My travels have always been indie-type expeditions.

Six months backpacking solo through SE Asia, Australia and the South Pacifice.

Indie travel through Europe.

Living and working in Eastern Europe.

That sort of thing.

But an opportunity came up involving members of my beloved family and I thought, what the hey!

I’m cruuuuuzin’ in the Caribbean. I haven’t looked at the stops yet.

But it’ll be a week of sun, relaxation, reading, martinis, group yoga, buffet food, and following the lady holding the closed red umbrella over her head.

No kids, no work, no electronic devices, no blogs, no Twitter.

I’m going in with an open mind and glass full.

I’m happy to report that I wasn’t eaten by the dogs, although I do appreciate the concern, Doc.

There were a few crazy-arsed moments when the dogs took off and I was left in the sled with tree trucks approaching at speed. (I want my blankie!)

Let’s just say that I enjoyed standing on the back of the sled “mushing” more than I enjoyed sitting in the sled while my dearest did the mushing and I did the yelling to “slooowww downnn, damn it!”

We sledded and skidded through wooded trails and over ice-and-snow-covered lakes, up and down hills for more than three hours. The day was perfect, about -1 or -2C with a brilliant March sun dishing out face-warming BTUs.

We lunched in a winter tent with a wood stove that we used to grill our egg-salad sandwiches. And for dessert we made maple toffee in the snow.

There were moments out there in the middle of nowhere when I identified strongly with the peoples of previous centuries who used dogs and sleds as their vehicles for chasing food and running away from predators.

Those huskies are amazing animals with energy to burn.

I have pictures which I will post in the next day or two when I’m caught up with all else.

We were booked to come home from New York on Sunday Dec 21 but with storms, cancellations, delays, Christmas, overbooked flights, standby, hours in airport lounges … the outlook was bleak.

By Monday night, they’d dumped us in Montreal airport and told us we had no hope of getting a flight home until 27th December.

Huh? December 27? Two days after Christmas? How the *&^(%*$ did that happen?

But this was not a time for deconstructive analysis. We had to act and act fast.

There was only one thing to do: rent a car and drive through the night to get home.

So, we grabbed another airport refugee, stuffed all our bags in a rented hybrid car, and drove and drove and drove.

And drove.

I talked and talked and talked about everything and nothing to keep the driver alert and engaged. “My, I never knew there were so many shades of darkness!” That sort of thing. Riveting.

Then it was my turn to take the the wheel and white knuckled it over dark, unfamiliar roads covered in ice and plumes of blowing snow. Outside was -18 C or something silly like that. We were in the middle of nowhere. Breakdown was not an option. But in my mind it lurked around every dark corner.

It was just about do-able until the 18-wheelers roared up from behind and passed us creating a vacuum that pulled us in making it hard to keep the car steady on the icy surface.  As a calling card, they’d leave a big mushroom cloud of dusty snow just to make it a little harder to see.  Nice.

Nineteen hours later we pulled up in front of our house, exhausted, eyes stinging with fatigue, legs stiff from driving, white knuckles aching with the strain, but so happy to be home.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a bag of dog poo with a greenish tinge. But it was a very happy bag of greenish dog poo.

This came after another epic journey – 14 hours – getting to New York in a blizzard last Wednesday.

I know there is a moral to this story but I’m too rat-arsed tired to think of it right now.

Please feel free to offer one up.

But that trip was a screw-up on many levels, even if it was a good time.

So this time, I’m doing it up right. (You can correct the mistakes of trips past when you have a bundle of Air Miles points.)

All the Typists will be along for the ride this time.

It’ll be just before Christmas. In New York. With all the lights. (“Grandma likes the lights,” they will say of me in years to come. “The lights always make her take off her WWII flying goggles and prompts that charming toothless smile of hers.”)

My main goals this time are a show (Spamalot), The Met and consignment shops in Manhattan. I’m a vintage clothing fiend.

Oh yes. And a New York omelette.

Prolly won’t be blogging, so I’ll cya back here in a few days.

Tra la.

And what do I get?

Some of the friendliest, warmest, nicest people I’ve ever met on city streets.

Huh?

New Yorkers were falling over themselves to offer directions or point out the sites. When they saw you with a camera, they asked where you were from. One person fixed my Blackberry SIM card. Someone on the subway asked if I had enough space.

I wasn’t ready for that. Not in New York.

You even saw it in the drivers who weren’t honking their heads off like the last time I visited in the 80s. This would no doubt be the result of the new fines: $350 for honking, and signs all over the place.

Admittedly, I was travelling the subway in off-peak hours and I’m not in the 9-5, Mon-Fri grind.

But still.

I’ve been to quite a few big cities in the States, Europe, Asia and – ahem – Canada. And I have no hesitation saying that New York is the friendliest hands down.

At least to typists.

Update: Yup, you’re right about the comments. I’ve darkened them and made them larger. Check it out. I’ve also increased the size of the font in the posts. This theme isn’t widgetized, meaning I have to go into the code to make changes in the sidebars.

This “What Not To Wear” blog styling exercise will not go on forever, so stay with me a few more days. I have a few more outfits I’d like to try on.

This one is called Zen and is yet another Milo design. I think I have a WordPress Theme Crush on Milo.

It’s foodie, Asian and orange.

My typist’s garret is orange.

My leather jacket is orange.

My purse is orange.

My wallet is orange.

So why not an orange blog?

You tell me.

I’d like to purchase MacPass.

I came to your website today but discovered (after many attempts) that your application links for the MacPass are both broken.

So I called the 3100 number advertised on your website. There was a long message explaining the high volume of calls and many other details about why it is important to get your MacPass. But the message gave no opportunity to purchase the said MacPass and no opportunity to speak to a MacPass customer service representative. Nor did it reveal a number to contact such a representative.

The message went to some length to state that the easiest way to get a MacPass was through the website (with the broken links). The message was followed by a beep. Then it disconnected.

The last time I made the journey to your office to purchase my MacPass in person, I was informed that the one individual equipped to sell the MacPass was on her lunch hour. No one else in the office could handle this issue. I would have to come back at another time.

Out of curiosity, is it actually possible to purchase MacPass from your commission? Or am I just missing the punchline of this Orwellian joke?

I would be grateful for any assistance you could provide in helping me purchase my MacPAss.

Thank you.

It was a spontaneous thing, growing out of a beach conversation that went something like this:

I wouldn’t mind getting married.

Me neither.

They’d sure be surprised at home.

OK, let’s do it tomorrow before we change our minds.

My dress was bunched up in a backpack, a red-and-white Bali batik purchased a couple of weeks before in Australia for $15 AUS. I hung it up for the day and most of the wrinkles fell out.

The deed was done by a Methodist minister wearing a sulu with a congregation that consisted of the sulu-wearing bar staff/band from the hotel. They were bored out of their heads.

Not sure what 16 signifies, but apparently the recommended gift is silver holloware, whatever that is.

My present?

Well, after having secretly switched the text on my Blackberry to Magyar, the language spoken by Hungarians, and then watching me panic as I tried to navigate my way through menus with funny words with squiggles, he graciously offered to switch it back to English.

You know, as an anniversary present.

Sweet, huh?