THE DOCTOR IS OUT

The doctor-patient relationship comes just after hair stylist relationship for me in terms of familiarity. I guess it’s fortunate that I see my stylist, Melissa, considerably more often than I see my doctor. Let good health keep it that way.

 

But a change is coming. Last Wednesday, I saw my family doctor, Scott, for the last time. (Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s one of the things I like about him.) Scott is retiring. I knew this day was coming. Selfishly, I’d hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Sooner happens to be next month. 

 

I’ve been seeing Scott for thirty years. By comparison, Melissa’s only been cutting my hair for nine. 

 

I have no doubt I present challenges to doctors. Prior to Scott, the last family doctor I saw was in Santa Monica, a name I got from a list provided by the HMO that served my employer. That doctor—let’s just call him Dr. No-Go—said at the end of my (first and last) appointment, “I never want to see you again.”

 

I was startled. Did I hear him right? 

 

What was there to mishear?

 

Clearest, perhaps harshest breakup ever. Was he allowed to do that? What would be the point of asserting, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Presumably, those little hammers to test knee reflexes could be weaponized. 

 

Scott knew how to deal with a squeamish, quirky patient like me. As I told him last week, he always regarded me with proper amusement, including the fact I’d show up for appointments in the early years drinking from a bottle of orange juice. “Someone told me it’ll keep me from fainting,” I explained. As he’d ask medical questions or share medical information, I gulped my OJ. 

 

I never fainted in Scott’s office. (Now would be a good time to belatedly apologize to an ophthalmologist and that guy who thought I’d passed out from a seizure during a hearing test.)

 

For at least the first two decades of seeing Scott, I had the biggest crush on him. He had—and has—classic good looks of a quintessential Scotsman: curly auburn hair, freckles, green eyes. My legs would shake; I had a hard time making eye contact. My awkwardness was no doubt seen as squeamishness. Oh, how it was so much more complicated! 

 

Despite the crush, there were a couple of years when I didn’t see Scott. It should come as no surprise that I avoided medical professionals. But then I got melanoma at thirty-four and I’d have to go in for, at the very least, referrals to dermatology specialists to get chunks of skin cut out. Fun times.

 

It wasn’t until 2014 when visits to Scott became considerably more frequent. I fell apart in his office before Easter, dropping from a chair to the floor. It wasn’t on account of fainting and, to this day, I’ve never had a seizure. Instead, I was suicidal. I was having a major mental breakdown. 

 

Scott gave me an Ativan, then asked if I needed to go to the hospital. “Yes,” I said through shakes and tears. His office was only three blocks from St. Paul’s so I did not want to go by ambulance. Instead, he called ahead to alert doctors of my pending arrival and current condition. He had an employee escort me to Emergency. My last words before leaving his office: “Don’t let them send me home.”

 

This week, I had the pleasure of thanking him once again. “You saved my life. I’m certain of that. I have lived eleven years longer—so far—thanks to you. I am immensely grateful for your care that day and since then as well.”

 

Of course, I was crying as I shared this with him. His eyes welled up, too.

 

That was my first stint in the psych ward. I was readmitted in 2017 and I’ve been on long-term disability ever since. In 2019, I was hospitalized for six weeks due to an eating disorder and then spent eight weeks in a group home. In 2021, I had a stay in a crisis care group home. I turned down another eating disorder hospitalization this year. (I’m receiving extensive outpatient support.) 

 

Scott has been the one constant as I’ve navigated my mental health journey since 2014. In that time, I’ve seen a dozen psychiatrists, a half dozen counselors, dietitians, occupational therapists, countless nurses and others in the medical field. So many introductions. But I always had Scott. What will I do without him?

 

Survive. I know that much.

 

“You made a difference,” I repeated several times during my last appointment. “I appreciate you so much. I am full of gratitude and I need to share it.” 

 

I’m guessing Scott is sixty-two. His husband, already retired at seventy, is awaiting full-time experiences together. They are planning a triathlon in the near future…at his husband’s insistence. Scott has always been very active and has gone on many adventure-packed vacations. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, setting aside tears for a joyous laugh. “So many good times are ahead for you. Enjoy retirement!”

 

A final thank you. One long, tight hug. 

 

And with a colonoscopy referral in hand—suddenly much less joy—I said goodbye.

 

Thankfully, there is a new doctor in place to take over the practice. No shoes to fill. Not possible. Just new shoes. I’ll do my best to behave. And, yes, there will be a bottle of orange juice in my backpack. Just in case.

If you are feeling suicidal, there is hope. There is an OTHER SIDE after getting proper support. In Canada and the U.S., the Suicide Crisis Hotline is 9-8-8. Also, 911 is available and medical staff are ready to connect you with support--and care--in hospital emergency rooms. 

 

 

  

PLAYING THE AGE CARD WHILE HIKING

First view from Killing Time
mountain bike trail

Sometimes we make assumptions, we jump to conclusions, we are triggered over what may be innocuous. This happens more frequently when a comment or action seems to touch on our identity. I’ve had many occasions where, rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve taken a perceived shunning as homophobia when, well, maybe I just forgot to put on deodorant. 

 

Did I forget?! I can see myself applying the stick to my underarms but perhaps that was yesterday. Time blurs. Routines sometimes come with blips. As I get older, I’m not as sure of my memory, even regarding what I did five minutes ago. 

 

And, yes, age is the subject of yesterday’s incident that had me feeling too sensitive…and humored at the same time.

 

I consider myself a hiker, but I’ve only done a handful of outings during the past six months. Most of my hiking is in the mountains and I hike far less when trails are covered in snow and ice. It’s not so much the snow and ice—adding crampons to my hiking boots produces miraculous results—it’s the fact the trails are covered. On the hikes I did, the route was less clear in patches where there was only one person’s tracks to follow or, in a couple of cases, the tracks veered onto a trail I wasn’t taking and I had nothing to give me an assured sense I was still on a trail. 

 

My favourite hikes are still snow-covered for at least the next month, but I am now finding trail reports that there are options—no snow; just water and mud. (Hiking boots are themselves amazing… bring on the muck!) 

 

Yesterday, I ventured to Sumas Mountain Regional Park, about an hour from home to do what was supposed to be a 2.5-hour hike, a little bit on the short end in terms of what I like but, hey, I needed to recognize that my hiking legs were out of the habit of being just that. Start small, build up. How responsible of me. 

 

I pulled into the trailhead’s gravel parking lot just before ten in the morning. It was otherwise empty. I’d literally have the mountain to myself. Hurrah. No one’s music, no drones, hopefully no gunshots. (On a hike I did a couple of years ago in the area, there happened to be a shooting range at the base of the mountain. I was especially motivated to do the ascent!) 

 

I did the responsible things prior to taking to the trail. I took a photo of the trail map at the parking lot and texted Evan with a selfie that included what I was wearing and my license plate along with indicating what time I expected to return to the car. Please, let there be no cause for search parties. Or camera crews zooming in on a bug-bitten hiker with a sprained ankle, hauled out on a stretcher.

 

I can be dramatic.

 

My destination: Chadsey Lake and a loop hike taking me past Baker Rock. There was no Baker Rock on the trailhead map but I figured I’d come across a disproportionately enormous boulder and exchange greetings (“Hello, Baker!”), with the noteworthy rock staring back stone-faced.

 

As it turns out, I missed the Chadsey Lake turnoff, a tiny white sign at knee height two minutes from the parking lot. Instead, I found myself on Killing Time, a mountain biking trail that had me going downhill, not uphill. Checking my map photo, I would connect with a Centennial Trail and still reach the lake. No problem. 

 

Somehow, despite a considerable descent, I blocked out any notion that I’d have a considerable ascent as well. Stay in the moment, they say, when hiking. Mindfulness in motion, I call it. Yes, behold the ferns! Wonder how many mountain bikers have broken limbs—and how many per person—after going airborne on the many wooden ramps built on the trail. Er… maybe just focus on ferns.

 

Chadsey Lake

It took two hours to reach the lake. I texted Evan, surprised to have phone reception. It was looking like my 2.5-hour hike would be 4 hours. No problem. This was more in line with the length of hike I like to do. After I sat on a log and viewed Chadsey, I began my return trek, deciding to take a trail marked as “Parking Lot,” most likely the trail I’d missed in the first place. Maybe I’d cut off a bit of time, avoiding another prolonged descent-ascent sequence and coming upon some sprawled-out biker with an arm extended at an impossible angle. (Being squeamish, I’d be no help at all, just fainting at the scene. Sorry, biker dude.)

 

I was suddenly picking up signs easily. In addition to “Parking Lot,” another sign indicated the “East Lookout” was farther past the lake. I had no idea what I’d be looking out at but, figuring I wouldn’t be repeating this hike anytime soon, I decided to seize the day and hike onward. 

 

Much more muck. (Another shoutout to hiking boots!) Much more ascent. 

 

As a hiker or, more broadly, a human being, I’m not a fan of sweating. Ascents mean lots of brow wiping and shirt fanning. I would get used to this as hiking season picked up, but I will never embrace it. (I contend spin class and hot yoga enthusiasts are masochists.)

 

The problem with the trail signage was it failed to provide distances. Was the East Lookout half a kilometre ahead or was it in New Brunswick? The park map also failed to have a scale and the route to East Lookout included many wiggly lines which would make any scale (had there been one) challenging to use to create a distance and time estimate.

 

I’d gone over an hour, still ascending, sweating profusely, hoping I was still on the path to East Lookout but unsure. Knowing I’d taken the long route to Chadsey Lake in the morning didn’t boost my confidence about being on track. I simply kept following little orange squares intermittently nailed onto trees to mark a trail presumably to somewhere. 

 

I heard voices coming toward me and suddenly two labradors were sniffing my legs. Presumably they were piddled out with so many red cedars on offer and the ferns had taken on a redundancy. I was a new find. Very exciting!

 

Two young women (Late twenties? Early thirties?) hollered the standard apology given when off-leash dogs oblivious to personal bubbles offer hearty greetings and close-up knee exams. 

 

No problem. Much better than a bear encounter. Much, much better.

 

“Did you go to East Lookout?” I asked. “How far is it?”

 

“Yes,” one woman said. She looked at her hiking companion. “How long do you think?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

Ah, well. Good. I was hoping for a number less than five, but I wasn’t going to turn back now. So close! The trek up continued. I would not be hiking to New Brunswick, after all. Whew!

 

At the twelve minute-mark, post knee-sniff, I observed a clear trail going straight up on my left. East Lookout? (Please.) No sign. No orange markers. Instead, a trail continued meandering to the right, orange markers aplenty. As I often do on hikes, I hesitated. I pondered. I wanted to take the unmarked path. I sensed it led to East Lookout. But I’m directionally challenged in the best of times. My senses regarding which way to go consistently fail me. Stick to the marked path. Let there be no search parties. 

 

My final piece of logic that kept me on-trail was the fact I wasn’t at the twenty minute-mark. Not even close. Forty percent more time on trail. Keep going!

 

About eight minutes later, I came upon three BC Hydro towers up one final hill. Yes! The towers marked the lookout. Made sense if not something especially scenic. There would be a clearing. I’d have my back to the fenced-in towers and the posted signs warning of possible electrocution. Whatever the view from East Lookout, I would take a few pics, dammit. I’d ooh and aah even if it were strictly performative. “You have reached your destination.”

 

But, no. All around the towers were trees. Just like all the trees along the trail. Nothing distinct. Not even a rock I could call Baker. (That thing was still in hiding, too.)

 

Okay, I know I began this post mentioning that my age may have made me sensitive, presumably on this hike. ’Tis true. Let’s get back to that.

 

The fact is that access to East Lookout was at the twelve minute-mark from when my knees went through doggy inspection. Due to all the looking around I did at the twenty minute-mark—no, I did not climb fences and risk electrocution—I didn’t actually arrive at the lookout until almost an hour after asking how much farther. I’d checked out yet another mountain bike trail (and scored a peekaboo view). I’d circled all around the towers, a couple of times inadvertently. Yes, very directionally challenged.   

 

Here’s where my being sixty and sporting a clearly white beard (finally) comes into play. I wondered if age was a factor when I was told it was another twenty minute-schlep to the lookout. Maybe they looked at me, some guy decidedly in the “sir” range from their assessment. Older guy. Sweating profusely. Gosh, yes, another twenty minutes. For him. 

 

Now, I know that’s ridiculous thinking entering my brain. Blame it on excess perspiration and not enough hydration. I’m the worst at hydrating. If I Google dehydration, one side effect must surely be paranoid thinking that one is too old for whatever activity is contributing to dehydration. 

 

Objectively, twelve minutes and twenty minutes are not far apart. It’s entirely possible that the woman who went with twenty gave that as a valid estimate of the time it had taken them to walk back from the lookout until they came upon me. Maybe she’s bad with time. Maybe they’d truly lost track of time, talking about the dynamics at work, relationship issues or the hot yoga class they were taking that evening. Yes, mascochists. 

 

Maybe there were doggy delays on account of the whole off-leash nature of their hike. Maybe the dogs continued marking red cedars even though the pee stream was running on empty. Maybe they sniffed and tried to track a mole or squirrel. I neither saw nor heard small animals the entire day, but I don’t have a dog’s sense of smell. Maybe an entire warren of bunnies existed between the lookout and the point where we came into contact. 

 

So many maybes. Why did I even entertain that they’d added on extra time for a sweaty, grey-bearded oldster to reach East Lookout? 

 

Why hadn’t I just followed my gut and gone up the unmarked trail in the first place. I’d have just been pleased to arrive early and would have applauded my fitness. I’d never have gone down the I look old tunnel because there wouldn’t have been a setback. 

 

Good grief—clearly an oldster’s expression—sometimes hiking isn’t mindful at all. Sometimes it offers too much time for obsessive thought.

 

View from East Lookout

My 2.5-hour hike turned out to be a 6-hour endurance test. Oh. My. Quads. I took a few Advil when I got home. And belatedly hydrated. But way to go, old guy. I’m readier for hiking season now. Let the muscles ache less next time.

 

Was East Lookout worth it? Absolutely! See for yourself.

 

 

  

NESTING

Hello. Goodbye.

These words have as much meaning in my relationship with Evan as “I love you.” 

Being a long-distance relationship, our time together always has a beginning and end date. It can feel unsettling. A perpetual sense of “just visiting.” To be sure, there is a positive side to that. It’s like being Fun Dad who has only weekend custody after a divorce. His time with the kids means pizza for dinner, extra time playing videogames and no early bedtimes on account of it being a school night.

 

My stints with Evan are chock full of good times. When he arrived Thursday night, we talked of bike rides, looking into a harbour cruise and maybe catching a view of the city from the tower downtown. Lots of Whee! Time in We Time. 

 

Yes, we went for the bike rides. How could we not with rare April sunshine in Vancouver and so many springtime plants in bloom? But the cruises don’t begin until May and the tower idea fizzled out. Someday. 

 

It would have been easy to pack the extended weekend with other inherently fun things. This was especially possible since, due to a break in our relationship, Evan hadn’t visited me at my place since January 2024. Since COVID lockdown back in 2020, I’ve become an expert in touristy and “secret” things to do in Vancouver. I pack in a lot of Whee! Time even when it’s just Me Time.

 

But our visit took on a different tone. I’m highly challenged in terms of doing handyman tasks. Whether it’s lack of confidence, lack of knack or perpetual procrastination, everyday fix-its don’t happen. Due to a VERY LARGE blind spot, I don’t see what needs to be done. 

 

This photo overwhelms me.

As an architect and interior designer, Evan is highly visual. He sees everything. We’ve spent much of our visit doing typical weekend tasks. We bought a new wall sconce to replace a hideous one that’s been in my stairway for the entire two and a half years I’ve lived in my loft, partly due to my indecision regarding which one to buy and partly because I knew I’d never be able to install it myself. (Fear of electrocution.) We bought a new mirror to make my place look more open. We got a bike rack for my car so both our bikes can join us on adventure weekends. We spruced up my balcony with new plants and removed some of the clutter that finds its way to such a space. I bought a funky painting for the freshly lit stairwell. 

 

We drove my car to more places in three days than I typically drive it in three months. (I tend to walk and bike everywhere.) 

 

“I like this,” Evan said midway through Saturday afternoon. “We’re nesting.” 

 

How timely. In the tree across the street, two crows spent their weekend coming and going from a nook in the branches as they built their own nest and sounded ominous caws to utter threats to pedestrians passing underneath. That nook, that tree and everything below it was, in their minds, theirs. (Just wait till the babies hatch!)

 

Our weekend of errands was highly constructive and well-coordinated. Everything clicked as we worked together when needed and alongside one another when tasks could be split up.    

As Evan transplanted clematis on the balcony I sliced and diced for our taco bowls that we took to the beach for a picnic where he sketched and I wrote. (Yes, a bit more inherently fun time.) While he fiddled with the wiring for the sconce, I scrubbed smudge marks from the wall where the previous sconce had been. 

 

We crossed off a lot of things, many of which I didn’t even realize were on my To Do list. The time felt intimate; the nest looks more inviting, more functional. 

 

Alas, Evan flies back to Denver later today. We’ll spend two and a half weeks apart once again before meeting up in New York City where he has a conference. No nesting opportunities there. It will truly be more like a Fun Dad weekend. Broadway! The High Line! Shopping!

 

In the meantime, I know our daily FaceTime calls will include me flipping the phone cam so he can see how the clematis is doing, so he can peek at my new painting, so he can remain connected to, not just me, but our Canadian home. 

 

I’ll have to tend to the nest on my own but, as much as it can be possible, I’ll feel his presence in the space as well. Let his return to the roost come much sooner.

 

EASTER WITHOUT

They say it’s the period leading up to Easter, Lent, when you’re supposed to do without. You give up something. Drinking or butterscotch ripple ice cream or Ryan Murphy productions. 

Okay none of those is a sacrifice to me. No suffering involved. Do they even still make butterscotch ripple? I was always a bad parishioner. 

 

Too often for me, I give up something for Easter instead. Interaction, say. 

 

Normally, I’m good. I spent this long weekend hunting down cherry blossoms for photos while going on bike rides and a jog. I went to Vancouver’s Van Dusen Gardens to wander amongst early rhododendrons and other flowers. I did short writing sessions in cafés. I even had coffee with a friend I hadn’t seen in almost two years.

 

But it was Easter. BIG expectations. In Canada, it’s a four-day weekend for people who aren’t in the service industry. Good Friday is a holiday. Easter Monday is a holiday. No, there are no egg hunts on Monday and no special meals aside from leftover ham and maybe some colorful eggs reduced to egg salad. Or maybe just a chocolate breakfast, assuming the candy eggs and Costco-sized white chocolate bunny survived Easter Sunday. Really, who just eats an ear and says, “I’m good”? Even if it’s white chocolate, it is chocolate.

Okay, being Easter and all, I feel like I’m in a confessing kind of space. Not only did I NOT give up anything for Lent (other than nonexistent butterscotch ripple), I do NOT partake in tearing apart chocolate Easter bunnies, piece by piece. I do not even eat half the little chocolate eggs before the hunt and sit back to say, “I bought two whole bags. You’re just not looking hard enough.” Mean? Sure. But the neighbour’s kid screams through dinnertime every evening…and neither walls nor doors constitute an effective sound barrier.

 

I do not like chocolate.

 

Yes, go on. Gasp. Call me a freak. That gut reaction just cut you out of being on the re-gifting list for when people give me chocolate.

 

I do admit to one exception. I’ve discovered Trader Joe’s Milk Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels and I will NOT be giving them away. It will take me several sittings over a few weeks to get through them because the milk chocolate overwhelms the rest of the flavors. I have confirmed it smothers a teeny tiny pretzel bit but I have yet to taste any trace of peanut butter.

 

At any rate, I won’t be stocking up on my one chocolate exception since I am not making cross-border runs to Trader Joe’s due to Trump’s tariffs and his belittling references to Canada as the 51^st state. (Focus on Puerto Rico, dude.)

 

If Easter weren’t the only four-day weekend in Canada—our Thanksgiving is a three-day fete in October…when there is still a harvest to reap—I could let the occasion pass by without any big holiday expectations. Heck, I don’t eat ham either. Or any kind of meat. No one REALLY wants a vegetarian to crash their Easter dinner. 

 

I’ve had some bad Easters. In 2014, I spent the entire occasion in a psych ward where a patient kept getting put in the lockdown room (within the already locked down ward) since he kept getting into physical fights and threatened to kill “every fuckin’ one” of us. No egg hunt on the ward. The highlight was borscht for lunch one day.

 

Not a good time.

 

In 2019, I spent all of Easter in the eating disorder ward of the same hospital. No death threats, but we had to eat every bit of three meals and three snacks along with copious amounts of water while nurses observed and took notes from a mirrored room with staged seating so they could look down on us. I have never eaten so many apples or drank so much water in my life. May I never experience waterboarding but this felt like another kind of water torture. The highlight was ten minutes of fresh air on Easter Sunday in the rooftop garden which was a sadder space than the ward itself, a smoking pit for other patients where scraggly boxwood grew alongside dandelions and fresh pigeon poop. 

 

I am not spending this Easter in any hospital ward. That alone should feel like a celebration. Yippee! No death threats. No oversized cups of water. No plastic trays with soggy toast (or borscht). 

 

Still, it’s been hard spending Easter alone when I have a partner who happens to live 2,300 kilometres away in Denver. In a country that’s all about God and guns, neither the Friday nor the Monday is a holiday. Airfare was higher throughout the weekend presumably because retired grandparents wanted to fly places to watch one-year-olds cry as all the adults keep telling them to keep looking for foil-wrapped eggs that will become choking hazards if not found (or eaten by Uncle Ted or vomited up by Rex the Chihuahua) by today. 

 

Evan will fly to Vancouver this Thursday instead. He’s worked weekends to earn a little paid time off to create his own long weekend. It’s only a week later than the regular Easter celebrations. I will be thrilled to see him. 

 

If not Easter, then may we always have the weekend thereafter. Stooping and “hiding” eggs behind the sofa legs can’t be good for my back anyway.

 

 

COVID PREPARED US FOR THIS

I blog weekly, typically gay this or gay that. It’s hard to focus on such topics when the president of the United States is intentionally doing things to mess up lives throughout the world…withdrawal of funding to foreign aid programs, blanket tariffs, chaotic messaging. 

 

If I were like his Republican supporters, I would bury my head in the sand. The sky isn’t falling. I would instead write another post about being gay. But I’m not and I can’t. Feeling cause for stress, I’ll continue on the theme of last week’s post, Border Walls, where I mentioned that I, like many Canadians, will be limiting my border crossings to the U.S. 

 

It’s normally an easy trip to make. Most Canadian cities are in the south of the country so the Canada-U.S. border is only a short drive from home. It’s about a forty-minute drive for me and I have a Nexus pass which allows me to skip what can be long lines at times. 

 

I moved back to Canada from Los Angeles thirty years ago and border crossings have been rather regular ever since. It started with me making grocery runs for American products I couldn’t get in Vancouver. I grew to like Fairhaven, a community in Bellingham a short drive across the border. I write in various cafés there, my favorite in Boulevard Park with a view of Bellingham Bay. I ride my bike on Chuckanut Drive, a gorgeous, narrow roadway lined by arbutus trees and evergreens and offering views of the sea. I visit the charming hamlet of Edison. It’s all part of a day trip that invigorates me.

 

Just as often, I keep driving south. I love Seattle. I love Portland. I absolutely adore the Oregon Coast. I’ve driven down the coast to L.A. a number of times. 

 

I won’t be making any of these trips in the near future. I must minimize my time and my spending in the United States as long as tariffs and belittling comments about making Canada the fifty-first state continue.

 

The intention is that, if enough Canadians stay away, the U.S. economy will take a hit and mayors and governors will start speaking out. Senators of border states—even the Republicans—may finally tell the omniscient president to knock of the rhetoric and axe the tariffs. 

 

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. In February alone, however, Canadians made 500,000 less border crossings. As I drove home late Friday afternoon from a B.C. hike, signage for four local border crossings each indicated it was less than a five-minute wait. This is unheard of heading into a weekend when waits typically exceed an hour. If this trend continues, yes, American businesses are going to feel the pinch.

 

What Trump doesn’t understand is how pissed off Canadians are and how his agenda has united us, stoking national pride more than I’ve seen in my lifetime. COVID is still in our rear-view window. We went a couple of years without being able to cross the border. Maybe all that was a rehearsal for this. Limiting trips to the U.S. does not seem like a big sacrifice now.

 

Just like during COVID, I’ve begun making a list of all the places in British Columbia I want to visit or revisit on day trips and for weekend getaways. I’m looking forward to these travels. BC is a beautiful, varied province. I’ve also begun glancing at other places in Canada and abroad that have long been on my bucket list. This feels like the perfect time to explore some of them. I am truly excited. Let me support other people and economies.

 

I do still have to make some trips to the U.S. My family lives in Colorado and Texas. My parents are in their late eighties and travel, especially flying, is harder and less likely. In the past, I have consciously avoided trips to Texas but now it looks like an annual trip will be required. My partner also lives in Colorado. Visits to see him are non-negotiable. He’s my priority and I won’t let politics get in the way of our relationship.

 

Still, my time in the U.S. will be much reduced. I will miss all my usual haunts. I will also miss seeing some friends but, quite frankly, they’re overdue to visit me in Canada. 

 

Come for a visit. Canada is very welcoming. Canada recognizes the independence of sovereign nations. Canada does not start trade wars presumably as a clumsy way to ignore and renegotiate trade agreements. 

 

I am but one Canadian. But I am also one of many. 

BORDER WALLS

As circumstances would have it, Trump didn’t need to build a wall. Instead, he created one. To the north, as it turns out. I have a hunch Trump isn’t so good at geography and, frankly, doesn’t care.

 

**

 

This is a difficult post for me to write. Much of it is seeded in anger, laced with guilt. As a Canadian who was once a legal resident of the United States for sixteen years, I have many reasons for visiting the country to the south many times every year. Friends from university and law school live there. My parents and immediate family are there. My boyfriend, too. 

 

And yet everything that is happening politically in the U.S. based on who the majority of Americans voted to be president makes me no longer wish to visit. Like most Canadians, I am greatly offended by how Trump has taken his bullying and belittling personality and aimed it at Canada. 

 

My mouth dropped when he first referred to Canada as “the fifty-first state.” There is much the two countries had in common, but we are most certainly distinct countries. His jabs, literally blurring border lines, are highly offensive and his rhetoric cannot be disregarded, given how he lives in some sort of colonial era time machine, thinking he can claim Greenland, the Panama Canal and Canada as American territories. 

 

What the hell is going on?

 

The current position of the
Republican Party...
heads in the sand.

I would expect Republican politicians to unequivocally say, “Knock it off, Donald.” Not so, of course. This is a group of “leaders” that kowtows to him. The wrath of Trump is too great. The possibility of Republican politicians being ridiculed by their chosen leader is something these weak-willed “leaders” fear too much. They covet their purported positions of power too much. What power, I wonder, if they are muted? They don’t want to be primaried in the next election cycle, booted from the ballot, replaced by a candidate who is even better at kowtowing. 

 

Prime Minister Brian Mulroney and
President Ronald Reagan...I liked
neither of them, but they knew
the importance of a solid, amicable 
relationship between Canada
and the U.S.

A solidarity based on a leader’s coercive, vindictive power has no place in a true democracy. I’ve never aligned with Republicans, but I’ve also never been so disgusted with each and every one of them. Without individual voices, they are useless political beings. Cardboard cutouts could take their places.

 

And then there are the tariffs…

 

When the threat was first announced, Trump lumped Canada and Mexico, his country’s neighbors and traditionally close allies, with China. Yes, let’s punish trade via taxation, targeting Canada, Mexico and China. 

 

WHAT?!

 

I think Trump’s bullying tactics are his way of eventually bringing Canada and Mexico to the table to renegotiate North American trade, something a leader may legitimately wish to do. Agreements become outdated. Certain elements of them may be viewed as being “unfair” or “too favorable” to a particular party. Fair, rational leaders call for meetings and begin negotiations. But Trump goes for a Tonya Harding approach, taking a crowbar to the knees of Canada and Mexico. Let me rough you up. Suffer, dear neighbor, and then, somewhere down the line, maybe we’ll talk. 

 

This may be how a stone cold businessman leads. This, however, is not how a democratic leader governs.

 

Again, the “leaders” of the Republican party are too weak, too fearful to speak up. Why, Donald, are you actively, intentionally seeking to piss off the closest allies of the United States? 

 

In any other world scenario, it would be a legitimate question. It would be THE question.

 

I can’t even write calmly about Trump’s Putin crush and how he has disrespected Volodymyr Zelenskyy and imposed egocentric conditions on any support for protecting Ukraine’s legitimate right to sovereignty. Trump does not understand democracy. He has never had to be democratic in his business enterprises. Why the hell did the majority of Americans entrust him with leading what was once reputed to be the greatest democracy in the world?

 

It feels like Americans as a collective have lost their spines…and their souls.

 

I have American friends who did not vote for him. I know how upset they are. One good friend contacted me for recommendations of Canadian places to visit during his summer travels. This gesture is very much appreciated. I do hope a great many Americans, realizing the harm tariffs intend to impose on Canadians, come to Canada and do what they can to invest in our economy. 

 

Sadly, my family—former Canadians, now American citizens—voted for Trump. They shrug. It’s terrible, they say. But they do nothing. They say they could not have known Trump would target Canada. They don’t see their own foolishness in voting for a presidential candidate who ran on soundbites instead of a platform. Personality over platform…yes, a democracy is in demise. 

 

Prince Edward Island

To every American who wants to truly say, “Sorry, Canada. We’re with you,” I say show it. Call your political representatives, especially if they are Republican. Tell them in clear terms you do not support Trump’s tariffs and belittling tactics aimed at the country’s neighbors. Repeat your objection. Make clear that you will not vote again for representatives who stand back in silence. And, yes, come visit Canada. Vancouver. Calgary. PEI. Québec City. Banff. Montréal. Toronto. St. John’s. Winnipeg. Georgian Bay. The Bay of Fundy. Cape Breton. Whistler. Victoria. The Gaspé Peninsula. Niagara Falls. Whitehorse. Yellowknife. Churchill. Haida Gwaii. There are so many places worth seeing.

 

My predicament is that I still have to visit the U.S. in a time when the Canadian mentality is to stay away. Why go to a place where its leader is so disrespectful to our country?

 

I just returned from three weeks in Denver. I’m scheduled to go to New York City in May. These are not places that voted for Trump, but I am still crossing a line. My partner lives in Denver. I visit him because I love him and I want our relationship to continue to grow. He has an upcoming work gig in NYC, hence that travel destination. Keeping our relationship going requires as many regular visits as I can afford. (Airfare and exchange rates make things financially challenging as it is.) I’m a writer so I can work anywhere. My partner has very limited vacation time as is typical of so many American jobs. He’ll visit me in Vancouver in April, but it’s basically a long weekend as his company also has a very limited work-from-home policy. 

 

I know I will have several more U.S. visits this year. Oh, the things we do for love.

 

Another hitch is my Republican-voting parents live in the ever-red state of Texas. I have consciously avoided Texas visits, last going six years ago for my niece’s wedding. My parents have instead visited me in Vancouver and at our family cottage in Ontario. But they are 85 and 88 and far less inclined to travel now. Flying is looking far less likely. I will soon have no choice but to travel to them to see them. I visited them last fall, post-election but before the anti-Canadian rhetoric in the equally red state of Alabama where they drive for an annual vacation. I will likely have to go to Texas later this year. Family will have to come before politics.

 

Québec City

I feel guilty visiting the U.S. 

 

Moreover, I feel guilted by fellow Canadians. I totally get this.

 

I will do what I can. Yesterday, I contacted the Seattle Art Museum, expressly stating that Trump’s tactics have made it imprudent to be making quick road trips to Seattle and supporting American museums despite the fact I personally love SAM. My weekend getaways will be to Whistler, Tofino and Victoria rather than American destinations. It is with great regret that I will not be visiting friends in Los Angeles this year, a place where I lived for five years. I will also not be returning to the Oregon Coast for the foreseeable future. (It is my absolute favorite place in the U.S.) 

 

Greenland

In one sense these are tough choices. I like so much of the United States. But Trump has made staying away feel so much easier. When my partner and my family are not part of the equation, staying away doesn’t feel like a choice at all. Given the current tone at the helm of the American government, it seems like the only way.

 

Ever the traveler, I have so many other choices. I have my eye on trips to Iceland, Great Britain, Portugal, Sweden, Peru and, yes, Greenland.

 

As Canadians are so inclined to say, “I’m sorry, America.” But then again, I’m not. In a trade war between David and Goliath, this is what it’s come to.