“The explorer who will not come back or send back his ships to tell his tale is not an explorer, only an adventurer; and his sons are born in exile.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Just about five and a half years ago, I strapped on a backpack and boarded a British Airways flight from Montreal to my first overseas destination. I hugged my little nieces and nephews farewell, showing them on a map my bewildering tangle of planned global destinations. Two years later, when I put out Wander the Rainbow, I dedicated the book to them.

And yet, somehow, that didn’t feel like enough.

Just as travel writing inspired my world journey, so too the next adventure: about three years back I caught an article about an uncle taking a tween-aged nephew on a trip to the UK; I surveyed my sisters, who enthusiastically endorsed the notion; with my frequent flyer balance growing once more, I matched award dates with school holidays…and am now sitting on another British Airways triple-seven with Jackson, my eleven-year-old nephew, on his first-ever voyage out of North America.

Of course, no journey of mine seems to start without some hitches: this time around, an almost three-hour delay on my transcontinental leg from San Francisco; an overnight delay of my round-the-world backpack — a first for it after roughly 80,000 miles on its odometer; not to mention the fact that I’ve never traveled — nay, been alone for more than an hour or two — with a child before. Was this voyage headed for disaster before we’d even left the Americas?

I didn’t manage to sleep at all on the plane, and arrived wrecked at Heathrow as we cleared Customs and hopped on the Heathrow Express. We headed out of Paddington Station’s bustle, dropped our bags at the hotel, and proceeded on what turned into an Indiana Jones-like quest to obtain a local SIM card. Finally we got one; with a local number I texted everyone far and near and headed on the Tube to see the folks partly responsible for my and Jackson’s entire existence, Sidney and Ray Lightman.

It’s been almost three decades since I met the Lightmans for the first time… And yet I’d be hard-pressed to see much of a difference in Sidney, who’s pushing ninety. He’s as sharp and witty as always, and regaled Jackson with stories of me and his grandmother in our respective youths. Ray, who’d been in up-and-down health through the years, was looking quite good. We didn’t stay long, as I was so out of it I think I was almost starting to hallucinate. So back we headed to our hotel — a cute little spot in a row of Georgian townhomes near Paddington — where I broke my cardinal jetlag-avoidance rule (not for the first time) and took a nap. Jackson, of course, was fine — he slept a bit on the plane and has boundless energy and enthusiasm greater than I’ve ever had, even at his age.

Looks like we may have a new world traveler on our hands.

We didn’t want to leave Day One at that, though, so with umbrellas in tow we headed out for a preliminary reconnoiter. Walking east past Marble Arch we strolled down Oxford Street, bustling with shops and crowds and vendors selling Belgian waffles drizzled with chocolate (had to have those, of course). Turning down Regent Street, we ducked through the narrow muddle of Carnaby Street toward Trafalgar Square. The stone lions around Nelson’s Column greeted us in their solemnity, broken up somewhat by a giant blue chicken sculpture astride Canada House.

Continuing our meander, we reached the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

“It’s big!” Jackson remarked as we stared up at the huge clock face. Oh, that probably elicits an “obvi!” (As my California boyfriend would put it) but in my travels I’ve grown accustomed to landmarks seeming smaller than they appear in photos. Jackson marveled at the detail of the Gothic Revival stone carvings; he never fails to be fascinated with new things. Chalk another one up for his incipient traveler genes.

Coming back to London with a first-timer meant that doing the more conventional touristic sights was back on the agenda; as in all my travels, I had that question running in my head: is it worth it or just a tourist trap? I pondered that as we bought tickets to the London Eye and were ushered into their experiential “4-D” intro film (actually quite good). Lines were short to nonexistent as we entered one of the Eye’s capsules and began the slow, smooth roll up to the top.

It was dusk and the day’s clouds were clearing. The Eye was an even better experience than the Singapore Flyer (which I did visit on my big trip), being in the middle of one of Planet Earth’s biggest and busiest cities, with few skyscrapers to block the view (though more are going up every year). It was dusk during our spin, perfect for watching the lights come on across the breadth of the metropolis.

After a hop to Leicester Square for a bite of dinner, we headed back and tuckered out early; my afternoon nap in no way dissuaded my body from crashing and getting eleven hours of sleep. We awoke not too early the next morning and headed east — to explore London’s origins and bits of its present and future.

We got off the Tube at Tower Hill (actually not a tube at all: we took the Circle Line, the much-maligned part-surface route that now sports new trains — golly, why do Londoners complain about their sprawling, efficient Underground?) Just up the way, that icon of Old England: William the Conqueror’s White Tower, part of the complex of edifices known as the Tower of London.

We arrived just in time for the 11:30 tour care of the Tower Wardens; it was just as gory, comedic, and delightful as I remember it from last time I was here, as a lad not much older than Jackson is now.

“So this moat that you see,” said the colorfully-clad Warden, “was where all of London deposited their rubbish and wastes and other bits that came out of them.” He said with a wink. “It all got washed up in the Thames with the tides and got deposited over in France. Any French people here today?”

A smattering of tourists meekly raised their hands.

“Sorry ’bout that!” He said. The crowd guffaws.

The tour took us through early English history, replete with palace intrigues, imprisonments, and more than a few beheadings. Afterward, we stood on the moving sidewalks through a dimly-lit chamber to check out the Crown Jewels. Those Royals sure know their bling.

From Tower we headed to Bridge — Tower Bridge. Although it’s a masterwork of Victorian engineering, the bascule drawbridge is all Gothic-y styled, presumably to match the Tower next door. Looking at all those gears, pistons, and coal-fired boilers, it’s remarkable to consider that it was only the second bridge to span the Thames as late as 1894.

We continued our foray east on the Docklands Light Railway, all the way to the Emirates Air Line, a gondola built across the Thames to North Greenwich. The last time I was on one of these was with a snowboard in tow; it’s a bit out of the mix of things but judging by the pace of eastward construction, it wouldn’t surprise me if it becomes a commuter route in years to come.

Jackson’s a bit of a ship nut, having memorized facts about practically every ocean liner and cruise ship in existence. So Greenwich was a natural spot for him: we examined the Cutty Sark, the 19th Century clipper ship that’s been drydocked here for decades; back when I visited as a boy it was fully exposed to the elements, but in recent years it’s been partly enclosed in a steel-and-glass structure that affords entry to the underside of the ship. It manages to be most majestic and a bit fragile all at once, considering that it did global voyages back in the age of sail.

Some of how that was accomplished was explained to us up the hill at the Royal Observatory, where an exhibit on longitude told the tale of how that bit of cartography was figured out. If you think about it, latitude is easy: angle of the sun tells all. But those imaginary lines running north to south along the globe aren’t parallel to each other, and in an age before airplanes and satellites, divining what was east or west of where was no mean feat.

No trip to the Observatory would be complete without a stop on the most famous longitude line of all, the Prime Meridian. Leave it to those beavering Brits and their maritime technological prowess (okay, coupled with a dash of arrogance) to set the zero marker right here in their nation’s capital. Jackson stood astride both hemispheres just as I had done decades ago.

A colleague of mine who’d traveled around Europe last year with his family recommended a pizza eatery overlooking the river on London’s South Bank. So…what better way to get from one aquatic spot to another than by boat? Back when I visited years ago, this was practically the only way to get to Greenwich from central London, and it was slow. Not anymore: a bunch of high-speed catamarans ply the Thames, carrying commuters across the sprawling city. As we reached Canary Wharf, crowds of people in business attire boarded the ship. We then cruised back under Tower Bridge, past Southwark and the Tate Modern. I still recall how my family friends in London years ago referred to the South Bank as “no-man’s land.” Here too, no more: both sides of the river, once a rotting pile of industrial buildings astride a stinking waterway, have been transformed in the wake of the river’s cleanup. Factories have been converted into elegant homes; new buildings have been erected bearing both housing and workspaces; a riverwalk promenade offers opportunities for an evening stroll. We sat at the Gourmet Pizza Company and, as we had the previous evening, watched the sun go down and the lights come on in this dazzling city.

“Can we go see the countryside?” Jackson asked at some point early in our voyage. I didn’t think we’d have the chance until one of my pals down in Winchester said he was free for the day. So, next morning, we hopped on a couple of crowded Tubes to Waterloo Station, where, after navigating the confusion of ticket machines and U.S. credit cards (my adopted homeland is, at long last, set to adopt the now-global EMV “chip & PIN” standard) we snagged our tickets and headed out of the city.

Adam met us at the station and gave us a grand morning’s tour of this little town’s sights: Winchester was once an English capital city, and pieces of its castle remain intact. It’s also the final home and ultimate resting place of one of Britain’s literary luminaries (and my mother’s — Jackson’s grandmother’s — faves): Jane Austen. We passed by the home where she died before heading to her gravesite, the church with the longest nave in Europe, Winchester Cathedral.

Having spent a couple of months in Europe on my big world voyage (and after), I’d say I’ve seen more than my share of churches and cathedrals. But in spite of church overload, Winchester totally blew me away (and impressed Jackson as well). Stone carvings, vaulted ceilings, a glorious wooden screen, a medieval illuminated Bible…this place has it all. Adam confessed (pun sort-of intended) that he finds this spot even more impressive (and much quieter) than Westminster Abbey. I agree, and heartily recommend this little town with the big church for a wondrous, not-as-touristic experience.

After our meander through the cathedral, we met Adam’s dad for lunch in a local pub. A mellow Aussie sort, he and I had far too much to talk about once I found out what he did for a living — which also explained how he managed to pay his son a visit from halfway around the world on a lark: he’s a pilot for Virgin Australia. As our fish & chips, burgers, and Adam’s liquid lunch of Guinness arrived, we chatted endlessly about aircraft configurations, long-haul routes, and the perils of automated flying. I’m not sure if Adam and Jackson followed along or were secretly rolling their eyes.

We could have lingered in Winchester longer, but we had to get back for the next stop on the tour: a taste of West End theatre.

After a meal of Indian food (what’s a visit to London without that?) we headed to the Victoria Palace Theatre for Billy Elliot, the musical based on the 2000 movie that’s long been one of my favorites. I wasn’t sure how this gritty indie film (albeit one with a Hollywood-ish “boy triumphs over adversity” theme) would translate to the stage… but it did quite nicely, with some truly arresting visuals (the miner’s lamps shining in the dark in one number: chilling; the bit where young Billy dances with his future self to Swan Lake: magical), and a political subtext that took some explaining to Jackson — though he’s arguably now one of the more informed twelve-year-old Montrealers on the vagaries of Thatcherism and British coal strikes in the 1980s.

For our last full day in London, we mixed up sightseeing and socializing. We got up a bit late, and after a quick breakfast at Pret A Manger (my go-to lite-bite hangout in London, where they’re to be found everywhere), we crossed Hyde Park under surprisingly warm, sunny skies. Passing Kensington Palace (hello, Will, Kate & company) and the Royal Albert Hall (stopping for a photo in front of the Albert Memorial — I think Jackson’s managed to be in photos in front of every landmark I posed in front of in my time here decades ago), we headed toward Cromwell Road to our day’s destination: the London Science Museum.

Arguably one of the world’s oldest and most notable such institutions, the place has been greatly updated since I was here last: the classics — Foucault’s Pendulum, Stephenson’s Rocket locomotive — are still around, but they’ve been augmented by exhibits on 3-D printing, a motion-simulator 3-D theatre bearing an experiential CGI reenactment of an Apollo mission to the moon, and an IMAX theatre where we took in a gorgeous 3-D film (narrated by Jim Carrey) on undersea life that was achingly beautiful even for those who think they’ve seen it all.

We were joined on this outing by Susan & Richard Baruch, the second generation of the London clan whose ties with my family go back to the 1950s. They even hauled us to Covent Garden, to the gift shop of the London Transport Museum (a visit to which Jackson will have to do another time — such are the constraints of short-duration travel) for the all-important “Mind the Gap” T-shirts; after a few days riding the Tube in this city, it’s a mantra no less etched into one’s skull as that song on Disney theme parks’ “It’s a Small World” ride.

After another visit to Susan’s parents, another of their daughters, Joy, took us for a splendid meal of Thai food (with a stop for some uber-rich chocolate ice cream for dessert) in trendy Camden. London never ceases to amaze me with its bustle, its diversity, and the dynamism of its inhabitants. Our time here was brief but, as always, fabulously memorable.

In 2013, my life changed in a number of very big ways.

The biggest shift, I’d say, was when a new man entered my life… which, course, begged the obvious question: what’ll it do to my status as Inveterate Solo Traveler?

Well, only one way to find out: as a Christmas gift, I booked Mathew on a trip with me to a well-trodden (for me) but mostly undiscovered (for him) place: the Colorado Rockies.

I hit on a way for both of us to enjoy our collective passions: I’d snowboard some of the time; he’d go in for more earthbound diversions – cooking/food blogging (baking at high-altitude was something he’d always been curious to try), plus some time at a local day spa where I’d snagged him a gift certificate.

Getting there involved the usual mix of efficiency and chaos: a daredevil car service driver in an SUV dodged traffic to SFO by mountaineering over a freeway exit on the 101 to get to the airport; our flight was packed with the usual range of vacationers taking to the Rockies; the rental-car place at the Denver airport was a morass of families milling about as uniformed agents ushered them into waiting vehicles. Driving to the mountains after a full day of work, a two-hour plane ride, and adjustment to elevations above 5,000 feet left us exhausted and headachy as we checked into our ski condo on Friday night. A part of me worried: will my first big vacation with a new partner be a disaster?

Well, a good night’s sleep cures much, and I arose the next morning (with the help of a triple-shot coffee drink) to experience something I never thought I’d see in the United States: the ability to purchase cannabis products legally for recreational use.

A number of episodes in Wander the Rainbow involved drug use — something that raised a few eyebrows, but had become (recreationally) routine to my formerly straight-edge self. All that doors of perception stuff actually rang true to me when I first experimented with various substances in years past. While I acknowledge addiction is a very real problem, I’ve failed to see the point of criminalizing such behavior.

It’s been remarkable to watch American society gradually come around to this point of view: Colorado — and, soon, Washington State — are the first places to actually legalize the sale of pot after almost 70 years of prohibition. Suffice it to say, that was part of my motivation for coming out here to check it out. And so, bright and early on Saturday morning, I headed over to the Breckenridge Cannabis Club right on Main Street to check it all out.

Legal weed isn’t cheap: substantial taxes levied on it, coupled with strong demand, has pushed the price to double that of the medicinal stuff. Still, it was so gratifying to walk in and purchase openly and legally, just as I had in Amsterdam some five years ago on my big world trip. I asked our “budtender” if there had been any negative fallout from this landmark change.

“Yeah, we had one guy with a fake ID a few days ago,” she said. Something my sisters used to do to get into clubs in their teens back home in Montreal, I thought.

With, uhm, necessities taken care of, I walked Mathew to his spa appointment, then headed up on the lift (our rental condo was walking distance to both) to explore Breckenridge.

The Colorado Rockies, with sun-soaked, lower-latitude, high-elevation bases (Breck’s at 9,600 feet) don’t possess the same dizzying vertical drops or above-treeline acreage of the European Alps. However, they offer similar rugged terrain and some of the driest, fluffiest snow around. The peaks of Summit County were where I’d first learned to snowboard a decade back, and it had been awhile since my board had touched their slopes. Breckenridge specifically was a draw, as the resort had just opened up vast swatches of new terrain, including intermediate-level trails from peak to base. The experience, for me, was a satisfying blend of old and new, as I beheld the Tenmile Range that Breck sprawls across from new vantage points, while also reliving the first time I’d stumbled onto the Peak 9 chairlift strapped into my then-virgin board.

Breckenridge is one of a number of historic mountain towns that just happened to abut slopes offering a just-right combination of steepness and snow to make skiing ideal (Aspen, Telluride, and Zermatt are other examples). Like those other spots, Breck has an air of exclusivity about it… but unlike most of them, Breck’s also managed to retain something of a youthful, grungy, fun-loving vibe. My ride-mates on various lifts up the mountain discussed hopes for a “Stoner Bowl” (the Denver Broncos versus the Seattle Seahawks in the Super Bowl); bedroom activities with girlfriends the night before (a bit TMI for me at two in the afternoon, but hey, why not?); and overt admiration for my youthful countenance (and somewhat younger boyfriend).

“The Coug!” shouted the two drunk guys with whom I’d just shared a gondola.

Oh, Breck, I smiled. How I’ve missed thee.

Saturday night we opted to hit up the town for a bit of dinner and shopping. Mathew’s a highly-creative vegetarian chef, which in a way facilitated our choice of restaurant: the fondue joint right on Main Street proved a good pick. Slightly slow, European-style service (the place is owned by some Belgians these days) but truly delectable melted cheese and (what else?) chocolate fondue for dessert.

A longer slope day for me on Sunday was punctuated by some home-cooked meals. Mathew had taken control of the condo kitchen and cooked breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a next-day’s breakfast to boot. His high-altitude experiments (all delicious) are to be found here on his food blog. The experience of coming home, after a day spent riding the slopes, to a boyfriend’s cooking was a new and marvelous experience I certainly hope to repeat.

One goal on this trip was to include Mathew on winter adventures. It began even before we departed, when I helped him buy some winter apparel (“I need a jacket that’s this bulky?” he asked. Oh, native Californians). It reached a crescendo on Sunday night, when we scampered onto the gondola at Keystone (Breckenridge’s sister resort) to enjoy the latter-day variant of sledding: alpine tubing, basically riding down half-pipe-style trails in an oversized inner tube. With some pop dance music playing and the setting sun coloring the mountains and sky intense shades of orange, it was a fabulous blend of childlike fun and ethereal, Rocky Mountain magic.

I’ve often said that it’s the people that make a journey. One reason I’d continued coming to Colorado to snowboard was the cluster of friends I’d made out here over the years. Time and circumstances had caused a number of us to lose touch, so on Monday we beat the traffic and headed out of the mountains at midday to reconnect with a couple of them. It’s gratifying to see that everyone’s doing quite well in their various affairs – though as with my life, it seems that the only constant in everyone’s is change. My punk-rock friend Eric is making his longstanding dream happen and is recording music and touring with a band. Tony, a former colleague from my harrowing days in Michigan a decade back, is engaged to a new gal, and both are exploring possible new places to live and work. Even Mathew, on this trip, concluded a round of job-hunting and interviewing and received a job offer.

It just never stops.

Heading down my final run of the weekend, I mused about it all as I often do while beholding Zarathustra-scale scenery. Our final day in the mountains would have been my father’s eighty-first birthday. He loved snowsports, loved the boreal wonder of the great peaks, loved the exhilaration of gliding down trails amid glades of evergreens. All the recent changes in life, changes this journey both affirmed and offered escape from, spoke to his sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. These are traits I’m proud to have adopted. And now, with my newfound partner, am able to share in a whole new way.

Wander the Rainbow is proud to present this guest post by travel discounter FareBuzz.com.

Venice is one of Italy’s most popular destinations. It is not only famous for its waterways but also for its seafood, gondolas, architecture, wine, and many other attractions. If you’ve been waiting for the perfect time to get away… your wait is over! Right now, Fare Buzz is offering huge discounts on every booking — in addition to Venice, you’ll find Baltimore, New Orleans, New York City and many other destinations on sale. Book your tickets now and fly to Venice and beyond! This famed Italian city city has much to offer; here are a few highlights:

Piazza San Marco

Undoubtedly one of the focal points of the city, offering up unique aspects in one sweeping panorama. As a first-time visitor, just standing in the middle of the square and taking in St. Marks Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and Torre dell’Orologio is an incomparable experience.

Experience a gondola ride

The city is a walker’s paradise, but for many, a visit to Venice would be incomplete without a leisurely ride through the city’s waterways. So hop in with a loved one and be serenaded by a gondolier for a truly romantic Venetian experience.

Campanile di San Marco

The Campanile is the tallest bell tower in the city. Climb up to the top, gaze down at the historic city, and feel on top of the world for a spell.

Tour the Grand Canal

There is no better way to befriend the city like taking a tour of the Grand Canal. A ride through this majestic waterway brings you a step closer to the city and its architecture, history, and culture.

Sample Venetian cuisine

Tickle your taste buds to the flavors of authentic Venetian cuisine. Apart from  traditional pizza, delicacies like oca in onto, and polpette will transport you deep into the flavors of the Veneto region. Be prepared to savor the unconventional.

Explore priceless artworks

The city’s waterways add charm and beauty, but impressive artworks by many masters also play a pivotal role in Venice’s aesthetic heritage. Visit one of the numerous art galleries in the city and be stunned by the superlative imagination and artistry of the great painters of old.

Say “salute” with a glass of wine

Venice features some of the best white wines in the region. No day in Venice is complete without sampling a glass or two.

Try some gelato

Try the popular gelato in one of the city’s many gelaterias. These can be found all over the city and are often worth a second (or third) repeat visit.

Indulge in seafood

Perched on the Adriatic, Venice is a hotbed of seafood, replete with foodies from across the globe descending on the city to sample its unique preparations.

With the number-two biggest reef system lying just offshore, it was inevitable some of us were going to go down and check it out.

There are lots of dive operators in Cozumel, but to find the best ones, the age-old adage rings true: ask a local. My sister and her husband had struck up a conversation at one of the eateries their condo-owning friend had recommended, and through this lady they’d been turned on to Blue Angel, a hotel on the island’s southern half aimed mainly at the diving set.

I got there in the morning for my orientation dive, where I met Matthew, our diver master, an amiable Albertan; and Kale, another intrepid world traveler (with a blog of his own to boot) from Vancouver. They ran me and another Alberta family (note about Cozumel: Canucks galore!) through safety and training drills. I’d already done this a year ago but it was remarkable how much I’d forgotten – from hand signals to buoyancy compensation.

Unlike Australia, where the reef can lie dozens to hundreds of miles from land, Cozumel’s reefs lie right offshore – heck, you could almost swim to them if determined enough. After lunch, my sister and her husband (who’d already done the intro a couple of days before) joined us on the boat out to the reef. We zipped past one of the island’s three cruise terminals, where two Royal Caribbean ships were docked; one of them, the Oasis of the Seas, is the world’s second largest. Passing under it is akin to walking the concrete canyons of New York: a wall of white steel and glass rises up a dozen stories in the sky.

Meanwhile, natural wonders waited down below. We rode south, to Palancar reef, just offshore from the beach we’d been at a few days prior. Donning our gear and splashing backward off the boat into warmish blue waters, we began our explorations.

Palancar is deep and vertical: towering columns of coral climb forty-plus feet off the sea floor. We spotted schools of colorful fish, the odd ray, a spotted eel. My sister found her Pilates training useful and took to diving like one of the aquatic species around her. I held my own, the reflexes and impulses I’d learned at the start of the year slowly coming back.

Another day, another adventure: next day, we opted to vote ourselves off the island and check out some Mayan ruins. Cozumel was a minor outpost in ancient times, but most of the lost civilization’s activities were concentrated on the mainland. The great pyramid of Chichen Itza was a bit more of a haul than we were seeking, but another, closer-in spot, seemed like a better choice with family and toddler in tow: the seafront ruins of Tulum.

The day started out more Marx Brothers than Mayan quest: we missed the earlier ferry and clambered aboard the totally-packed 10 o’clocker – almost missing that one too as we’d forgotten to retrieve our baby car seat. Then my mother and Miri began turning green on the eleven-mile ferry trip: both suffer from seasickness, and the channel can be choppy. Then on arrival in Playa del Carmen, we discovered the car rental place where we’d booked a car for the day no longer existed – and all other rental shops were sold out. In Mexico, the big international rental chains subcontract out to local outfits whose idea of “reservation” echoes a Seinfeld episode bit (though at least all the people we dealt with were affable).

On to Plan B: our taxi driver, originally hired to ferry us the seven or so blocks from the ferry pier to the rental shop, became our driver for the day. The price wasn’t a whole lot more than the rental, and he helpfully directed us to a nice little seafood spot for lunch a stone’s throw from the ruins. With motion sickness in retreat and baby happy from a hearty lunch, we were ready to take on Tulum.

The walled city overlooking the Caribbean was an important Mayan trading entrepot, and as we entered its stone walls we instantly understood why this is the number two most-visited Mayan site in the country: it’s an ethereal, mystical spot, rocky edifices perched on cliffs above carpeted jungle greenery and azure seas. It was moderately busy, though not overwhelmingly so, and we agreed that my observation, made on my travels, that places like these — intended to be cities — feel right with people in them.

But the real crowds were down below: Tulum has to be one of the very few archeological spots on Earth (Caesarea, in Israel, is another) that boasts a beach – and a gorgeous one at that – astride the ancient temples. The place was packed with a mix of locals and visitors, and a dip in the waters invigorated us all.

“Okay, it was worth it,” remarked my Mom about the hectic day, as she took in the glorious scene.

Next day was my last on the island; after inviting the family over to my hotel for its renowned breakfast, I headed out to do some solo exploring.

Most of Cozumel’s populace lives in San Miguel, the town hugging the western coast facing Playa del Carmen. But sitting astride a channel means calm, even boring seas. For the more oceanic, wave-soaked experience, one heads to Cozumel’s eastern shore, some nine miles away from town. So that’s what I did, traversing the island’s main east-west highway on my little scooter, dodging the odd rain squall mid-island care of a low-flying cloud.

By the time I reached Mezcalitos, however, the cloud had tucked itself into a corner of the sky, and the blue Caribbean – with waves, natch – presented itself under brilliant sunshine. I went for a dip – the surf was relatively calm for this spot – and, contemplated the year this has been.

Perhaps because it’s a sun destination, I’d found relatively little background information on Cozumel in my pre-trip read-ups on the place. I had my questions answered by the Museo de la Isla, a small but very comprehensive set of exhibits in a vintage yellow-hued building on the island’s main waterfront drag. Everything from the island’s formation over geologic epochs; to the creation of the region’s underwater cenote caverns; to Mayan days; Spanish conquests; and modern re-emergence, is covered. Heck, there’s even a reconstructed Mayan dwelling complete with statuary and circular stone calendar. Some factoids I didn’t know: Cozumel was one of the first spots visited by the Spaniards, and even Cortéz passed through here on his way to ultimately take down the neighboring Aztecs at Tenochtitlan (today’s Mexico City). Plague and horrible enslavement fully depopulated these lands, and it was only in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that the place surged back.

After what was arguably the best dinner we’d had to date at a beach club on the island’s northern fringes, I bade farewell to family and headed for a meetup with a fellow I’d been chatting with online. I was feeling good about Beto, and in person he proved my supposition true: a friendly, talkative twentysomething (whose English was excellent) studying physiotherapy in Mérida. He and a large clutter of friends, all local Cozumeleños, met up at the re-opening of a really fab bar just off the main square. I think I’d just encountered the third layer of island society, after the cruise-ship tourists and the expat locals: these were true locals, mostly middle class but of all stripes (Beto’s parents were both doctors).

And with that, a fond farewell to Cozumel; the place ignited a fascination in me for Mexico that previous travels did for many other places — though unlike most, this country is far more accessible to me from where I live — and I have no doubt more visits await me in the years to come.

San Miguel de Cozumel, Dec 23-25, 2012

It’s been something of a running joke with me that I’ve been everywhere in the world except places closest to home: as a native Montrealer, I’ve been almost nowhere in Canada outside the Quebec-Windsor corridor; as a Californian, I’ve never visited Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, or Mexico. Having finally made it to (and fallen in love with) Vancouver earlier this fall, I positively jumped at the chance to meet up with some family members spending Christmas holidays off the Riviera Maya, in Cozumel, Mexico.

I have to admit, some of my foot dragging on visiting North America’s third country was due to lingering preconceptions: In his book Smile When You’re Lying (a very edifying exposé of the business of travel writing), author Chuck Thompson ponders “Why Latin America Isn’t the World’s Number-One Tourist Destination (and Probably Never Will Be),” citing American mythology about rampant kidnappings, Montezuma’s Revenge, and “hey gringo” ripoff-ery.

For my part, too, while my round-the-world travels had vanquished any phobias about travel in developing countries, one concern remained: with such proximity to the U.S., does tourism to Mexico present an even more amplified form of the soft colonialism so frequently written about by travel writers? Can one even have an experience here that doesn’t revolve around kitschy sombreros at Señor Frogs?

My sister, brother-in-law, and sleeping 20-month-old nephew picked me up at Cozumel’s twee little airport. Even though it abuts the town, the field is sleepy enough to fit in almost unnoticed on the island. The broad, divided carriageway leading from the airport to the beach was typical of tropical sun destinations: a row of coconut palms running along the median line; dense, if low-lying, forest on either side. Cozumel was badly battered by Hurricane Wilma in 2005, and although the island looks to have returned to its normal self again, the wind-battered foliage offered clues to past devastation.

“Now here’s somebody who knows how to travel,” remarked my sister, spying my partly-loaded backpack and miniature daypack, both veterans of my global haul. They were not so blessed: between the needs of a toddler and trying to anticipate how well-stocked a Mexican Caribbean island would be, they were hauling a lot more gear – and had the misfortune of flying one of my least-favorite domestic U.S. airlines (hint: begins with a “U”) at holiday time. Yes, it nearly came to blows at LAX on their trip out, and remained nightmarish right through the ride down to Playa del Carmen, the ferry ride over to the island, and the taxi to their friend’s condo south of town (they flew into Cancun, which I’d be doing on my return leg).

I, meanwhile, seem to have hit the flashpacker jackpot once more: Casa Mexicana, a vaguely nautical-looking, newish hotel right in the center of San Miguel, offered that great blend of comfortable and casual (and reasonable) I’d sought out on my global trek. A second-floor terrace offered a stellar view of blue seas, the town’s “Malecón” oceanfront promenade, and myriad ferries and cruise ships coming and going. Although it got put on the travel map some three decades past thanks to its dive spots – the island sits right on the second-largest reef system in the world, after Australia’s Great Barrier – it’s perhaps best known to many as a cruise port of call (for better or worse).

“For better or worse” seems to mean that the island does indeed possess what I feared: piles of restaurants and shops geared at the cruising set that would not feel out of place in a mall in Iowa. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those backpacking purists who fetishizes “authenticity” at the expense of everything else; and I’m acutely aware that “live like a local” tourism is just as much “tourism” as those loud-shirted cruisers at Carlos ‘n Charlie’s.

Turns out my kin were on the same wavelength: after practicing my few words of Spanish in ordering (and consuming) seafood pasta at a local Italian joint, we wandered across the way to a town square, colorfully decked out (to the delight of my talkative, ebullient toddler nephew) for navidad. Here the faces were more brown than white, the language more Español than Ingles: turns out Cozumel not only has a sizeable local populace, it also attracts a large proportion of Mexican tourists. Off the main drag, the vibe quietens, the buildings turn single-story and less tricked-out, and the “real” Cozumel presents itself. Could I have found it, as I had more often than not in my travels, a spot where foreign tourist and local resident (and transient) comingle happily and freely?

We took such musings to the beach the next day, heading several miles down the island to Playa Palancar. Cozumel’s north side, where my kin was staying, and its central city, where I’d parked myself, mostly consist of rocky shorelines with bits of reef scattered about. For the sandy beach experience, one heads southward. Palancar’s pretty – not quite top of my list, but definitely up there – with a scattering of retail shops, a narrow-ish strip of sand, an eatery, and a small menagerie of peacocks and Cozumel raccoons (smaller – and more endangered – than their mainland relatives). Although nominally a Caribbean island, the western side, where most development lies, also faces the mainland (the buildings and lights of Playa del Carmen can be seen on clear days, some 12 miles off). This translates into gentle waves and calm seas, with warm though by no means torrid waters. Just right for the water princess that I am.

A home-cooked meal for dinner that night and a lazy day at the condo pool (and adjoining reef-let) made for a splendid Christmas Eve and Day. Festivus in the tropics is always a nice change, but for my family the venue change had broader significance: my parents’ anniversary was December 24^th, and although we’d agreed not call too much attention to it, inevitably talk shifted to my father’s passing this past summer. We’re all still reeling from the aftermath of his sudden cardiac arrest on a warm July morning in Montreal. Perhaps it’s fitting, being here in the Mayan heartland just days after their calendar cycle ran out (though the assumption that this meant the end of the world was, of course, totally off the mark); for them (well, those that remain from that once-great civilization), and for us, 2012 signifies not only endings but also new beginnings.

It’s an odd time to be traveling, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and odder yet to be journeying to North America’s chilly northeast from balmy California.

But then, little about this year has been typical.

Dodging those sky-high airfares to Canada, on Friday I hopped a red-eye across the country to New York. The city’s rep as a transient hub is well represented by my friend circle, ever more of whom continue to rotate through the place. This time, I met up with my friend Lake, a Chicago native and chemical engineer whose prior stints in his field include Sheboygan, Wisconsin before this present foray to grad school here in the Big Apple.

Lake met me at Penn Station, where I’d hopped off a commuter train from JFK. Surprisingly awake after the too-short-to-sleep-properly transcon journey (thank you, Business Class upgrade), we settled into a cute little Franco-tinged breakfast spot in Chelsea (thank you, Yelp), then rode the subway far uptown. Lake’s studies have brought him to a once-squalid part of Harlem that’s now dotted with upscale eateries and brick buildings in various stages of fixed-up-ness. Best part (for transit geeks like me, at least): the “A” train’s express run from 59^th Street to 125^th. We walked uphill from the station, beholding a view of the city over a portion of the island that hadn’t been flattened ages ago and still retained its vaguely primordial undulations.

I was only set to be in New York for 24 hours, and had one bite-sized attraction I’d been hankering to visit for ages: years ago, when my siblings were doing rotations of their own in this city, my parents would come down here and I’d fly out to meet everyone in a family reunion of sorts. My father’s thirst for bargains on designer clothing (I always joked that, with his fashion sense, love of opera, and unabashed emotion-showing, he made a far better gay man than I) led him to Lower Manhattan department store Century 21. My fascination with the city and its history was stoked on these forays: I’d wander past Trinity Church, by the Park Row (featuring my own shopper’s paradise, electronics store J&R), and under the then-standing monoliths of the World Trade Center. On one especially warm summertime visit, shopping bags in tow, we passed a temporary space housing a nascent exhibit: the Skyscraper Museum, sitting, appropriately enough, in the shadow of some iconic specimens of the form. I’d made a mental note to check the place out, and over the years followed its progress in the wake of 9/11 to its eventual permanent home in Battery Park City.

“It’s like suburbia, or Jersey City,” Lake remarked as got off the subway downtown and strolled down Battery Place. Battery Park City’s a sliver of urban infill created when the original World Trade Center was built. It grew into an urban residential enclave over the past decades, a spot with medium-rise condos, mini-parks, and couples with strollers. A nook of quiet amid downtown’s bustle.

In the ground floor of one of the condo buildings lay our destination: just a few rooms of exhibits and models and such, but as I anticipated, quite fascinating: a history of the city’s Seventh Avenue garment district was on view, describing and explaining those mammoth ziggurat-like brick high-rises that surrounded me as I emerged onto the street on 34^th Street earlier in the day. Dizzyingly detailed wooden models – the love’s labor of an Arizonan with a passion for urbanity – captured the density and diversity of various swaths of Manhattan. And, of course, models and images of World Trade Center old and new.

As we rounded the bottom of the island, we spotted some of the still-in-progress repairs to Battery Park in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Although the New York City Transit Authority has worked miracles restoring subway service in the wake of the storm a few weeks back, one station remains shuttered: South Ferry, which was inundated with flood waters that stormy day that looked on TV like the drowning of the Titanic’s decks.

This led us to a conversation about the energy business – another obsession of mine – and what’s perceived as their inaction (or, worse, blatant obstructionism) in the wake of climate change.

“You know, in the basement of my building [at City College] they’re working on a giant new battery. Industry’s devoting a huge effort to this,” Lake said. “But activists talk like they want them to just stop everything they’re doing right now and bankrupt themselves. So industry doesn’t even bother reaching out.”

He’s got a point, I mused. I was gratified to hear that old-economy energy extraction concerns are in fact stepping up – and recognize that the environmental crowd, some of whom lack a grounding in the sciences, often dig themselves into a position of opposition to legacy industries without hearing them out. But then, at the same time, I can’t help but wonder if we aren’t, collectively, as a species, not devoting the vigor we once employed to, say, putting men on the moon or splitting the atom. Because, looking at Battery Park’s damaged and smashed sculptures, the Lower Manhattans of the world really can’t wait.

Wandering northward, we passed a gloriously lit-up One World Trade Center, now so tall it disappeared into the evening fog. We then hopped a train to Brooklyn, dining at a vegan restaurant in Park Slope, a neighborhood I’d also been meaning for ages to check out. It’s got the beautiful brownstonery and trendy hangouts one finds on the other side of the East River, but here the vibe is quieter, the rush and buzz of Manhattan conspicuously missing. Along Atlantic Avenue we beheld a giant hole in the ground, at the bottom of which ran subway tracks that disappeared into the glowing ovoid of the new Barclays Center. Like so many near-urban districts in burgeoning, pricey world cities, the borough of Brooklyn is filling itself in.

Next morning it was back to JFK for a very quick hop up north to Burlington, Vermont. My Mom and her realtor partner Ron met me and drove me north, to home and hearth and a holiday party in Montreal.

It was the second night of the Jewish festival of Chanuka, and we celebrated, as is our wont, with candle lighting, songs, and far too much food. The kids, I learned, are as addicted as I am to that mildly idiotic Korean dance tune “Gangnam Style.” I soon had them dancing in a circle as its beat pounded out of my iPhone. Through the flicker of candles, a portrait of my father, in his outfit graduating from law school some fifty-plus years ago, held silent vigil. His absence loomed large over the evening.

Indeed, that was true of the remaining two days of my visit, as I went through old photographs, diaries, and had a nice lunch with his sister Jeannette to discuss memories I’m starting to compile for a prospective second book, one combining my father’s nomadic meanderings with my own. On my last morning I joined my mother and her realtor colleagues for breakfast before heading to the cemetery to get my first look at my father’s tombstone. The pleasantly banal chatter of Montreal’s buoyant real-estate market (it’s outperformed just about everywhere in the United States over the past four years) gave way to solemn remembrance at his gravesite.

It was a day much like the one four years ago, when I visited the memorial where his kin lay in Rumbula Forest, just outside Riga, Latvia: crisp, clear, cold, with just a thin coating of crunchy snow. We struggled to break apart the ice over his footstone, where the words from the pop tune “L’Italiano” are inscribed: “sono un italiano…un italiano vero.” An Italian, a true Italian: my Dad only lived in the country for a couple of years as a teen, but its culture and language infused their way into his persona all his remaining years.

Driving through the nighttime streets of downtown Montreal, magically decked out for the Christmas season as the city does so well, my mother and I pondered the man we’d lost barely five months ago. He’d always considered himself a nomad, an outsider, a cosmopolitan without a home. Yet in his last years he’d found it, as so many of us do often without realizing, in the city he only reluctantly embraced. It held the one thing no other place, however entrancing, could hold: the ties of family, of friends, of community. The things that keep me coming back (amid the protestations of a recently-adopted cat, as I saw fit to remind everyone). In this place, the turning of seasons and years have witnessed my sisters marry, my nieces and nephews blossom and grow (one of my sisters here is again pregnant, in fact), and those family ties embrace me, in life and in death, in a blanket of eternal warmth.

Canada’s a small country, I always say, which typically provokes odd looks; yes, yes, it’s the second-largest in land mass – but most of that is tundra and 90% of the populace lives in a narrow band hugging the U.S. border.

And yet, my notion of “small” is also, vaguely, blinkered. My entire youth and young adulthood was spent in what’s known as the Quebec City-Windsor corridor, Canada’s answer to the U.S. northeast. The West? It was always seen as far-off, smaller, irrelevant. Certainly as compared to the flashier U.S. West: Los Angeles, Silicon Valley, San Francisco Seattle. Images of surfers and movie stars and hipsters and computer wiz kids. What did Canada have? A nice, inoffensive little city called Vancouver.

A couple of friends aimed to alter that that when they said they were getting married there and invited me to join. I’d met Gus and Adam, Aussie natives, at a party in Sydney last year. We hung out a second time in London, and just hit it off — intellectually, socially, professionally… though in truth, I think the thing that united us most was our status as world wanderers: they live half a world away from home, and I… well, my past speaks for itself. So when they asked if I’d join in their “official” wedding (they were set to have a commitment ceremony in Sydney beforehand) in gay-marriage-legal Canada, I jumped at the chance.

In my enthusiasm to avoid both United Airlines and Air Canada, I opted for a two-hop trip via regional fave Alaska Airlines. What looked like a connecting-flight nuisance, however, turned magical on leg two, arguably the shortest commercially-scheduled flight I’ve ever taken: Seattle to Vancouver, 127 miles on one of the bigger Bombardier prop planes. It was a clear, moonlit night as we lifted off from Sea-Tac. From my window perch I beheld the lights of Seattle’s downtown; ahead, the San Juan Islands, surrounded by dark, ripply waters reflecting the moonlight; a languid descent into YVR (why oh why do Canadian airport codes all meaninglessly begin with the letter “Y”?), an easy customs/immigration pass-through (love that NEXUS card), and I was soon in a taxi headed toward town. As I stepped out of the cab, a waiting couple on the sidewalk politely inquired:

“Are you getting eout?”

Yup, I’m back home.

Vancouver may be known for rain, but the next day was as glorious-blue as any in Southern California. Dressed in my Sunday best, I hopped in a yellow Prius cab, out to a church in the posh western suburb of Point Grey. Rolling past elegant homes – newer steel & glass and older wooden Pacific Northwest-styled – we passed an elderly man on a motorized wheelchair; flapping from the back of his conveyance were two old-time Canadian Red Ensign flags.

I’m definitely back home.

Adam and Gus were on hand to greet us outside the church, as was their posse who’d come from near and far for this event: a (straight) couple from Australia who now live in Bangkok; two gals from middle-Canada (Edmonton & Winnipeg); a friend from Sydney who’d just moved to Vancouver; a fellow from Washington D.C.; two more Sydneysiders living in the U.K.; and one of the grooms’ moms, a headstrong woman from a farm near Bathurst with a background in technology and education. Nomads indeed.

The ceremony was short and sweet: a female minister, a smattering of readings, the signature of some official papers. I’m not one of those mushy types at weddings, having been to around a hundred of them as a put-upon assistant videographer… but when this couple looked into each others eyes, kissed, and the church bells began to peal, I couldn’t help but get choked up. I’ve known so many gay couples who play-act at marriage, and so many more who are legitimately fighting for the right, that it was wonderful to see it live and in person in my mother country.

I’ve never been so proud to be Canadian as I was at that moment.

After the ceremony we  bundled into a bunch more Prius cabs, and headed to a waterfront seafood restaurant in Coal Harbour for lunch. The glorious day was capped off with some drinks near the seaplane port nearby. We all parted around dusk – impressive that I spent a full, wonderful day with a gang of people I hardly met – and I called it an early night.

Next morning, Friday, I rose bright and early again to meet the two Canadian gals, Angie and Selena, for a bit of touristy fun at the Vancouver Aquarium. As befits a maritime city, Vancouver’s got a pretty good one, and we spent a couple of pleasant hours communing with cute sea otters, majestic snow-white Beluga whales, and most of the cast of Finding Nemo. Having had at least one nephew who was totally bonkers for the film, I found myself able to recite a virtual play-by-play of the movie as we passed tank after tank of brightly-colored sea life. The ladies were duly impressed.

I then hopped in a cab across town to the Botanical Gardens to meet my sole relation here in Western Canada, my great-aunt Lou. She not only looks grand for a near-centenarian, but is of remarkably sound mind and body. I learned some more detail about my family’s past, including how she met my great-uncle, their time in Japan (they were there before and after the Second World War, unlike my father’s family), and their ultimate return to Canada (they came back in 1976, though Lou, who originally hails from Vancouver when it was a far smaller outpost, quipped “I practically belong in the Smithsonian.”)

I started out my last full day in the city with a bit of uncertainty: Just about everybody from the wedding party had gone, and I’d done all the socializing I’d planned to do. What am I still doing here? rang the little voice in my head, particularly with a new kitten at home that I was missing terribly (though friends were seeing to her needs quite capably). Still, I was determined to make the most of it: Heading down to a quasi-industrial area not far from the old Expo site, I rented a scooter for a few hours and took myself around town. I opted for big circuits and farther-flung spots than I would have covered on foot, and in spite of a bit of chill at 30mph, that proved a stellar choice.

I rode north to Gastown, site of the original settlement (and not so named due to gaslit lamps, as I’d thought, but rather due to “Gassy Jack,” a bit of a windbag who founded the place – I guess something of a Vancouver variant on Chicago’s Windy City moniker). Touristy, in that way many revived historic settlements can be.

But up the road lay something more my speed: the city’s “Vansterdam” block of shops dedicated to cannabis culture. In the case of one, literally Cannabis Culture, the magazine published here. The New Amsterdam Café is this city’s answer to Holland’s “coffeeshops,” though here one can smoke or vaporize one’s buds, but cannot buy any. Reminders that the seesaw battle for the legality and acceptance of this substance are, even in liberal Canada’s pot capital, far from settled.

From greenery to more greenery: I rode across downtown to Stanley Park, the huge green space on the westernmost bulge of the peninsula that holds Vancouver’s city center. Lots of cities sport majestic parks in their urban heart: New York’s Central Park, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, Montreal’s landscaping of Mount Royal. But I think none quite hold a candle to Vancouver’s entrant, both in sheer relative size (the park’s about as big as the rest of the city’s core), and in eye-popping natural beauty: giant coastal conifers with trunks as big as California redwoods form a thickly forested canopy enclosed by a stately seawall. It’s as if California’s Muir Woods (itself impressively close to urbanity) had just parked itself off San Francisco’s Financial District.

It’s safe to say I was finding Vancouver fairly fetching — but as a mostly new city with oodles of steel-and-glass high-rises and only a smattering of historic architecture, it’s not as dramatic as, say, Chicago’s massive splendor or San Francisco’s gingerbread Victoriana. But as I turned out of Stanley Park, I found the neighborhood to fall in love with: English Bay Beach.

A seafront community on the far side of the West End, its interplay of mostly older high rises fronting glorious waterfront evoked Sydney or Santa Monica by way of the cool Pacific Northwest. And palm trees – palm trees! – bunched on the green strip fronting the sand. Am I still in Canada? Should I ever choose to return to my homeland, I think that’ll be my spot.

From there I crossed the Burrard Street Bridge, a thirties, deco-ish steel truss viaduct, toward the lower mainland. I tootled through Kitsilano and back toward Point Grey, then headed out all the way west, through more glorious forests, to the University of British Columbia. On the way back, nature called again. Literally – a stop in a parkside porta-potty came first – and then figuratively, as I took a stroll through Pacific Spirit Regional Park, Vancouver west side’s mammoth dog park by way of Return of the Jedi’s forest moon of Endor.

My mother and sisters had all had moments of reflection over the past few days — during the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur — to remember my father, for whom that religious day held much significance. I think this walk, listening to the mix of somber melodies I’d compiled after his funeral, had something of the same effect for me. I remember going with him and my mother to Muir Woods some fifteen years back. A lifelong city dweller, he nevertheless held a reverence and fascination for nature that he instilled in us all. I sat on a log amid the ancient trees and wept.

Back in town, a nighttime meetup at a nearby watering hole with a couple of the fellows I’d met from the wedding who were still in town. After discovering a certain fondness for pear cider (and getting tipsy on two of them — I remain a cheap date), we headed to a nearby Malaysian spot for dinner (Vancouver really does have everything dining-wise), then off to the happening nightspot on Saturdays.

Happening indeed: the modest line was hardly moving, and only payment of a “premium” cover ($15) got us in relatively quickly. I was tempted by a couple of tipsy girls who introduced their (male) friends to us; one, a tall, very handsome film student, quickly caught my eye. Let’s just say he proved those cliches about friendly, laid-back Western Canadians to be truer then ever.

Okay, staying an extra day was most definitely worthwhile.

An early-morning flight home (nonstop this time), over the craggy peaks of the Coast ranges back into California aridity. Sometimes I wonder if I’m a bit too demanding on my travels, aiming for always-contented, hitch-free journeys comprised solely of wonderful people. But this trio of days in Vancouver actually delivered on that promise, proving that nomads of the world can unite, marry, and form bonds and memories for the ages.

In Greek mythology, many early heroes concluded their quests with the founding of a city. So too in our inestimably more humble lives, where an era of travel often gives way to a more settled impulse. Instead of slaying minotaurs and unifying Athens, however, in my case it was my round-the-world trip (and some follow-0n adventures) preceding a bit of playing Bob Vila in my place here in San Francisco.

Interestingly, as I set out on a somewhat ambitious round of home improvements, I was greeted with much the same incredulity as when I hopped on that British Airways flight to London and points beyond for seven months across the globe:

“You’re doing it by yourself?”

Why, yes! I’d worked for a contractor in high school and early college back in Montreal (to this day I still hear words like “alkyd” in quebecois French in my mind); I’d also done a fair bit of fixing up of the home I had before my travels, a little condo on Chicago’s lakefront. Some of what I was setting out to do — replacing base moulding; repainting walls — was familiar. But some pretty big stuff — redoing all my living room, kitchen and entry area flooring; repainting a metal spiral staircase in pretty tight confines — was new.

The lessons of travel, I learned, seep far and wide into one’s workaday life — even, surprisingly, into such mundane bits of domesticity as home remodeling. I’d always been struck by the clean, modern, space-efficient kitchens and bathrooms I found in my wanderings around Europe (information I’m filing away for next year’s projects); however, the Continent offered another bit of salvation as I pulled up old, dusty carpeting (amazing how filthy it gets after 15 years!) to reveal bare concrete subfloor beneath.

At first my heart sank: I’d wanted to put in 3/4″ thick hardwood flooring, the stuff that’s standard in homes the world over. Normally, to do that over concrete requires an additional plywood subfloor, railway-crosstie-style “sleepers”, or else abandoning real hardwood altogether and going with some cheaper stuff.

Enter Elastilon. Originally developed in the Netherlands, these rolls of fibrous mats with adhesive on one end, turn hardwood floor installations into a process of “apply and peel.” Oh, it’s still an art form of sorts, mixing and matching boards of different lengths and ensuring they’re all level and flush. But with no need for a nail gun (which I’d been warned is notoriously tricky to use correctly) or for messy, smelly liquid adhesives, this process was smooth, straightforward, and came out great. Chalk up another one for Old Europe.

Oh, don’t be fooled: this monthlong-plus adventure was hardly a cakewalk: my weekends and evenings were fully taken up with this project; prepping the concrete subfloor was a nightmare of sanding and leveling; I suffered the odd cut and bruise; I overcame some interesting engineering challenges — such as installing wooden boards around large circular stairway bases, becoming familiar with power saws loaned me by good-hearted fellow-DIY co-workers, and trimming boards by just the right amount to fit my oddly-angled front doorway (16 1/2 degrees to be exact).

Would I do it again? Well, like every home improvement project, I ended it with a weary sigh and a whisper of “oh, god NO!” But that sentiment was only temporary: the results are predictably fabulous (thanks to some design advice from numerous friends and family members) and I remain as eager to keep feathering my nest as I do to embark on further faraway adventures.