The amazing Oh Doughnuts, Winnipeg (©Deborh Clague, 2019)

A Summer of Donuts

Deborah Clague September 21, 2019

My summer of donuts started in earnest. A maple dip here. An apple fritter there. But then my travels took me to places with some famous gourmet shops—including the original, Voodoo Donuts in Portland, Oregon—and I decided to make an event of it. After all, I’m not a Kardashian and my common law doesn’t care if I occasionally test the stretchiness on the waist of my pants. While in Vancouver in May, Cartems (billed as the city’s best) was on the route to my conference every morning so I checked it out. Twice. It was definitely better than our nation’s standby, Tim Hortons, but nowhere near the best I’ve ever had. You may think my judgement is steeped in bias because it’s located in my hometown, but after this deep-fried odyssey I still feel that Oh Doughnuts in Winnipeg is by-far the best donut I’ve ever had (the lemon meringue is one of the best desserts, period). Recently, they released a savoury pickle donut with buttermilk ranch topping and I so can’t wait to try it.

After spending some time in the Peg this summer eating donuts, catching up with loved ones and reminiscing on a life once lived, my partner and I embarked on our annual summer road trip. This year, our adventure would take us down the scenic Pacific Coast Highway into northern California for some hiking amongst the largest trees in the world. The stress-free bliss I envisioned was tested a bit as we crossed the border into the United States—this always seems deliberately unwelcoming and almost hostile compared to entering by flight—but the scenic vistas of Montana quickly made up for it. This state is absolutely stunning … and sparse. As I noted during last year’s excursion, you really get to appreciate the landscape while you drive as there aren’t many other vehicles on the road, even during the height of travel season. I’m particularly fond of Helena which, at a population of just over 31,000, is one of the smallest state capitals I’ve visited.

We again stayed overnight at the Great Falls, MT, KOA picking up groceries at the nearby Walmart and making an evening of hotdogs, toasted marshmallows and “cheap but good and good but cheap” Manischewitz wine, which never seems to produce a hangover no matter the volume consumed. In between this roasting and toasting, I’d steal glances of the mountain range in the distance and try to catch the transition of light as the pastel tones of the dusk sky turned to amethyst then starry black. This is storied land; the archetype of the Wild West that still elicits dreams and inspiration. Once the great frontier that the Cree, Salish and Sioux called home, and that Lewis and Clarke later crossed in search of colonial discovery, the trails have since evolved from dirt paths to the interstate but Montana remains a nod to the past.

Pausing one’s world to do nothing but appreciate the clouds is highly recommended and a much greater use of time than allowing the false reality of scrolling through social media to make you feel bad about yourself. With all of its rustic charm and seeming aversion to following the herd, Montana is a great place for this type of introspection and respite from the modern world. Just take in the view and breathe.

Scenic vista near Helena, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Clouds cover the mountains in Montana (we’d soon be driving through them)(©Deborah Clague, 2019).

About to drive through a cloud. Once immersed, I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of my car (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Dusk approaches, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Cabin 27F at the Great Falls Montana KOA is a highly recommended place to stay. Very private with an amazing view (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The fire starter, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Toasting marshmallows in Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Our equine neighbours in Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

“Roughing it” at the Great Falls KOA, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Pastel sunset, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Late night walk, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Visiting with our equine neighbours, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

City of Glass

Deborah Clague August 30, 2019

Right after returning home from Paris, I had work-related travel in another one of my favourite cities – Vancouver. There are a few places I have visited in my life that have left an indelible mark on my being and this city of glass on the Pacific Northwest coast is one of them. I recall a visit with my father in my early twenties in which I cried on the journey home as I sooooooo wanted to stay there. Vancouver had a sheen that my hometown did not; it seemed so cosmopolitan. The type of place I imagined shit happened. The good shit. The type of place where one could leave a mark that would have impact. Perhaps that was the time to make the leap; Vancouver has only gotten more unaffordable in time. And the older I get, and the more my world shrinks, I realize that one can make an impact from anywhere. Even my hometown of Winnipeg. Even cities that are smaller (such as where I live now). I extended my deployment by a few days though to have time to explore and see if the magic was still there.

Sigh. It was.

But only with conditions.

These conditions include a downtown condo with wraparound windows and a view as good—or better—as the one I had from my hotel room on the twenty-first floor of the Four Seasons. As I worked at my desk, I would sneak glances at the people below, tiny as ants, scurrying down West Georgia and Howe picking up food at the trucks and stalls that lined the streets before they, too, returned to their offices and got down to whatever business runs this town. There was also the occasional car race, typically between two luxury sports vehicles painted in crass colours that only the very, very wealthy would purchase because they have money to waste and can be trendy rather than strategic with consumption. Think bright baby blue Lamborghinis and neon green Ferraris. The roaring of their engines woke me up during the night.

And right before the night was the greatest view of all, as dusk settled over the mountains and the water was highlighted by the setting sun. I’d retire to my room around this time to enjoy this sight with a cup of tea. But also, if I’m honest, for safety; I was, again, traveling alone and on one early night while approaching my hotel I was told by a man clearly struggling with drug addiction that he wanted to “smash my face” until my “face was smashed”. So another condition of living in Vancouver might have to be willful ignorance of the challenges it faces.

Beyond the view and despite my encounter, I appreciated downtown Vancouver because I could walk nearly everywhere (or get there relatively quickly via transit). One day I trekked to Granville Island and its famous market, later chancing upon a dog beach in Kitsilano that I need to take my Monty to someday. On my other free day I hiked all through Stanley Park, one of the most beautiful urban greenspaces in North America. All this walking then helped me justify eating at Cartems, thus launching my summer of donuts™ which has also been memorable. I’m not sure living in the ‘burbs, or further out in Burnaby or Abbotsford, would make the experience of living here as great as I experienced or imagine though. I feel that magic would get lost amidst the commute and rampant big box stores that seem to be cloned in every civic area. Therefore the greatest condition, it seems, to living here is a six-figure salary to afford my vision. Or a lottery win. I don’t need neon green Ferrari money but just enough to live an ordinary life in an extraordinary place.

Although, living an extraordinary life in an ordinary place now doesn’t seem so bad.

View from the 21st floor, Four Seasons Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Bees at Work, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

I love this city, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The DOG BEACH, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Granville Island Public Market, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

I would really like to live in this building, so please donate to my GoFundMe, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Vancouver skyline (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Stanley Park, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Trekking under the Lion’s Gate Bridge, Stanley Park, Vancouver (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Rhinestone Cowgirls

Deborah Clague August 2, 2019

The last few days of our Parisian holiday were open-ended and left to leisure, mood and whim. My friend had an interest in checking out the high-end boutiques that line the Champs-Elysées—especially Chanel where she hoped to pick up whatever was the cheapest item available—but gave up on this pursuit when she realized the sales staff could see us for the hokey Canadians we were, swiftly ignoring us while catering to the young, very wealthy, Asian clientele who actually had money to drop. H&M was welcoming though.

In the evening I took a slow stroll through the quiet backstreets of the 7th arrondissement, passing antique shops, used bookstores and other peddlers of Parisian history. I wondered about the original owners of the items (as well as their authenticity) when my eye caught several prints of Gustave Doré’s work that appeared to have been taken from a book. At a cost of 25 Euros each, the price wasn’t the issue so much as narrowing down which piece I wanted to decorate my home. But then my eye caught something else not as prominently displayed — the source itself, ‘La Bible’ illustrated by Gustave Doré. I quickly nabbed it. Regardless of price, THIS was to be my most prized souvenir from the trip. Books are a treasure. Weighing in at roughly 5lb, the 472-page hardcover book contains 241 of Doré’s wood-engraved illustrations. What a find! As this occurred after visiting his grave at Pere Lachaise, I couldn’t help but feel it was kismet.

Parisian drivers are insane. Another of the most memorable moments of my trip was when my friend and I, along with an older man, almost got hit by a car going through a red light. As it occurred, the older man jumped in front of the navy blue older model BMW and banged on the hood all while screaming obscenities at the driver. As they, in turn, made apologetic hand gestures towards us, the older man walked around to his window and started banging on it with even more fury. It was quite the show and not very common in friendly Canada.

As someone who walks the majority of the time, and am almost hit by a distracted driver at least once a week with no exaggeration, I didn’t blame him. His vocal defence of his life in this age of distraction is what I aspire to.

Exiting Pigalle metro station during daylight hours is a strange thing. Emerging onto a central boulevard, the first observation one might make are of the families strolling about with their children. The tree-lined green space of the boulevard provides a small, welcome respite for social gathering amongst the dense construction of the surrounding neighbourhood. As a woman, you might also notice the disproportionate number of men loitering and staring from each and every public bench. It can be a bit uncomfortable as you try and gather your bearings. But as the storefronts come into focus, you see that the contrast is far from wholesome. Businesses with names like “Sexodrome”, “Pussy’s” and the highly creative “Porno Shop” line the streets, with the Moulin Rouge and its iconic windmill being the primary attraction. For this is Pigalle, Paris’ famed sex district. My friend I decided to pay a visit while en-route to Sacre-Coeur Church.

We decided that “Sexodrome” seemed to be the most female-friendly (i.e. “not creepy”) establishment on the street. With five levels of merchandise, the store contained anything and everything one could possible desire for sexual intimacy (including a granny blow-up doll that advertised “no teeth” and a cock-and-balls kitchen apron that made me laugh so hard some of the more serious shoppers glared in my direction). My friend became interested in a rhinestone covered g-string that she referred to as a “tiara for my [redacted to keep this blog semi-classy]” but left empty-handed when we were told the only one available was displayed on a mannequin. There’s always floss and a bedazzler, I suppose. Traveling with a friend can give great inspiration for their future birthday gift.

The last day of our trip we visited the Palais Garnier, the very opulent Opera House in Paris that was inspiration for the musical ‘Phantom of the Opera’. Upon entering, one is greeted by a dark, violet-lit room with a subterranean feel mimicking the storied waterways that are said to exist beneath its structure. The higher levels you reach after climbing the Grand Staircase, such as the Grand Foyer, are as elaborate as Versailles; no matter how much gold I see, it always makes my jaw drop at how excessive it is. Literal floor to ceiling. It’s blinding. On this visit, there were even gold tires adorning the top of the Grand Staircase in celebration of the Paris E-Prix race that was days away.

It’s on my bucket list to attend a show here, in this baroque masterpiece. Unfortunately I was not able to see anything on this trip, although entering the balcony overlooking Place de l’Opera and watching Paris play out before me made me feel part of a greater performance of life.

The cobblestone streets of Montmarte, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Montmarte, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Karl forever. Montmarte, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

View from atop Sacre-Coeur, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Paris’ sex district (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Pont de l’Alma, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Le Village Royal, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

I would guesstimate that 90% of the vehicles in Paris are black (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Entrance to Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Grand Staircase, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The gold tire adds a classy touch; the Grand Staircase, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Salon du Glacier, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Grand Foyer, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Ceiling detail, the Grand Foyer, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

As a designer, one of my key takeaways of inspiration during this trip was the unbelievable ceiling work. This is the Salon du Soleil, Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

View from the top of the Palais Garnier, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

This is my “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” moment atop the Palais Garnier (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

A sample of French packaging which always elevates the consumer experience. This is how my desserts from Laduree were presented (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Yet another indulgence from my trip, a pistachio Saint-Honoré from Laduree (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

And drumroll … of all the fancy French desserts I ate over the course of my holiday, this simple vanilla bean eclair from Ladurre was absolutely my favourite. The rich vanilla flavour of both filling and icing was unbelievable (©Deborah Clague, 2019… — And drumroll … of all the fancy French desserts I ate over the course of my holiday, this simple vanilla bean eclair from Ladurre was absolutely my favourite. The rich vanilla flavour of both filling and icing was unbelievable (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

A Cemetery is a Great Place to Meet Someone

Deborah Clague July 19, 2019

My favourite day in Paris was marked by an unexpected encounter while exploring a site for the dead.

But prior to that, I took the metro to an art exhibit that proved to be absolutely magical.

I saw pictures online of La Nuit Étoilée while researching my holiday and thought it might be hype to increase upfront sales when numerous publications warned to get tickets in advance. I did book MONTHS in advance, just in case (also because I’m “type-a”), and was relieved that I did because the exhibit was indeed sold out on the day I attended. I understood why when I entered; the animated exhibit is a completely immersive, multi-sensory show where the viewer becomes part of the artwork. Set in three parts—showcasing contemporary art, Japonaiserie and the iconic work of Vincent Van Gogh—this is something that must be seen to be believed.

Afterwards, my friend and I took a short walk to an unlikely tourist destination in Paris: Pere Lachaise cemetery, final resting place of artists, philosophers and rock stars of the ages. It’s such a landmark that people sell maps at the entrance. Being my frugal self, I pre-printed a map from the internet … that proved worthless. My friend and I quickly got lost while searching for the grave I wanted to pay respect to, that of my favourite artist Gustave Doré. As we walked amongst row after row of eerily creepy—often open—nineteenth-century crypts, I took a moment to rest against a tree and try to figure out exactly where we were amongst its 110 acres.

“Maybe a spirit guide will appear,” my friend commented.

And no word of a lie, within two minutes of her stating that a Frenchman approached us asking if we needed help finding anything.

He introduced himself as Glen and informed us he was a lawyer that lived and worked in Versailles. He debated traveling to Normandy that day for a dip in the English Channel but decided against it because of a questionable weather forecast, instead opting to visit one of his favourite places in Paris - this very cemetery. He then inquired about what grave we were looking for. When I told him “Gustave Doré” he was impressed; it was apparently a rarity that anyone requested to visit that site. As we made our way over, I noted that someone had once placed a small rock over a now weathered paper note left for the artist. Glen and my friend chatted while I also gave silent thanks to a man that has provided immense inspiration and wonder to my life.

After Gustave, my friend wanted to visit Pere Lachaise’s most famous (or infamous) gravesite - that of sixties icon and lead singer of The Doors, Jim Morrison. This grave is quite controversial within the cemetery and there have been numerous calls to remove it over the decades since he passed in 1971. Today, one can’t even walk up to it. A steel fence surrounds it and several of the perimeter headstones in order to protect against further vandalism. Even in death, rock stars require crowd control.

Glen seemed keen to continue the tour and ended up showing us around for over an hour. As someone who appreciates the macabre, I specifically asked to be taken to the creepiest parts of the cemetery. He happily obliged. These included some truly beautiful and haunting headstones and crypts depicting ghosts, spirits and the afterlife. There was even a crypt with a stained-glass window detailing the folklore behind the will-o’-the-wisp, once believed to be a phantom light but since explained via science.

At the end of our day, Glen asked if we wanted to go for a drink but my friend was feeling a bit tired and we declined. Prior to parting, I exchanged my business card with him in the hopes of keeping a well-informed contact in the city but I’ve never heard back.

Was Glen a spirit? Was he an actual lawyer seeking reflection in the calm of the necropolis? Or was he just a dude trying to hit on two foreign chicks? All I know is that a cemetery is a great place to meet someone. Dead or alive.

The absolutely AMAZING La Nuit Étoilée exhibit at Atelier des Lumières in Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Pére Lachaise Cemetary in Paris, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The grave I most wanted to pay respects to, that of my favourite artist Gustave Doré at Pére Lachaise Cemetary in Paris, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Jim Morrison’s infamous gravesite at Pére Lachaise Cemetary in Paris, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

This grave in Pére Lachaise Cemetary in Paris, France is stunningly beautiful and haunting. It’s been featured as artwork on album covers (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Grave of Belgian poet and novelist Georges Rodenbach at Pére Lachaise Cemetary in Paris, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

A Prince tribute show that I wish I got to see in Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

In the City of Love, condom machines are readily available on the street, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

My next indulgence: the signature desert of Angelina Paris, the Mont-Blanc, along with their famously rich hot chocolate. It was a bit too indulgent for me (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Disneyland for Foodies

Deborah Clague June 23, 2019

La Grande Epicerie is a high-end, fine grocer in Paris’ 7th arrondissement that many describe as a “Disneyland for foodies”. It was high on my list to see as there really isn’t anything quite like it where I live. Anything one could possibly want from any culinary region of the world is available within its aisles from black truffles direct from Italy to Ethiopian passion berries (I bought both). There was even an American section that had overpriced Reese peanut butter cups and Hershey syrup, which offered great perspective on the food habits of North America compared to Europe. I never imagined I would take such delight in cooking after years of eating based just on convenience but now that my tastebuds have been awakened, I treat it less as a chore and more of an art form. The kitchen is now my canvas. La Grande Epicerie was the perfect place to evolve my palette further. My wallet and I came prepared.

At first I thought I would pace myself and wander before filling my handcart but after being met with the chocolate section, located right near the front entrance of course, that stance quickly went by the wayside. I must have spent at least twenty minutes studying all of the different types and their premium packaging. This wasn’t 7-11. Most of the bars on display here have won international awards for their taste and production, including the varieties I bought:

• Bonnat Chocolatier Madagascar 100% Criollo: made with the rarest cocoa bean in the world, this bar was the silkiest I’ve ever eaten. Absolutely exceptional.

• Chapon Chocolatés in Noir Fevory and Noir Bolivie: both winners at the International Chocolate Awards. The packaging for this brand is striking.

• Dolfin Chocolate bars in lemon ginger, bitter orange and masala chai. Very flavourful.

• Mademoiselle de’Margaux boxes in earl grey, raspberry and pear.

Indulging my sweet tooth was just the start though; the spice aisle is where my imagination really went wild! I bought several unique flavours of salt, including a pungent viking salt from Norway and a French espelette pepper salt that I now sprinkle on nearly everything, as well as spice blends from around the world, vanilla beans from Madagascar and Saint Lucia, black rice, smoked rice and even a pink rice coloured with beet juice that can traditionally be found at Indian wedding celebrations.

Besides all the ingredients I was set to haul home in a very, very packed suitcase, I also picked up a takeaway lunch from La Grande Epicerie’s in-house boulangerie. A simple sandwich with three visible components—roasted cajun chicken breast, guacamole and a fresh French baguette—I was so enraptured as I ate it that I completely zoned out of a conversation with my friend to focus on the flavour notes and mouth feel. It was easily one of the best meals I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve since tried to replicate it at home but haven’t been successful (giving me reason to return again one day).

When I returned to Canada, the first meal I made with purchases from La Grande Epicerie was a lemon rosemary garlic chicken with a side of herbed vegetables and black rice, served with an après dîner drink of absinthe. It was great to bring a bit of France home to share with my loved ones.

My friend and I also visited the Palace of Versailles. This was my third visit to the UNESCO World Heritage Site and while it forever remains preserved in time, it is always fascinating to experience it again (especially the gardens, which is one of my favourite places in the world).

Continuing my culinary adventures, I also purchased more spices here as well as tea made on the grounds that is the same recipe Marie Antoinette favoured during her reign (black tea with apple and fragrant rose petals).

Selfie in front of the Palace of Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Coordinating my outfit with the Palace of Versailles (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Detail at the Palace of Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Portrait of Marie-Antoinette at the Palace of Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Shuffle-room only at the Palace of Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Hall of Mirrors, Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

In the Hall of Mirrors, Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Bedroom detail at Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Grand Canal of Versailles, one of my favourite views in the world (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Next indulgence: raspberry eclairs from a small bakery near the Eiffel Tower (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Variety of spices purchased at Versailles, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Black rice, also known as “forbidden rice”, purchased at La Grande Epicurie in Paris, France (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Preparing the marinade for lemon rosemary garlic chicken (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Preparing lemon rosemary garlic chicken (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Lemon garlic rosemary chicken with herbed vegetables and black rice (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Absinthe from France (55% alcohol content)(©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Thelma and Louise* Take Paris

Deborah Clague June 11, 2019

Day three was momentus for a few reasons, most notably for the arrival of one of my best friends who would be joining me in the City of Light. It would be her first time in Europe, but not the first time we’ve travelled together - she was my partner-in-crime during previous excursions to San Francisco, Chicago and Dubai. Despite enjoying all of those places, I set the expectations high for Paris and promised, né GUARANTEED, that this city would would surpass those experiences and positively change her life. After all, Paris IS life. When we met up though, I realized I had my work cut out for me.

“This is not Toronto. The people—the men—here are very rude.”

Granted, the metro system was a clusterfuck because of the fire at Notre-Dame the evening prior. And granted, my friend had just flown in from Canada with little sleep and was now lugging a heavy suitcase through cobblestone streets and crowded sidewalks. But negatively comparing the greatest city in the world to a place I don’t even consider one of the greatest cities in Canada (fight me) was so beyond comprehension that I felt I greatly misjudged Paris’ power as universal tonic.

We slowly made our way to the next place I was checking into, an apartment in Paris’ famed 7th arrondissement. I booked this location for two reasons: it was in close proximity to nearly everything, Les Invalides was literally around the corner and the Eiffel Tower was a 10 minute walk away, and, more importantly, it would be safe. The latter is something I research thoroughly before traveling because the world is not the same for men and women and I often travel alone. An easy target. I’ve been followed. I’ve been harassed. I wanted to limit any possibility of this for us both and just live, as should be our right.

There was another, more superficial, factoid though that I knew my fashion-loving friend might be impressed with.

“Karl Lagerfeld lived in this area.”

“Really?!!” Her eyes widened. My friend’s number one goal of this trip was to visit the Chanel boutique.

Over the next ten days, the magic of the city would eventually do what I promised it would.

Prior to obtaining the keys to the apartment, we sat down for lunch at a traditional Parisian café. I ordered a green smoothie and a cheeseburger—yes, please judge, but do realize that a honey and goat cheese burger I ate in France a few years ago was one of the best I’ve ever had. My order this time came to 35 Euros and was, admittedly, pretty mediocre. At the time I paid no heed and just enjoyed the moment as my friend and I played a guessing game on whether the well-dressed characters walking by were secretly spies but I later nearly had a heart attack when I realized the currency conversion would make the meal over fifty dollars (Canadian). It would be my only splurge on dining at a restaurant. For the remainder of the ten days, I would cook my own fresh meals (wine included) at a much, much reduced cost.

I would, however, indulge without limit or guilt at Paris’ many amazing bakeries.

After lunch, we checked in and my friend hit the couch and immediately fell asleep. Her adventure would begin the next day. I spent some time marvelling at the apartment before heading out for another walk. The fifth floor unit was bigger than I imagined it would be with a small kitchen, bathroom with laundry, bedroom and living area (with couch that pulled out to a bed). It had great light and air flow and I couldn’t help but imagine what my life would be like living there and actually becoming a Parisian. My father would always tell me that life would be the same as it is here; that life is what you make of it and I would get as bored in Paris as I do in Saskatchewan. It’s not about location, it’s about motivation. Yada yada. I get this. It’s still nice to dream though. It’s also good to set goals in life. If I can’t live in Paris, then I want to spend as much time as possible there.

On one of our first days together, we visited the Louvre. It would be my first time walking its galleries. My first impression was that it is truly massive; one could spend an entire week perusing it and not see everything. We visited in the early evening, which made the line-ups slightly less intimidating but still present. Most of the wait had to do with security measures. Once in, we immediately went to the Denon Wing to see the most famous painting in history - the Mona Lisa. The artwork, which, as everyone says, is much smaller than you imagine, is located in its own massive room with barren walls, the only focus of which is her mysterious smile. At one point I got within maybe twenty feet but I gave up on getting closer. A more interesting observation, to me at least, was standing in the back of the room and watching people clamour to take pictures and selfies to prove that they were there.

The ceiling work in the Louvre, but especially the Denon Wing, was unbelievable. I wished I could lie on my back on the floor and spend some time staring up at it but instead I left with neck strain. Parts of it felt so heavy that I thought it might crumble onto the patrons below. But it was hundreds of years old and would probably be there for hundreds more. The artistry and craftsmanship impressed me as much as anything hanging on the walls.

My absolute favourite part of the Louvre was the opulent Napoléon III Apartments. Entering this area, in the decorative arts-focused Richelieu Wing, was like stepping back in time. I imagined the ghosts of Parisians, who once sat in the exact chairs laid before me, drinking from gold-plated goblets and conversing about life during the Third Revolution. I’d honestly never even heard of this part of the Louvre before … and considering there were few tourists walking about, I don’t think I’m the only one. It was the perfect cap to the evening before heading back to our apartment and enjoying some bordeaux of our own.

*Abbi and Ilana may be more accurate.

My rental apartment in the 7th arrondissement of Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

One of the reasons I wanted to return to Paris was to continue learning to cook while using local ingredients. The kitchen in my rental apartment was well-used for this (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

After going to a local restaurant and spending 35 Euros on a cheeseburger and green smoothie, I decided to stick to making my own meals. All of the ingredients here—which two people ate from for almost a week—also cost 35 Euros, Paris (©Deborah Clag… — After going to a local restaurant and spending 35 Euros on a cheeseburger and green smoothie, I decided to stick to making my own meals. All of the ingredients here—which two people ate from for almost a week—also cost 35 Euros, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

French herbs from Provence (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

My next indulgence: my friend and I split these two pastries, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Visiting the Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The ceiling detail in the Louvre is not to be missed, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

This is as close as I got to the iconic Mona Lisa by Leonardo Di Vinci, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Mona Lisa is located in a large room that contains no other pieces of art, Paris (©Deborah Clague).

Entrance near the Egyptian wing of the Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

In the Greek antiquities wing, Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Venus di Milo, Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon III Rooms at The Louvre, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

This is the street view I got to enjoy every day (and night) as my rental apartment was located here, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

April 15

Deborah Clague June 1, 2019

I awoke from what I thought was an hour long nap cursing because it was actually three. I would have slept even longer were it not for the near-constant sirens I heard outside. These are always part of the background noise in Paris. One becomes accustomed to them and their distinct tone. However, on this early evening, Monday, April 15, 2019, it felt escalated. From the bottom living quarters of my boat, I couldn’t see much save a few skateboarders near the dock looking and pointing eastward. It piqued my curiosity. After ascending to the upper level of my boat, I saw it all — a giant plume of smoke filled the air from the direction of Ile de la Cité.

My immediate thought was that a terrorist attack may have occurred. The central island houses the law courts for Paris, in addition to being a major tourist hub because of Notre-Dame Cathedral. I streamed my live line of vision on social media and almost immediately a stranger informed me that the world-renowned church was on fire. I grabbed my keys and joined the thousands of Parisians taking to the streets to observe and pray that it could be saved.

Construction on the Cathedral began over eight-hundred years ago in 1160 and was completed in 1260. It is known for being the finest example of French Gothic architecture in the world, with its iconic stained-glass windows frequently listed as an artistic zenith of human skill and spirit. Over twelve million people per year visit Notre-Dame, making it the most visited site in Paris (exceeding even the Eiffel Tower). Beyond being a bucket-list item to see though, it remains a place of worship in this dominantly Catholic country and is dearly beloved by Parisians as part of their history, part of their being.

Police barricades prevented the growing crowds from getting anywhere near the fire, but with its scale I could clearly see that it was major. The entire roof was engulfed in flames scaling upwards to the clouds and helicopters circling overhead. Some observers stood in shocked silence, others openly wept. Some sang choral hymns. I was acutely aware that this was something I would never forget for the rest of my life, a moment that would be recorded by history. I tried to take everything in: the multi-lingual conversation of strangers in shared shock, the changing hue of the sky as the sun started to set, the smell (and taste) of smoke. After observing for a few hours, I returned to my boat to try and sleep. I was a bit restless with worry as I didn’t know what the extent of damage would be … or even if Notre-Dame would survive the night.

The next day, framed with a sombre overcast sky, I returned to the scene. The crowds were even larger, now met with world media turning their cameras and headlines to what remained of the structure. From the exterior, damage was clearly visible (and extensive) to the back-end and roofing which was all but destroyed. But I feel there was enough of a skeleton still standing that a full reconstruction could be achieved (this would later be confirmed and priced at $5 billion, with $1 billion being donated by France’s elite within the first twenty-four hours of the fire leading to increased fury from the Yellow Vest Movement protesters).

One of the most memorable scenes I encountered took place as I walked the perimeter of Ile de la Cité. A crowd broke out in applause as several firefighters exited the area of Notre-Dame Cathedral making their way for much needed rest. Their task over and a new one about to begin.

View of Notre-Dame Cathedral fire from Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor, Paris (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

The Day After:

World media descends upon Notre-Dame Cathedral the day after the fire (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

A Famous Hat

Deborah Clague May 17, 2019

Who was Napoleon Bonaparte?

Was he history’s greatest military strategist, laying the foundation for France to become a twentieth century (and beyond) world superpower of social, political and economic might?

Or was he the physical manifestation of ambition and ego in its most pungent form, a tyrant who discarded treaty and initiated concurrent conflict resulting in the immeasurable loss of life and culture through plundering and war?

The answer, of course, depends on who you ask. In France, Napoleon is revered. His monogram, visage and legend on display all around Paris, perhaps never more boldly than at Les Invalides his final resting place. You can’t escape the structure. It’s dome—covered in 14kg of gold leaf—is as much an icon of the city’s skyline as the Eiffel Tower (which is just a short walk away). I hadn’t visited this site before and thus made it my first stop, on my first day.

His many achievements outside of military conquest include creation of a Civil Code, the Council of State, the Bank of France, a national audit office, a centralized administrative system, standardized eduction for all, the metric system, and freedom of religion—all of which laid the foundations for change across Europe and eventually the world … but my first introduction to Napoleon was through Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, one of my favourite movies as a kid. It’s only over the past decade, one in which I’ve studied the French Revolution and its aftermath with great interest, that I’ve become intrigued by his person and historical significance.

The first part of Les Invalides that I visited was his tomb. This seemed to be the most popular area of the national monument, which also includes the Musee de l’Armée (the military museum). Everyone seemed in awe as they walked in near silence through the structure, admiring its sky-scraping pillars, ceiling murals, and general grandeur. It was the resting place of a king (as I’m sure he wanted)! The crypt gave an equally impressive view with twelve angelic Victory statues surrounding Napoleon’s sarcophagus, each representing a successful military campaign. I was captivated by the marble work on these figures. Their solemn faces eerily lifelike and haunting.

Afterwards, I visited part of the Musee de l’Armée. I regret not exploring the entire museum as it was quite fascinating but jet lag had started to settle in and I was looking forward to being rocked to sleep on my houseboat by the waves of passing watercraft. I did chance upon two items though that gave me pause: 1) actual clothing worn by Napoleon Bonaparte (he was as tiny as the rumours suggest); and, 2) his famous bicorne hat, weathered with time and the weight of myth.

So what is my opinion of Napoleon? In this age where we question the past through the lens of the present, it might not be socially acceptable to admit but I think Napoleon was one of the most fascinating, complex figures in history. An outsider of little persuasion who rose through the ranks to become one of the most influential beings the world has ever known is quite the life lived. Of his time, he was without peer.

He was described by one historian as “the most competent man who ever lived” and very well might have been.

Napoleon’s Tomb at Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Cannons line the courtyard at the Musee de ‘Armée , Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon’s Tomb, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Ornamental floor, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Each statue surrounding Napoleon’s tomb represents one of his victorious military campaigns, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon’s final resting place, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Statue of Napoleon in his coronation clothing, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Room of artillery models and figurines, Musee de l’Armée, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon’s clothing worn during the Battle of Marengo (1800), Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

One of the most iconic hats in history, the actual one Napoleon wore during the Battle of Eylau (1807), Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon’s insignia included an eagle with outspread wings (represented here from a bronze gilt from the First Squadron of the Regiment of Mounted Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard) and the saddle used on Napoleon’s horse during his coronation, Les I… — Napoleon’s insignia included an eagle with outspread wings (represented here from a bronze gilt from the First Squadron of the Regiment of Mounted Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard) and the saddle used on Napoleon’s horse during his coronation, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Napoleon’s campaign clothing and furniture, including the cot where he slept, Les Invalides (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Back to Nature, Part V

Deborah Clague August 31, 2018

As a holiday winds down, the sadness of its impending end can temper the joy of the remaining days. Not having anything to look forward to can rob one of living in the moment of the experience. For this road trip, I wanted something to anticipate. I wanted to end on a "bang".

And I found it.

The Black Swan Inn in Pocatello, Idaho is one of the most amazing hotels I've ever stayed at. It is themed and the attention to detail in each unique suite is truly impressive. For our penultimate stay, we booked the Mayan Rainforest Room which included a walk-in shower in the base of a "tree trunk", the branches of which hid the second floor jacuzzi tub. Next to the leopard-print bed was a 15-ft waterfall with a live koi pond. Even the bathroom was painted in murals that made it seem like one was deep in the jungle. I cannot recommend this place enough and am definitely going to plan future roadtrips to navigate through the area so I can return. Whether one's stay is for a romantic evening or honeymoon, it is a gem.

Fun fact: Pocatello, Idaho, is also home to the Museum of Clean.

via GIPHY

Our final night was spent getting back to nature again - comfortably - in a deluxe cabin at another KOA campground in Great Falls, Montana, where we used our fleeting holiday time to wine and dine on a barbecue feast while watching the golden tones of sunset pour over the vista of prairie and mountain laid before us. I felt contentment in the moment. I felt renewed from the journey, despite its brevity. I was born to explore. To learn. To live. I am so thankful my father instilled this curiosity and love of travel within me. I thought of him often on this trip; in solitude I've shared the details with him, hoping my whisper carries on the air to wherever his spirit resides.

As the evening came to a close, I tried to enjoy the ambient noise of the whirring overhead fan while fighting the urge to turn on the television to catch up on world events. While my partner showered, I figured sneaking in ten minutes of numbing my brain wouldn't do too much damage and searched for the remote. The only channel with reception was showing a wrestling match but it wasn't WWE; in fact, I didn't recognize any of the characters on screen ... until I did.

"Holy shit", I said to myself.

Years (and years) ago, when I was a teenager, a colleague had taken me to watch her boyfriend wrestle in a local Winnipeg league called Top Rope Championship Wrestling (TRCW). Growing up with Hulk Hogan and the like on Saturday afternoons, I immediately got into it. The skill, the theatrics, the swagger all appealed to this shy girl who was looking to break free from her high school rep of being a wallflower. So when I was asked to valet their tag team, I took up the offer. It might not be a Toastmaster event, but the experience definitely instilled a confidence in me to command a crowd and not be so self-conscious. Anyway, there was one person who always stood out at TRCW. A curly-haired teenager armed with a steely resolve (and an apparent closet full of Hawaiian shirts) who could maneuver around the ring with technique that was lightyears beyond his older, more seasoned opponents. I recall even mentioning to others that if anyone could make it in the big leagues, it would be him.

So to my surprise and delight, there he was—on the tiny television in my cabin in Montana— Kenny Omega, Heavyweight Champion for New Japan Pro Wrestling and Sports Illustrated's tap for next big thing in sports entertainment.

One never knows where the journey in life will lead.

The awesome Mayan Rainforest suite at the Black Swan Inn, Pocatello, Idaho (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Mayan Rainforest Suite at the Black Swan Inn, Pocatello, Idaho (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

15ft waterfall with koi pond at the Black Swan Inn, Pocatello, Idaho (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Treehouse jacuzzi at the Black Swan Inn, Pocatello, Idaho (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Shower in a tree trunk, Black Swan Inn, Pocatello, Idaho (©2018, Deborah Clague).

Tesla-charging stations in the middle of nowhere, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

"Roughing" it in Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Firing up the grill, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

BBQ, Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

View from cabin in Great Falls, Montana (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Top Rope Championship Wrestling, circa 2000 (©Deborah Clague).

Sin City, Part IV

Deborah Clague August 18, 2018

Bright light city gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn
So get those stakes up higher

via GIPHY

Las Vegas, Nevada, is an unremarkable four-hour drive from the Grand Canyon. Remaining in one's air conditioned vehicle is a comfortable way to pass the time, although it gives a false sense of just how excruciating it is outside. Sure, I saw the external temperature listed as 44 degrees celsius but it's easy to remain oblivious to what that actually feels like until you step outside and have it bearing down on your person. It feels like being smothered in an invisible weighted blanket that just came out of Hell's dryer.

This would be my third trek to Sin City, a place I normally would avoid as I am definitely not a Vegas-type person, but I thought it would be interesting for my partner who is from a communist state in India to see the trappings of capitalism at its grandest form. The bougie in Las Vegas is incomparable to anything he grew up with (although he has experienced Dubai which is absolutely the Vegas of the Middle East). This would also mark the first time I had a vehicle while visiting, previously only exploring a limited tourist area on foot. Driving down the glittering Strip at night, next to Lamborghinis and other pricy Italian sports cars, owned and rented, was a truly memorable moment. But it was also fascinating to see the side of Vegas beyond the glitz and glamour - it's nondescript suburbia.

Our hotel room wasn't ready when we arrived, so we spent a few hours shopping at a few stores along Tropicana Avenue including a grocery store that had slot machines within it. It was around 2:00pm and people were playing them. Naturally. We then hit up a Wal-Mart to pick up some essentials. Perusing American big box stores is a fun experience for me. I like seeing all the stuff they don't sell up in Canada (and there is a lot of it). I've always been the type to want to try everything, although with my recent evolution in eating habits I've become a bit more discerning. Nonetheless, the candy and chip aisle had me twitching like a junkie needing a fix. I permitted myself a bag of Doritos in a flavour I'd never encountered before as well as an Almond Joy. The following day we shopped like the wild rock stars we are at both Whole Foods and Trader Joes where I bought a number of healthier groceries including different types of flour and spices that I've been incorporating into my cooking since returning. Sidenote: dark moscavado sugar from the island of Mauritius is legit changing my life.

Our hotel room at the Luxor still wasn't ready when we returned, leaving us to loiter around the casino and adjacent properties where I became so parched after a ten-minute walk outside that I didn't bat an eye at spending $6.50 U.S. on a small bottle of water. During our excursion, my partner could not believe that all of these giant hotels had giant casinos operating twenty-four hours a day. He didn't see a point to it. Admittedly, neither do I. But one of the pillars of the American business model is the belief that a fool and their money are soon parted. Nowhere has this belief gained more efficiency than Vegas.

It was July fourth and crowds were to be expected but our hotel appeared to be a disorganized mess. It took an additional three hours before we could check in. I was relieved when we finally got the key, only to be disappointed upon entering the room. The upgraded suite that I assumed would have a decent view overlooked a roof, while the only recognizable landmark visible was the Mandalay Bay tower looming in the background in which the deadliest mass shooting in United States history occurred less than a year ago.

There's a thousand pretty women waiting out there
They're all living devil may care
And I'm just the devil with love to spare
Viva Las Vegas

We didn't gamble. We didn't see any shows. We did, however, have an enjoyable history lesson one evening at Vegas' Neon Museum. Yes, I'm a nerd who would rather be feeding my mind than drinking it into oblivion at a nightclub. No shame in that. I've always been fascinated with the art of neon signage. I feel it is a legit form of advertising that is lost in modern society, at least in the Western world where it is unfairly considered kitsch. In parts of Asia I have traveled it is as much a part of urban identity as, say, a park with entire blocks (even neighbourhoods) bathing in their glow. I personally akin it to an illuminated garden that magically comes alive as the sun sets. I admit, it might not be for everyone, but in an era of branded homogenization, imagine how much more interesting the world would be with less golden arches and more unique visual design morphing our streetscapes into public galleries.

Atrium of Luxor hotel, Las Vegas (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

The iconic Las Vegas sign designed by graphic designer Betty Willis (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

The Neon Museum, Las Vegas (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

A night at the (Neon) Museum. One of my must-sees for the city. The design history of the medium was amazing: #vegas #lasvegas #neonmuseum #neongraveyard #neonsign #nevada #sincity #vivalasvegas #museum #neon #roadtrip #roadtrippin #vacation #travel #americana

A post shared by Deborah Clague (@debclague) on Jul 5, 2018 at 11:36pm PDT

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