North America

I sometimes set strange goals for myself when I travel. One of them is to go on a boat in every country I visit; another is to ride a bicycle in every country I visit. It hasn’t always been the case, but there’s something about riding a bike through a new place that can’t be beat: the bumps in the road, the sights whizzing by, the wind in your hair.

We found our seats – right behind home plate. A few beers and a few hot dogs later, we were settled right in, intently watching every pitch and predicting where all the fly balls would land. And for all that I’ve always thought myself an “arty” person, the kind who visits galleries and theatres when I travel, I love visiting live sporting events just as much. Whatever the sport, I find I get really into it, and really enjoy seeing the passion and zeal of the fans. I’ve even started going to sports pubs on my own to catch some games on TV; I barely know any of the players, but I enjoy watching games and think it’s a great insight into a country’s culture.

There are some places in the world that are defined by their colours, or their lack of colours. The city of Cairo, for example, remains muted and dusty in my mind, its smells and sounds the predominant senses. Havana, on the other hand, was bursting with colour: fruit spilling out of cartons, graffitied walls, outfits of the brightest oranges and yellows and reds, and, of course, the cars. I couldn’t stop taking photos of it.

“What’s a Beaver Tail?”

All eyes looked to me for the answer. We stood beside a huge ice sculpture; it was one of many at the Festival du Voyageur, a ten-day celebration of Canada’s fur-trading past and of Winnipeg’s French community. I had gone almost every year as a child, but this was the first time I’d been in Winnipeg in February for a long time. The temperature registered a frigid -31 degrees Celsius, and that was without windchill. My hometown is infamous for being one of the coldest cities in the world, often challenging its residents with a solid few weeks of -40 and below every January and February. We are hearty folk, us Winnipeggers, and we’re damn proud of it. There’s something about the cold that invigorates us, that makes us push out our chests and breathe in deep, as if to prove that we can take it.

“Captain?” I tried to make my whisper heard above the ocean’s many sighs and groans. He stirred, his eyes finally opening. He was seasick, too. When the captain’s seasick, you know it’s bad. “I think we’ve changed speeds.”

He came on deck to check the dials.

“Yes, we did, thank you for waking me,” he yawned once, stretching his arms out over his head. “We’re just sailing into a squall.”

I was in León, the second largest city in Nicaragua (after Managua, the capital), and was travelling with an Australian woman I’d met in Utila, Honduras, and we stayed together in a gorgeous guesthouse with a pool. After a day trip to Las Peñitas, we decided to try the very popular volcano boarding we kept hearing about from other backpackers.