laden with groceries.

3) Do not sway uncontrollably on the Muni trolley buses — despite having a firm grip on a nearby pole  and bash your bags/camera/map into the faces of seated passengers. Clearly a skill developed early in the lives of Bay City residents, the ability to balance on these rickety buses was not one we picked up on our short visit. Apologies to the many riders who involuntarily got up close and personal with my bulky, angular possessions.

SF_muni

Ready for a roll around a Muni bus? At least the view is pretty great.

4) Do not stroll merrily along the seediest downtown streets at 8.30am, before the work & tourist crowd arrive, with shiny cameras a’swinging, and end up smack bang between two homeless shelters. Boosted by a delicious cup of morning coffee and the eagerness of two tourists on the go, we took a left turn, crossed the street, and quickly found ourselves getting the stink eye from some shifty locals. Needless to say we hightailed it out of there to the safety of the main shopping drag.

5) Do not stop to take photos of the Painted Ladies in Alamo Park, like the approximately 45 other tourists doing the exact same thing. Instead, act like a true San Franciscan and flop down on the grass, bike sprawled next to you, for a spot of sun soaking on your lunch break. Although, if you’re like me, getting a snap of the vista made famous by 80s-90s classic sitcom Full House (if you’re of that generation) makes a pretty quintessential SF souvenir, so at least take the pic then hit the grass. Job done.

Heck yeah a sunny day deserves a quick topless liedown in the park!

Heck yeah a sunny day deserves a quick topless liedown in the park!

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The blog — it lives!

There’s nothing like actually travelling to inspire an old, long-forgotten blog about … travelling. Who knew? Frankly, day-to-day life in the dreary depths of a Toronto winter just doesn’t prompt any great amounts of must-share activity. Unless you count hibernating and extreme fund-saving as unmissable content.

So here I go! I have left the frosty shores of Canada for a six-week adventure abroad. That is, a three-day adventure in San Francisco and a five-and-a-bit-week trip back home to New Zealand, which probably can only be counted as an adventure in terms of surviving the inevitable dramas of coordinating multiple relative visits.

But I can’t wait. It’s been four years since we were last back. Four years since I’ve seen my mum and one of my sisters, since we’ve seen some very good friends, and four WHOLE years since we’ve eaten a classic, quality NZ pie. It will be special.

And while I can’t say the flying portion of the trip excites me especially (insert predictable rant about the good old days of air travel with its free snacks, free checked luggage, free mini toilet bags with free shoe horn here), particularly on the eve of our dreaded 13-hour flight, I have to be thankful for some of the things it brings. Like the productive side of jetlag — waking up at 6 am sharp, voluntarily, ready to write in this blog for the first time in months. For someone who equates early-morning wakeups with all that is unnatural and evil in this world, that’s a special gift indeed.

Flying brings other gifts as well, like creating a pillow out of your bag of chips

Flying brings other gifts as well, like creating a pillow out of your bag of chips

And ridiculous views like these

And ridiculous views like these

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Five Olympic underdogs

Great Britain, the US, China, Russia … yeah, yeah, they can fight over their gold medal tallies all they like. What I’m interested in are those countries that don’t garner so many Olympic headlines. The ones that you may not have even realised actually compete. The ones that, basically, don’t stand a chance of winning. I present to you, five Olympic underdogs that I will personally be rooting for in these games, if I ever manage to catch any event they’re in that doesn’t coincide with working hours, sleeping, or just generally being elsewhere. I’m nothing if not committed.


Liberia

After watching the documentary The Vice Guide to Liberia a while back, I knew two things for certain. 1) That country has some serious, serious issues. 2) I can safely say it’s not a destination that will ever end up on my must-visit list. Let me just throw a few words out there that spring to mind when thinking of Liberia: Devastating civil war. Child soldiers. Drugs. Prostitution. Cannibalism. War lords. CANNIBALISM. Random bonus depressing statistic: the average life expectancy in Liberia is 57.4 years. Jesus.

I’m stoked Liberia is at the Olympics. I think they could really use some good news over in that neck of the woods. Go team!

FACT FILE

  • Number of athletes: 4
  • Sports competing in: Athletics, judo
  • Chicks to dudes athlete ratio: 2:2
  • Medal history: Nuthin’ so far

Moldova

I’ve had a soft spot for Moldova since reading about its ranking as one of the unhappiest places on Earth, in Eric Weiner’s excellent book, The Geography of Bliss. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a sad ending. The reasons for the Moldovan malaise are many, from its struggle to re-establish itself after communist rule, to its crippling economic situation, to its general lack of any kind of national cultural identity. They say sports are a great way to lift the spirits, so Moldova should be away laughing, with a total of nine different sports represented at the games. C’mon Moldova, crack a smile for us!

FACT FILE

  • Number of athletes: 22
  • Sports competing in: Athletics, swimming, boxing, cycling, wrestling, weightlifting, archery, judo, shooting
  • Chicks to dudes athlete ratio: 10:12
  • Medal history: Two silvers (1996; 2000); three bronze (1996; 2000; 2008)

Nauru

Little ol’ unassuming Nauru has a couple of claims to fame (and yet, you’ve still probably never heard of it). It’s the world’s smallest republic, at 21 square kilometres. It has been called, fondly, bird shit island, after its once-massive phosphate deposits (courtesy of said birds). This, in turn, made Nauru — for a brief period in the 60s and 70s — a very rich island. Until they mined the literal crap out of it. It’s also served as a tax haven and money laundering base, plus housed a detention centre for Australian illegal immigrants. That’s quite the resumé! These days, somewhat less glamourously, life in Nauru is pretty bleak. Unemployment stands at a whopping 90%, diabetes is endemic thanks to a lack of natural resources and therefore local food supplies, and Nauruans hold the title of being the most obese people in the world.

Why am I rooting for Nauru? I was born there. That’s right people, Nauruan-born and proud. I won’t hear anyone trash-talking the place, okay?

FACT FILE

  • Number of athletes: 2
  • Sports competing in: Weightlifting, judo
  • Chicks to dudes athlete ratio: 0:2
  • Medal history: A big fat zero

Nepal

I can’t lie. A substantial part of why I’m backing Nepal has to do with its national flag. Just look at that thing — how can you not get behind a country that’s so blatantly non-conformist? Forget a crummy rectangle. Two triangles, man, that’s where it’s at. Speaking of peaks, Nepal boasts a fairly substantial one, too. Mount Everest in all its almost-9,000-metre glory stands formidably in the Himalayas, just waiting to claim the lives of careless climbers. It’s thought that over 200 people have died attempting the momentous climb, but you know who survives a lot of those treks? Sherpas. Sherpas from Nepal. Just like Tenzing Norgay. So, basically, those guys are pretty badass. I don’t think many people consider Nepal much of a threat in the Olympics, but maybe they should …

FACT FILE

  • Number of athletes: 5
  • Sports competing in: Swimming, shooting, athletics
  • Chicks to dudes athlete ratio: 3:2
  • Medal history: Any day now

Haiti

Ouch, Haiti, where to start? Never particularly stable following years of civil unrest and a coup d’etat, things went from bad to devastating for the Caribbean country when the 2010 earthquake hit and demolished Port-au-Prince, wiping out up to 316,000 people, and leaving 1.6 million homeless. Add to the mix a deadly outbreak of cholera, violent attacks on aid workers, rape in refugee camps, child abandonment, phoney charity aid and more, and I think it’s safe to say that we all suddenly feel a whole lot better about our own lives. Thanks Haiti! The fact that five Haitian athletes even made it to the games is an achievement in itself. But I won’t patronise them by saying that means more than any medal. They deserve a shiny prize!

FACT FILE

  • Number of athletes: 5
  • Sports competing in: Judo, athletics
  • Chicks to dudes athlete ratio: 2:3
  • Medal history: One bronze (1924); one silver (1928)
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Chips, cheese and clam juice, please

It’s 2am. You stumble out of a bar. It’s possible you may have had several too many boozy beverages. What stands between you and a particularly spiteful hangover the next morning could well be a bowl of cheesy, curdy, gravy-drenched fries. Awww yeah … I’m talking poutine, people.

Not only an alcohol-absorbing medicinal wonder, poutine holds the special honour of being one of the few food items that can legitimately be claimed as uniquely Canadian (sshhhh, I don’t want to hear about any other versions that exist around the world). I certainly had never tried or heard of it before arriving here in Toronto, but boy oh boy, did I want to make fast friends once I had. It may not be the most gourmet of local offerings but it’s a treat, and one that I think Canada should be bragging about more often.

Wendy’s, champion of all things greasy and good, obviously agrees. The fast-food chain is currently campaigning to make poutine Canada’s national dish, after adding it as a side option to its menu. It’s launched an online ‘Poutition’, encouraging poutine fans to sign up and join the movement by visiting Wendys.ca or its facebook page. Regardless of whether the campaign achieves anything other than a boost to Wendy’s sales, it got me thinking. What other tasty delights does Canada lay claim to? What, exactly, is Canadian food?

I think it’s safe to say that Canada, much like New Zealand, Australia and Britain, doesn’t really have anything that constitutes a national cuisine. But it does have a few choice goodies that you might not find elsewhere (or, at least, not under the same name). Let’s get greasy, shall we?

POUTINE

First up — well, it has to be poutine, naturally. Just look at that bowl of goopy, glistening goodness and try not to drool. Okay, so I realise this might not look delectable to everyone, but trust me, once your fork’s skewered a big, fat chip and chunky lump of cheese curd, and that fork makes its way into your mouth … magic happens. Traditionally, poutine’s made with cheese curds and gravy. Grated, cubed or bright orange cheese, stay away! But if you feel like experimenting, you’ll be pleased to know this humble dish has gone gourmet — specialised ‘poutineries’ (Smoke’s is a great one here in Toronto) offer such fancy variations as pulled pork, mexican or even curry poutine.

Taste rating: 5/5


KD

America might know it as Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, but Canadians worship the Kraft Dinner god. It’s the same product with a different name, but it’s gained cult-like status here in Canada, so much so that it’s widely known as a rite of passage for any student fresh out of home learning to cook for the first time. It’s basically the Canadian equivalent of a pot noodle, ramen or cupasoup. And about as nutritionally beneficial as the cardboard box it comes in.

Taste rating: 2/5


PEAMEAL BACON

I thought I would love peameal bacon (also known as Canadian bacon, or back bacon) because of its lack of fatty bits and solid porky goodness. But the truth is, it’s almost too much bacon for me, especially if served in the classic form of a peameal sandwich — a squishy white bun with multiple layers of thick, salty peameal and not much else. Still, it’s bacon, so I mean, come on. Served on a plate alongside some eggs, maybe a hash brown or two, and a grilled tomato? Now we’re talking. If you feel like getting extra crazy, you could even try pouring a little maple syrup on top for a double dose of Canadian flavour.

Taste rating: 3/5


BUTTER TARTS

Butter, eggs, sugar, syrup, pastry. Boom! A butter tart is born. Wikipedia tells me butter tarts were “common in pioneer Canadian cooking”, and that they’re still a much-loved little treat today. I could have told you that — they’re everywhere. What you probably didn’t want to know is that one tart contains around 550 calories. Which makes the four you just shoved in your mouth your entire daily caloric allowance. Nice one. Personally, I’m not a giant fan. They’re a little too bland for my taste, and could do with a bit of jazzing up in the way of a wee fruit topping, or generous slop of chocolate sauce.

Taste rating: 2/5  


CAESARS

How do you like your shellfish? Juiced and served with a shot of tomato and vodka? Perfect, grab yourself a Caesar.  The Caesar was brought into existence back in 1969 by a creative Calgary restaurant manager. What makes it special? It’s made with Clamato — clam juice, mmm-mmm! As a hater of all things sea-related, especially in my cocktail glass, this drink obviously ain’t for me. But I will admit that I have tried it, and can confirm that it mostly tastes like a bloody mary. With a fishy undertone. I think that says it all.

Taste rating: 1/5


BEAVER TAILS

Funny what the internet will teach you. While searching for a picture to accompany this post, I learned that people (some people, some weird, weird people) eat actual beaver tails. I think I’ll stick to the fried dough variety myself. I tried a Beaver Tail on a weekend trip to Ottawa. It was pretty much just that — deep-fried dough. So, yeah, it was basically great.

Taste rating: 4/5


SWISS CHALET DIPPING SAUCE

Swiss Chalet is a Canadian chain restaurant famous for its rotisserie chicken. And its mysterious dipping sauce. I don’t understand Canadians and their dipping sauces. They have it here for pizza too, except that particular sauce is white. I dunno — what will they dip next, a sandwich? Just when does the dipping end? I suppose you could compare the Swiss Chalet sauce to gravy, if it tasted anything remotely like it. Instead, I’d describe the flavour as more along the lines of dirty dishwater with a healthy dose of added salt. I’M SORRY CANADA I JUST CAN’T.

Taste rating: 1/5

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Best seat in the sky

Airlines don’t struggle to get bums on seats. It’s us that fight tooth and nail — virtually, at least — to score a primo spot on any short- or long-haul journey. And by primo, I mean two or three extra inches of legroom, the window wall to lean on for precious snooze minutes, or the aisle if you’re like me and prefer not to give your neighbour a mini-lap dance as you climb across to visit the loo.

Source: Skyscanner

Choosing your seat on board can be a stressful process. I’m going to put it right up there alongside marriage, divorce and buying a house. You know, the big four. I’ve mentioned my personal obsession with the subject before, and it’s something I expect I’ll obsess over for many years to come. As long as I’m slumming it in economy, anyway.

The truth is, everyone’s got their own idea of the seating sweet spot — front of the plane or back, left, right or middle section. But now, thanks to a recent poll conducted by Skyscanner surveying over 1,000 airline passengers on their seat preferences, we have a few clear winners. And losers.

Excluding the obvious extra-legroom seats (bulkhead, for example), the most sought-after seat on a standard aircraft is … drumroll … 6A. According to the poll, the first six rows of the plane are where most passengers choose to be. Is this because when you’re further up the plane you can pretend you’re in first class? Apparently many believe it’s less noisy up front, plus you have the bonus of leaving the plane first. And, I’m sure we’ve all felt the pain of being seated near the back and finding out those greedy buggers ahead have nabbed all the chicken alfredos, leaving only fish pie for dinner.

But the back has its perks, too. You can get on the plane first, which has the major advantage of allowing you to score premium overhead bin space for your carry-on. (With the amount of crap people haul onto the plane these days, that space is golden.) And it’s at the rear of the plane that you’re most likely to find a spare seat — a rarity, I’ll admit — thanks to everyone else choosing to sit further up.

Taking home the title of worst seat is 31E — a middle seat (surprise, surprise) near the back. I’m sure in reality it’s interchangeable with a number of others in the same area, but I know that next time I’m strolling down the aisles to stretch my legs, I won’t be able to help but sneak a pitying glance at the poor soul doomed to that special number.

For most of us, we’re stuck with our seating choice whether made online or at check-in, so it makes sense to at least try and pick well. Unless you’re one of those seat-swapping types. You know what I’m talking about. They’ll wander up and down the plane eyeing up any spots that look more desirable than their own, possibly carrying a small child or elderly grandma as a weapon for persuasion.

But I’m not falling for that. Oh no. I chose my seat specifically and I’m not budging. The most important key to avoiding getting caught in a seat-swapping situation is to avoid eye contact altogether. You can try looking determinedly out the window, or at your crossword, or having a deeply serious conversation with your neighbour.

Or, my new favourite, try pretending to be asleep. Don’t worry about the fact that you only boarded the plane five minutes ago. You’ve had a busy holiday and you’re exhausted! Slump heavily onto the person next to you (someone you actually know is ideal, but not a necessity) and maybe add in a snore or two for effect. Works like a charm, I promise.

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Old spot, new tricks

I return from my vacation a changed woman. No, really — I’m talking deep, significant changes. I’m quite sure my sunburn penetrated layers of my epidermis (maybe even my dermis?) that weren’t due to be exposed to the sun for another five years.

For the first time in my adult life, I have … A TAN. Pity no one will see it before it fades, thanks to being buried under layers of winter armour. Still, and I’m going against years of anti-tan conditioning here (pasty white skin + NZ’s lack of an ozone layer do not make for sun smart), man does it feel nice to have a bit of colour.

It ain’t no St. Tropez I’m sporting but a touch of the old Key West glow. Two weeks’ vacation in the land of soothing sun and midday drinking was a very welcome break from the pains of February — widely known (in the northern hemisphere, at least) as winter’s final Eff You.

It’s hard to believe I’ve made the trip down south seven times now, and have yet to get bored of the place. In fact, with a whole two weeks to play around, I actually managed to venture out beyond my old favourites. I even experienced a few firsts, including:

My first time riding a bike in about ten years (look out pedestrians, cars, small pets). Key West is made for cyclists. It’s such a small city, and parking can be a pain, so what better way to get around than to cruise its pretty streets, with a sweet, balmy breeze to cool your skin. I scraped the odd fence and suffered a few bruises, but with days consisting of nothing more than: cycle down to beach, grab beer at beach bar, cycle back home, it was more than worth the effort.

Beach, bikes & beers. What more could you ask for?

My first time fishing. I’ve felt conflicted about the idea of fishing. Granted, I don’t actually eat fish, so there’s never been much motivation there anyway, but sport fishing has always seemed particularly cruel. “Hey, yeah, sorry about that giant hook through your gullet, but I just wanted to see if I could actually catch you. So, now I have and I’m just gonna chuck you back overboard. But no hard feelings, right?” Anyway, turns out, fishing can be kind of fun. Especially if you catch the fish (I did! I did!), and eat it for dinner that night (I didn’t! Well, I tried a tiny forkful, but others enjoyed the rest!).

A worthy sacrifice

My first trip to the Key West Aquarium. When you have enough time to kill in one place, you’re afforded the luxury of visiting spots you previously wouldn’t have considered must-sees. I’ve got to be honest, I wouldn’t call the Aquarium a must-see exactly, but it had a few charms of its own. Ignoring the usual sad issues that exist with keeping animals in captivity (ten nurse sharks squished into a paddling pool; a giant eel curled up in the corner of a tiny glass tank, its mouth continuously gaping open as if to plead, “Help. Help.”), I enjoyed seeing kids have fun in the ‘Touch Tank’, patting stingrays and squeezing sea cucumbers. And the sea horses. Seriously, I never get sick of seeing a sea horse. Nature’s just crazy sometimes.

Kids getting ready to grope the creatures in the Touch Tank

Seahorse sighting!

Continuing the animal theme, my first visit to the Key West Wildlife Center. Happily, this was worth checking out. A not-for-profit organisation, the Wildlife Center rescues and rehabilitates injured wild birds, plus many of Key West’s famous wild chickens and roosters that are brought in by concerned/annoyed residents. The Center is free to visit (but accepts donations) and really is a lovely respite from the usual tourist traps. We fought off a few pesky mosquitoes and enjoyed the shady, leafy stroll through the grounds, checking out the stars of the show, including herons, pelicans, vultures and more. Bonus #1: Turtle Pond, where we fed kibble to countless cute turtles (and a few ballsy herons). Bonus #2: Giant iguanas! We could barely catch a glimpse of these massive beasts as they dashed from view as soon as we approached. Those things are fast.

A great egret hanging out at the Key West Wildlife Center

My first Cuban coffee. Cuban food is big in Key West (Havana is closer than Miami) and while I’ve enjoyed plenty of tasty Cuban dishes on previous trips, I had yet to sample the famous brew. Luckily, Ana’s Cuban Cafe, a tiny joint removed from the main drag and just a few minutes from our house, promised ‘Key West’s Best Coffee’. Enough said. I ordered my cafe con leche to go and strolled home, hoping it would stay hot enough on the journey. No problems there — is it a Cuban tradition to serve the coffee at boiling point? It took a good ten minutes till I could take a sip, but it went down smoothly — strong and just a little bit sweet.

A cuban coffee (iced this time, which seemed a bit more appropriate for the heat) and the remains of a cuban sandwich

It’s always satisfying to end a holiday feeling like you did it all. This Key West time around, I got in the all-important quota of sheer laziness and relaxation (2pm Scrabble & beer session, anyone?), plus checked a few new experiences off the list. I think I’ve set the bar pretty high for next time.

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