Today, it snowed for the first time this winter.

See that light dusting on the ground? That’s it.

Meanwhile, back home…

It was an interesting getaway for the three of us.

The three of us being me, an American from Duke University, and an Englishman.

And while our nightly stay at a very English and very quaint home in the Bedford countryside — reminiscent of Cameron Diaz’s magical stay in The Holiday — was more suited for say, a romantic getaway for two, we still made it work.

Somehow.

Kenyan Volunteers

June 15, 2007
I flew to Kenya to begin my placement as a math teacher at an orphanage.

This is about the volunteers I met.

When you volunteer in a foreign country, you put yourself in a position to meet some truly wonderful people — many of whom are fellow volunteers.

Everybody’s there for a different reason. Some are there because they want a summer to travel and figured, hey, why not help others in the process. Some are there because they have optimistic aspirations to change the world. And some, well, some aren’t really sure why they’re there — only that it feels right to be there.

These volunteers come in all shapes and sizes. Many are third-year undergraduates, looking for a summer off before hitting the books one last time. Some are fresh out of high school. Some are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Doctors and businessmen, scientists and construction workers. Spiritual or faithfully religious. Studious, quiet, or shy. White collar, blue collar, and collars of all different colours.

But there’s usually one common link between these people. One common aspect that makes it so, for the most part, everybody manages to get along.

You see, deep down, these people, they’re all good people.

People with good hearts.

And that’s what makes them wonderful.

As foreigners in a strange land — we stuck together. Walked together, worked together, and ate together.

But most of all, we talked together.

It was fun. Frivolous and inane, but — like when we were young and spent our summer nights at camp — everybody enjoyed themselves silly. We talked about our favourite movies and our favourite music. Embarassing encounters. Politics. Celebrities.

You know, stuff that reminded us of home and the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t actually stop when we’re in Kenya.

Of course, the truly magical thing was that Kenya had brought us all together: half a dozen young adults of different temperaments, different backgrounds, and different beliefs. It’s hard to imagine another situation that would have united us.

There was Daniel from the University of Missouri: spiritual, religious, and contemplative. The two wonderful and inseparable ladies Heather and Amanda from Widener University, both of them sassy and quick to smile.

There was Brett — manic and slightly deranged Brett — a construction worker from Oregon who nevertheless got along famously with the others. Jenny, the Johns Hopkins undergraduate with the easy going charm. Ari, Vanen, and Brianna, the trio of 30-something friends who still managed to fit in with the rest of us.

And then there was Matt.

Matt was likable, curious and kind.

You’d think I’d say more about Matt — but surprisingly, no more need be said.

Matt was like that. Uncomplicated.

So one day, Matt brings home a pair of plain white shoes, vigorously haggled from the local market.

Along with a black permanent marker and a roll of masking tape, he shakes the shoes emphatically in my direction.

“I’m thinking about checkering these shoes black,” he said.

“Huh?”, I said.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be awesome”.

That evening we had dinner with the host family: A creamy ragou, with potatoes and a garnish of beef, drowned in a spicy sauce. Eaten with a mound of ugali and chapati on the side — it was the true staples of any Kenyan diet.

Afterwards, we sat around and chatted amongst ourselves. Matt however, sat there and silently worked on his shoes. First, he meticulously taped the shoes with the masking tape. Then, he coloured each cell with the black marker.

When he finished and held up his creation for all to see, we oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“What a brilliant idea!”, we said.

“I should market these,” he said.

“They’re one of a kind!”, we agreed.

Months Later…

By now, we’d all separated.

I hadn’t been in contact with any of the others — too wrapped up in my own affairs to bother, but I was meaning to write about them. When? I dunno. Later. When I had time.

One afternoon however, I found myself shopping at Primark, a well known clothing retailer in the UK. Think Walmart, but with lower prices and criminally cheap goods.

I stumbled into the footwear section and, as my eyes swept across the endless rows of trainers, loafers, and slippers — I did a double take. There, at the end of the rack were — you guessed it — Matt’s shoes.

No, they weren’t like Matt’s shoes. They were his shoes.

So what did I do? What could I do? Matt was a gazillion miles away, doing — well, doing whatever he did — and he’d never know. But I tell ya, it’d break his heart to see this, it really would.

So I took a picture and returned home to write this article.

But none of this is really about Matt and his spotted shoes. You know that, don’t you? It never was.

This is about the people we meet. Or rather, the people we don’t.

Think about it. How many people pass through our lives without a second glance? Without a second word? Maybe hundreds in a day. Thousands in a week. Millions in your lifetime.

The girl at the supermarket who distractingly bags your groceries. The boy at the bus stop who listens to his iPod. The people at the office. The people at the gym. The list goes on.

We see them, of course. But we don’t really see them. Not in the same way.

Not like in a foreign country, where you find yourself connecting with a handful of volunteers. From Australia and Canada, to New Zealand, America, and Sweden. Doctors, businessmen, construction workers, and writers. People you normally would have never befriended and people you would have never related to.

You take these random people, hailing from different parts of the globe and leading different lives and suddenly — when the collection of people passing through your life has been reduced from the thousands to half a dozen — you begin to see what makes them so special.

And although it’s taken a transcontinental trip and a barrel of vaccinations, you finally figure out why these people are so wonderful.

And why you’ll never look at a pair of checkered shoes the same way again.

the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.

Not surprisingly, the internet in my room doesn’t work. I’ll take a day to fix.

In the meantime, I’m paying out of my nose at an internet cafe to write this. But you, baby, you’re worth it.

In any case, I just came home from the grocery store (psst: I don’t think they’re called ‘grocery stores’ over here). I can’t wait to lug all this shit back to my room. Woo. Hoo.

I’ve got quite a few pictures of my room and the harrowing journey (not) here, so you can expect them as soon as I get my internet working.